CHAPTER 37: Threads Of Blood And Light

Smoke curled in lazy spirals from the shattered throne, its bones scorched and blackened by Lucien's fire. The echoes of screaming—voices ancient and frayed by time—faded into silence. The sanctum trembled once more, then grew still, as though the earth itself had exhaled.

Eira stood at the heart of the altar, the last flames flickering across her skin. Her body ached, her soul raw. Power still clung to her like a second skin, humming beneath the surface, quieter now—but not gone.

Lucien stepped toward her, his eyes filled with questions he didn't voice. He reached for her hand, fingers brushing hers gently. "You're still here."

"I wasn't sure I would be," she said, voice hoarse.

He helped her down from the altar, steadying her when her legs faltered. The others gathered slowly—Lyselle with her bow ready, Ravien eyeing the sarcophagi warily, and Valtherion, whose eyes were locked on the lingering shadows that writhed like ash in the corners of the sanctum.

"What did you do, Eira?" Valtherion asked, not unkindly, but with the gravity of someone who had lived too long to take miracles at face value.

"I gave it back," she replied. "The memory of who they were. Before they became monsters. Before they forgot."

"And the throne?" Ravien asked.

"I destroyed it," Lucien said simply. "Whatever power it held… she didn't take it."

Eira looked toward the throne's ruins. "Power without purpose becomes corruption. That's what the kings became. I don't want to end up like them."

Valtherion gave a small nod. "Then you've already surpassed them."

The silence that followed was heavy but not oppressive. They had survived. For now.

But the path ahead wasn't over.

The Chamber of Chains

Beyond the sanctum lay a hidden passage, revealed when the altar cracked in half. The group hesitated only briefly before stepping inside. The corridor was narrower than before, claustrophobic and lined with rusted chains that hung from the ceiling like vines.

Lucien held a small flame aloft in one hand, casting flickering shadows along the walls.

Eira could feel something pulsing ahead. Not as violent as before, but ancient. Dormant.

They reached the end of the hall and found themselves in a chamber unlike the others—carved not from bone or stone but shaped from metal—smooth, gleaming, and humming with faint life.

"This place wasn't built by vampires," Lyselle whispered. "This is… older."

"No," Valtherion said, stepping forward. "This was stolen from something older. The city beneath the bones didn't rise—it was grown around this place. To protect it. Or to bury it."

In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a small crystal vial filled with silver liquid that glowed faintly with inner light.

Eira approached it slowly. "This is it. The source."

Lucien frowned. "The source of what?"

"Of everything. The seal. The blood. The vampires' immortality. The war." She reached toward the vial, stopping just before her fingers touched it. "This is what they were protecting. Or hiding."

Valtherion stepped beside her, his face carved with restrained emotion. "That is the First Blood. The original essence stolen from the gods of the deep realms. One drop of it can create a king—or destroy an empire."

Eira slowly turned to face him. "And I'm the key… because my blood was laced with it."

He nodded. "You were never meant to be a queen. You were meant to be a vessel. The final guardian of what remained."

"And if I take it now?" she asked.

Valtherion looked away. "Then you choose the fate of all who come after. Vampire, human, god, or monster."

Lucien's hand slid into hers again. "You don't have to decide now."

But she knew the truth—they were running out of time. The deeper they went, the closer they drew to the heart of this forgotten war. And someone—or something—was still watching.

The Whispering Veil

As they turned to leave the chamber, Eira paused, a cold sensation prickling her spine. She turned back toward the pedestal.

A shadow stood there now. Tall. Silent. Dressed in flowing robes darker than night, with a crown of thorns hovering above its head. Its face was veiled, unreadable, but its presence… it was familiar.

"You've seen me before," Eira whispered.

In the mirror.

In dreams.

The figure tilted its head.

"Who are you?" she asked.

A voice slid into her mind like silk over steel. "I am the last memory. The fragment left behind. I am what you could become."

Eira took a step forward, heart pounding. "Are you a warning?"

"No," the voice whispered. "I am a choice."

And then it vanished, leaving only silence in its wake.

Above the Hollow Heart

They made camp that night in the ruins just above the sanctum. The air was still thick with the scent of ash and old magic.

Eira sat alone, the vial of silver liquid cradled in her lap. It glowed faintly, reacting to her touch. She knew she couldn't keep it hidden forever. Sooner or later, others would come looking for it—those who wanted to rule, those who wanted to burn the world clean and start again.

Lucien approached quietly, kneeling beside her.

"You didn't sleep," he said.

"I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see that shadow. The crown. The veil."

Lucien reached out and brushed her hair back from her face, his touch soft. "Then let me stay awake with you. Until the sun rises. Or the world ends."

She smiled faintly, leaning into him. "Deal."

They sat in silence, watching the stars fade above the broken city.

Unspoken between them was the truth: the end was coming.

But so was her choice.

And she would face it with fire in her blood, and light in her hands.