Ashes of the Covenant

The fortress still burned.

Smoke coiled like serpents into the sky, lit red from below. Varek stood at the edge of the cliff, muscles coiled tight, his sword heavy with blood that refused to dry.

Selene emerged from the shadows, her cloak ash-streaked, eyes reflecting fire.

"You didn't sleep," she said.

Varek didn't answer.

Instead, he whispered, "We only cut off one limb. The body still breathes."

She joined him. "Then we keep cutting until it doesn't."

They stood in silence for a long moment.

Then Selene reached into her pack and handed him a blood-soaked scroll taken from Lord Fenric's inner sanctum.

"Runes I couldn't read," she said. "But I copied them."

Varek unrolled it, eyes scanning the lines.

Dark symbols danced in crimson ink, shifting and rearranging before his eyes.

Living script.

He pressed his hand to the parchment. His blood answered the call.

The runes sizzled and melted into new words—ones only a hybrid could read.

"The Eye sees. The Eye sleeps. When it opens, the gods return."

Selene leaned closer. "What is the Eye?"

Varek's voice dropped. "An order. Ancient. Secret. Older than the Courts."

"Vampire?"

"No. Something in between. Guardians of the Veil. They weren't loyal to either side. Only to the prophecy."

Selene narrowed her eyes. "So they might help us."

Varek shook his head. "Or kill us. If we're the ones the prophecy speaks of… they'll test us. Brutally."

Selene gave a half-smile. "I'm not afraid of tests."

"Good," he said. "Because we're going to where they sleep."

Two days later, they rode through the Ashgrove Basin, beneath silver trees that whispered even when the wind was still.

The deeper they went, the colder it became—not in temperature, but in soul.

Varek felt the pressure building in his bones, the call of old blood, the echo of voices long dead.

Selene noticed too. Her wolf stirred restlessly.

"What is this place?"

"A threshold," Varek said. "Between this world and the next."

Selene looked at him sideways. "Why do I feel like you know more than you're telling me?"

He exhaled. "Because I do."

They reached it at dusk.

An ancient ruin carved into the side of a sheer rock face—stone gates half-sunken, obsidian eyes carved above them.

The Eye.

Selene stepped forward first, running her fingers along the black stone. It felt warm, pulsing.

Then it opened.

With a sound like cracking bone, the gates split down the middle, revealing stairs that spiraled down into darkness.

Varek took her hand.

"No matter what happens," he said, "don't look away."

Selene met his eyes. "Never."

And they descended.

The descent took hours.

The walls grew tighter. The air thickened. Symbols glowed faintly along the stone—images of creatures long extinct, of gods lost to time.

Then they emerged into a massive chamber.

It was circular, domed, with a stone altar at its center and seven thrones carved from bone and crystal arranged around it.

Only one was occupied.

A man sat there, still as death.

Long silver hair. Eyes like broken mirrors.

He wore robes of black and red, and an amulet shaped like an open eye.

He didn't blink.

He simply said, "So. The cursed and the chosen."

Selene stepped forward. "We came for answers."

"And blood," the man said. "You reek of it."

Varek drew his sword halfway. "Who are you?"

"I am called Sevrien. Last of the Watchers."

He rose slowly, like a statue remembering how to move.

"Thousands of years ago, we stood between the planes. We warned the courts of what would come. We buried the gate beneath fire and salt."

Selene frowned. "The Cradle?"

Sevrien nodded. "You cannot kill prophecy. But you can bury it. Bind it."

Varek's voice was rough. "And now it stirs again."

"Yes," Sevrien said. "And you are its awakening."

Sevrien led them through hidden corridors beneath the temple.

Chambers filled with relics—armors of boneglass, scrolls inked in living blood, weapons humming with ancient power.

He stopped at a sealed door etched with runes that hurt the eyes to look at.

"This is what Alaric seeks," Sevrien said. "Behind this lies the Codex Redemptus—the prophecy unbroken, in its full tongue."

Selene reached for it, but Sevrien's hand snapped up.

"Only the marked may enter."

Varek stepped forward.

"Then let me in."

Sevrien nodded once.

"You go alone."

The door opened like a maw.

Varek stepped inside.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

But he kept walking.

Down a spiral of memories—echoes of pain, fire, love, betrayal. Visions from the bloodline of every vampire, every wolf, every hybrid who ever dared to exist.

He saw his mother again—Elira, her hands soaked in blood, her eyes wild with love and terror.

He saw Alaric—young, before the madness. Before the thirst.

He saw himself, kneeling at the heart of a battlefield, Selene's body in his arms, blood pouring from her throat.

"No—"

The vision shattered.

In its place stood a great book, floating in the air, bound in skin, sealed with three sigils.

Varek stepped forward and touched it.

The sigils burned away.

The book opened.

And truth poured into him like molten gold.

When he emerged, his eyes glowed violet.

Selene rushed to him.

"What did you see?"

Varek's voice was soft, stunned.

"The end."

Sevrien nodded. "So you understand."

"Alaric doesn't want to rule," Varek said. "He wants to undo. He wants to shatter the cycle. Burn both Courts. And replace it all with his own kingdom of blood."

Selene was quiet. "And what stops him?"

Varek turned to her.

"We do."

Sevrien stepped forward. "There is more. A ritual to seal the Cradle for another thousand years. But it requires blood. Yours. Together."

"Will it kill us?" Selene asked.

"Maybe."

Varek didn't hesitate. "We'll do it."

But Selene's hand found his. Tight.

She leaned into him and whispered, "Not until I've had you one more time."

They didn't sleep that night.

Not in the traditional sense.

In the quiet of the Watchers' sanctum, they gave in to every unspoken craving.

Stripped of weapons, titles, vengeance—they became only man and woman. Wolf and vampire. Mate and match.

Selene pressed him to the altar, her hands roaming, claiming.

He bared his throat, and she kissed the pulse there—without biting. Not yet.

When he sank into her, it wasn't violence.

It was worship.

Their bodies moved like poetry and hunger, the air between them thick with sweat and moans.

Every thrust, every touch, every gasp was a promise:

We live.

We love.

We fight.

Together.

The next morning, Sevrien handed Varek a dagger of obsidian.

"To seal the Cradle, you must travel to the Rift of Chains. At the mouth of the world's scar. The ritual must be done under a blood eclipse."

Selene narrowed her eyes. "When is the next one?"

Sevrien answered, "Six nights from now."

Varek took the dagger.

"Then we ride."

Far in the north, in the Blackspire Throne, Alaric Mordane watched a blood scrying pool swirl with images of Varek and Selene's lovemaking.

He watched it without emotion.

Then he smiled.

"Let them believe," he whispered.

"Let them hope."

His hand clenched, crushing a skull like an eggshell.

"Then let them bleed."