Whispers of the Past

The air was thick with the scent of blood.

Anne stood at the edge of the ruined battlefield, her breath shallow, her pulse thudding in her ears. The fire inside her had begun to settle, but something colder, something older, now coiled in her veins. Her tongue felt dry, and her fangs ached.

Fangs.

She staggered back, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. Her reflection in the shattered remains of a blade at her feet confirmed it—the sharpened points, gleaming under the silver light of the moon. It wasn't just the dragon's fire inside her. The hunger clawing at her ribs was something far more primal, something that had been waiting in the dark corners of her mind, suppressed for too long.

The vampire in her was waking up.

A rustle in the trees sent her senses reeling. The scent was unmistakable—old, rich, laced with power. Anne turned sharply, bracing herself, as a figure stepped forward from the shadows.

Crimson eyes. A smirk that carried centuries of arrogance.

"Did you think you could suppress it forever?" The voice was smooth, amused, and entirely too knowing. The vampire before her—tall, draped in dark robes with an insignia she couldn't recognize—studied her with a predator's curiosity.

Anne's hands curled into fists. "Who are you?"

The vampire took a slow step forward, hands raised in mock surrender. "Rhael. But names don't matter, do they? What matters is what you are."

Anne's chest tightened. "I know what I am."

Rhael's smile widened, revealing elongated fangs. "No, little Dragire. You don't."

The word sent a shiver down her spine. Dragire. He knew.

Anne lunged before she could think, her dragon's fire roaring to life, but Rhael was faster. He dodged with ease, moving like a shadow, barely making a sound as he reappeared behind her.

"Sloppy," he mused. "You may have dragon strength, but you have yet to understand the gifts your other half has given you."

Anne clenched her jaw, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "What do you want?"

"Not much," Rhael said lightly. "Just to remind you that your blood is a story written long before you were born."

Anne's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to stay still. "The war," she whispered. "Vampires and dragons have been at each other's throats for centuries. What does that have to do with me?"

Rhael tilted his head. "Everything."

A cold wind swept through the battlefield, carrying the echoes of old battles, the cries of dragons clashing with the shrieks of vampires. The history was written in blood, in betrayal, in a war that had never truly ended. Anne had always assumed she was an anomaly—an accident. But as Rhael's knowing gaze bore into hers, she realized she had been wrong.

She wasn't an accident.

She was a consequence.

And the past was not finished with her yet.