The city blurred past them — a kaleidoscope of neon lights, honking horns, and endless rain — but Caelan barely noticed.
He stumbled through the streets behind Veyla, pulled along by her iron grip.
Every instinct screamed at him to run the other way. To hide. To wake up from this nightmare.
But the memory of the creature — the speed, the cruelty — burned too fresh behind his eyes. Whatever Veyla was, she had killed it without fear. Without hesitation.
And somehow, Caelan knew she was the only reason he was still breathing.
She led him to a crumbling old cathedral on the city's edge, its stone walls cracked with age, its windows boarded up with rotting wood. A heavy iron gate barred the entrance.
"Where are we?" Caelan gasped, panting as he stumbled to a halt.
Veyla pressed her palm against the rusted gate. A ripple of light — faint, like moonlight — shimmered along the metal. With a deep groan, the gate swung inward.
"Sanctuary," she said. "For now."
Inside, the cathedral was hollow and dark. The pews were broken, the altar shattered. Shadows gathered in the corners like living things.
Caelan hesitated at the threshold. Every hair on his body stood on end.
"Come," Veyla urged, glancing back. "They will find us if you linger."
Reluctantly, he stepped across the threshold.
The moment he did, the air changed.
It was like passing through an invisible wall — warm, heavy, and ancient. The scents of blood, earth, and old stone filled his senses. A strange pressure settled on his chest, not painful, but suffocating.
Veyla moved quickly, leading him down a stairwell hidden behind the ruined altar.
Down they went, spiraling deeper into the earth.
The underground hall was nothing like the cathedral above.
Candles floated in the air, their flames green and cold. Banners of black and crimson hung from the walls, bearing symbols Caelan couldn't understand — snarling beasts, entwined thorns, and a sun eclipsed by darkness.
And in the center of the great hall stood a throne of twisted iron and bone.
Empty.
Caelan swallowed hard. "What... is this place?"
Veyla turned to him, her face grave.
"This is the last stronghold of the Nightborn Court," she said. "The seat of your ancestors. Your true bloodline."
"My bloodline?" Caelan shook his head in disbelief. "I'm just— I mean, I was—" He laughed bitterly. "I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in Southbridge. My mom worked nights at the hospital. I'm nobody."
"You are Caelan Draven," Veyla said firmly. "Son of Vaelen Draven, King of the Nightborn. Last of the true blood."
"King?"
The word felt absurd in his mouth.
Veyla stepped closer. Her eyes gleamed like silver blades in the candlelight.
"You have his eyes," she whispered. "And his fire."
Caelan backed away, shaking his head.
"This is insane."
"You think so?" Veyla's voice was soft, almost kind. She raised her hand — and with a sudden jerk of her wrist, pulled a dagger from her coat. Before Caelan could react, she slashed the blade across her own palm.
Blood welled up, dark and glistening.
Caelan stared, horrified — and then froze.
The scent of her blood hit him like a freight train.
It wasn't just a smell. It was a call. A deep, primal hunger roared awake inside him, fierce and overwhelming. His mouth ached. His vision sharpened, every detail thrown into brutal clarity.
"Your body remembers," Veyla said, voice low. "Your blood knows."
Caelan clutched his head, fighting the surge. He could feel something in his jaw — a sharpness pressing against his gums.
Fangs.
Real fangs.
"I'm not— I'm not a monster," he gasped.
"No," Veyla said, stepping forward, offering her bleeding hand. "You are a king."
He fell to his knees, shuddering, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
The hunger was unbearable.
The truth — undeniable.
Somewhere deep within him, a voice he had never heard before whispered:
Rise. Take your place. The Nightborn do not crawl.
Caelan lifted his head slowly, meeting Veyla's gaze.
"What happens now?" he rasped.
Veyla smiled, fierce and proud.
"Now," she said, "we awaken your true power."
And in the shadows beyond the candles, unseen eyes watched — and waited.