The Flameborn Before

Legends said she was the first.

That no other vampire had ever been born with flame instead of ice in their veins.

That her power was singular. Divine. Chosen.

But legends lie.

And the Circle had just unearthed a secret older than her throne.

It began with a tremor beneath the palace.

The obsidian floor cracked near the throne. A web of fractures. No quake followed. No sound. Just… silence.

Seraphina stared down at the floor and felt it.

A heartbeat.

But not hers.

Mirell was the first to confirm it: something had shifted beneath the catacombs—deeper than any living vampire had dared to go.

There were vaults even she refused to enter. Built not to house treasures…

But to bury nightmares.

Seraphina descended alone.

Down stone staircases slick with ancient condensation. Past runes that glowed faintly with warning. Past bones that weren't human.

At the base of the world, she found it.

A sarcophagus of scorched marble, blackened and fused by flame.

Carved into the lid: a name.

"Nyxara."

The name struck her heart like a fang.

Because she'd heard it only once—whispered by the Circle's Second Whisper in that dream-forest.

"The First Flame. The One You'll Never Surpass."

She was the prototype," Mirell explained, voice hushed. "The first of the Flameborn. Born in the dying age of the Old Vampiric Empire."

"She was me before me," Seraphina said.

Mirell nodded. "But without love. Without balance. She burned until she consumed everything."

Seraphina stared at the sealed sarcophagus.

"She was buried alive," Mirell whispered. "Not because she died. But because they couldn't kill her."

"And now?"

"She's awake."

That night, Seraphina didn't sleep—she was pulled.

Into a vision not of her own making.

A room of ash and starlight.

And there stood a woman who looked like her, only taller, older, glowing from within like a dying star.

Nyxara.

Her skin shimmered with firelight, and her hair moved like molten gold. She wore no crown, only flame.

"You've worn my name long enough," Nyxara said.

"I never took it."

"You inherited my curse. My gift. My throne. And you softened it."

Seraphina stood tall. "I tempered it."

"You betrayed it," Nyxara spat. "You made love your anchor. Foolish girl. Fire has no anchor. It devours."

Seraphina's fists curled. "Then why did they bury you?"

Nyxara's smile turned cruel.

"Because I made the gods afraid."

Mirell revealed the rest.

The Circle had resurrected Nyxara through a forbidden rite called Sanguinal Binding—a ritual where an ancient vampire's soul is forcibly re-attached to a new vessel of blood and flesh.

But they didn't need to rebuild her body.

Because hers had never rotted.

Now, Nyxara walked again.

Stronger.

Wiser.

And wholly loyal to the Circle—for now.

"She'll challenge you," Velis warned. "But not with armies. With presence. She will make your court question your strength."

"And Lucien?" Seraphina asked.

"She'll smell your bond. And she'll aim straight for it."

Three nights later, she arrived.

At the gates of the capital. Alone.

No army. No herald.

Just a woman in robes of black fire, with no shadow behind her.

Seraphina met her at the edge of the courtyard, flanked by her guards, Lucien beside her.

But the moment Nyxara stepped into the moonlight, all torches snuffed out.

The fire fled from her.

Except Seraphina's.

Hers flared defiantly.

Nyxara's golden eyes landed on Lucien, then returned to Seraphina.

"Look how tame you've become," she said softly. "Burning for one man."

Seraphina's voice did not waver. "Better than burning for nothing."

Nyxara smirked. "We'll see."

She turned, walking toward the palace.

"I'll be staying," she said over her shoulder. "There's so much I must unlearn you."

That night, the palace was restless.

The very walls hummed with heat.

Seraphina couldn't sleep. Lucien stood watch beside her, hands on his daggers.

"Can we beat her?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Do you fear her?"

"I fear what she'll show me," Seraphina whispered. "What I could become."

"Then don't look away."

She met his eyes.

And kissed him once, slow and long—just in case tomorrow she didn't remember how.

In the garden of silver trees, Seraphina found her the next morning.

Nyxara knelt at a pool of black water.

"Do you know what this place was?" she asked.

Seraphina shook her head.

"It was once a sanctuary. Where the Flameborn would come to be cleansed. Of emotion. Of doubt. Of pain."

"Why?"

"Because fire doesn't care," Nyxara said. "And neither should we."

She rose, towering, terrifying.

"I will not take your throne, Seraphina. Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

"To remind you who you are."

"And who is that?"

Nyxara leaned close, breath warm like embers against Seraphina's lips.

"You are me, child. You just haven't admitted it yet."