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

Beneath the Vale – The Forgotten Tunnels

The Hollowborn moved without sound.

Their bodies were stitched from memory and shadow, their forms flickering in and out of shape. They traveled through tunnels so ancient even the dwarves had abandoned them—veins of stone and soil long swallowed by time.

And behind them, something larger… something that pulsed like a dying heart.

The Hollow Queen had sent her whispers ahead of the army.

But to hollow out the Vale from below.

Above – The Scent of Ash and Iron

Ashren stood at the cliff's edge again, staring toward the storm building in the north.

It reminded him of Duskvale, hours before it fell.

He turned quickly and headed for the southern trench, where rebel engineers had just collapsed one of the minor tunnels with flame charges. There was a murmur in the stone there—barely perceptible, but living.

Caelis met him halfway, sword drawn.

Ashren nodded. "They're beneath us."

As the camp buzzed with unease, Seris followed an old trail from a half-collapsed temple ruin near the edge of the Vale. The locals called it the Cradle of Sorrow, said to be a graveyard of gods who never were.

There, behind a veil of ivy and frost, she found a hidden staircase spiraling down—carved not by hands, but by ancient power.

At its base, she discovered a crypt lit by ghostlight and carved with runes she couldn't read.

At the center: a sarcophagus made of blackened crystal and bone, humming with a pulse that matched Ashren's fire.

That night, the ground split open at the center of the Vale.

Rebels screamed as Hollowborn poured out in silence—slender horrors with eyes like sunken lanterns and voices that echoed old grief.

Ashren leapt into the fray, Nyssir flashing with frostfire.

He carved through memory-made monsters, but every one he killed showed him a life—a mother's lullaby, a lover's kiss, a child's laugh.

The Hollowborn were stealing humanity and weaponizing it.

And Ashren felt every life he ended.

Deep in the crypt, Seris pressed her hand to the sarcophagus—and light exploded from the runes, wrapping around her like a shroud.

Visions of the past struck her—of a king made of flame, bound by frost chains.

The one who first defied the Hollow Queen.

And whose blood ran in Ashren's veins.

The crystal cracked—and something ancient stirred within.

On the battlefield above, Ashren faltered—surrounded, wounded, nearly overrun.

The flame beneath the Vale pulsed through him, old and pure.

Fire and frost roared from his body in a shockwave, vaporizing the Hollowborn around him. His veins burned with memory and power not entirely his own.

He stood in the center of a crater of ash, eyes glowing like dying stars.

The Hollowborn had breached the Vale.

But they had awakened something far worse.

The Roots Beneath