Ohwofasa_Emonena

They spilled his blood to protect their crown. Now he’ll drown their kingdom in it.

Once a devoted knight of the Silver Court, Kael Morvain was betrayed by the royals he served—offered as a living sacrifice to seal a cursed blood pact. But death was only the beginning. Reborn as a vampire in the ruins of forgotten gods, Kael awakens with no soul, no mercy, and one burning purpose: vengeance.

The kingdom of Solrath flourishes on lies, its golden heir worshiped like a savior. But Kael knows the truth: the blood on their throne belongs to him.

When he kidnaps the last surviving princess, a fierce woman marked by prophecy and hiding her own monstrous bloodline, Kael’s revenge spirals into a war between old gods, cursed blood, and forbidden desire.

In a land where power is written in veins and vengeance never dies, only one truth remains:

The dead don’t forgive.
They return.

veins of vengeance

South of Cael Thalor – Dusklight Plains

Ashren and Seris traveled across the Dusklight Plains, a stretch of haunted wilds where whispers followed footsteps and even the wind remembered war. The sky above was bruised with twilight as though night and day warred for dominance.

They were heading toward the Vale of Banners, where whispers spoke of an old resistance forming again.

A rider—cloaked in white and riding a beast of frost-blooded sinew—appeared at the horizon. He bore no sigil, only the gleaming sword strapped to his back: Nyssir, the Thorn of Frost.

Ashren stepped forward, hand ready at his side.

"I am no enemy," the rider said, his voice calm as ice.

"And yet you bring a weapon," Seris countered.

The rider knelt and held the blade up in both hands.

"My queen, Elanra of Vhal Nyrr, offers this to the flame-born heir. She names you Ashren, Scorched Son of Duskvale. She knows your pain. She believes your vengeance is not madness, but prophecy."

In his mind, a flash—icy ruins, a circle of queens, a child bathed in blood and snow. Then a voice.

"He who carries both fire and frost shall unmake the throne."

"What did you show me?" he whispered.

"The future," the rider said. "Or the warning. They are one and the same in Vhal Nyrr."

Nyssir was unlike his fire-born weapons. It hummed not with heat, but with memory. When Ashren swung it, the air shimmered not from force but from truth. It carved lies from the world.

Seris reached out, brushing her fingers against the flat of the blade.

And in a breath, she saw it too—Ashren not as he was, but as he could become: crowned in flame and ice, standing above a fallen world, alone.

"Don't become him," she whispered.

"I don't want a throne," he said. "I want justice."

With the Frostblade at his side and fire in his blood, Ashren turned south again.

But behind them, the rider remained.

And from the distant peaks of Vhal Nyrr, Queen Elanra watched through mirrored ice.

The war was no longer just Malric's.

The Blade and the Prophecy