Chapter 13: Bloodline Unveiled

The warmth of Soraya's home faded the moment they stepped into the parlor. Shadows clung to the corners like whispers with secrets, and the air was thick with something old—older than wood or dust. It smelled faintly of dried herbs and something metallic, like rusted iron.

Kyra sat silently on the edge of a velvet chair, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Soraya stood by the fireplace, poking the embers with a brass rod that hummed when it touched the coals.

"You said... vampire bloodline," Kyra whispered. "What did you mean?"

Soraya didn't answer immediately. She watched the flames curl around the logs before turning to face her, eyes heavy with a weight Kyra couldn't yet understand.

Kyra watched Soraya carefully. There was a shift in the air, like a veil between worlds lifting, just enough to let in a whisper.

"You carry something," Soraya began, her voice quieter than the room demanded. "Something born of love... and danger."

Kyra opened her mouth, but the words stayed caught in her throat. Soraya's hand passed over a candle, and the flame flickered—then dimmed. The shadows stretched.

"Let me show you what they tried to bury."

---

Five Hundred Years Ago — The Village of Elowen

Flashback

Elira sat at the edge of a stone well, her fingers trailing the rim. The sun had nearly set, and golden light pooled through the trees like warm honey. But her eyes were far away—haunted, waiting.

Behind her, an older woman emerged from the cottage doorway, robes rustling, silver hair bound tight. Her name was Maerith—Elira's mentor, protector, and the last of the Council who still believed in old punishments.

"You've been restless," Maerith said softly.

Elira didn't turn. "The air feels... heavier. The forest is quieter."

"That's not what's troubling you."

A silence stretched between them.

Maerith stepped closer. "I know the signs. The late walks. The questions about the old laws. You think I don't see it, but I do. You've met one of them."

Elira rose slowly. "He's not like the others."

"They never are—until your body is drained in a field."

"He hasn't touched me."

"Yet."

Maerith's voice sharpened. "You are a witch of Elowen, bound to the sacred code. We do not love what we are sworn to destroy."

Elira's hands clenched at her sides. "What if love doesn't obey the code?"

Maerith's eyes narrowed, sorrowful and stern. "Then love becomes the curse."

---

That night, the forest waited.

Elira's cloak rustled through the underbrush, every step a defiance of the law, of her mentor's words, of her own fear. The moon had barely risen, casting silver streaks through the branches as she reached the glade where they always met—hidden between twisted oaks and silence.

He was already there.

Lucien stood as if carved from night itself, tall and still. His presence didn't frighten her. It called to something buried deep in her bones.

"You came," he said.

"I always will."

She stepped into his arms, and for a breathless moment, nothing else existed—only the heat between their chests, the way his hand slid behind her neck, and the soft inhale as her lips parted just before his touched them.

But far beyond the glade, the night trembled.

---

Back in the present, Kyra sat frozen.

Soraya's eyes shimmered with emotion, but she said nothing. The flame on the candle flared once—then stilled.

"What did I just see?" Kyra whispered.

"Only the beginning," Soraya murmured. "The truth still has many layers to bleed through."