Chapter One: Ashes & Echoes

Dorian

The air smelled of dew-soaked stone and fading ash—cold and clean, with the faintest trace of last night’s fire still clinging to the hallway behind me. From this height, Blackmoor looked deceptively soft. Mist coiled through the trees below, blurring rooftops and chapel spires in a haze of pale gold. Morning light filtered through the fog like the town was being remembered inch by inch.

I extended my hand into the sunlight, letting it graze my skin just long enough to recall what warmth used to feel like—before it turned cruel. The heat lingered for a moment, tender, almost nostalgic. The kind that clung to stones in summer. The kind that made you believe mornings were meant to be peaceful.

Then the pain bloomed.

The burning crept in, slow and biting. Smoke rose in thin spirals from my knuckles, and the wind tried in vain to scatter it. I didn’t move. Pain like this, I allowed. It was one of the few things I still chose to feel after resurrection—a reminder of everything I gave up.

“A small price,” I murmured, watching the mark on my arm pulse—faint, but sharp enough to make the world flinch. It recognized I no longer belonged to it. And honestly? The feeling was mutual.

A memory surged—uninvited, sharp around the edges—as my skin began to stitch itself back together. The night I returned. Not from a grave; nothing that dignified. Just dirt. Cold, packed, and forgotten.

Half a century after Tessa killed me.

I still remember the last thing I saw—Tessa’s hand closing around my throat, her grip tightening with that signature elegance of hers. Then she tore. No hesitation. Just a clean, brutal rip—and my head left my body like it was nothing.

No warning. No final words. Just silence, and soil, and five decades of being buried.

My hand tightened around the railing as I forced the memory back down. Death may have dulled the edges, but the pain? The fury? Those stayed sharp—still mine to wield. I planned to use both to finish what I started. The Thornes wouldn’t survive me twice.

When I rose. I spent the next hundred and thirty years chasing ghosts—Moores, specifically—to finish what I started. Names, bloodlines, whispers. And just when I was ready to stop looking... I found one.

“Can you run it by me again—what our master plan is for getting revenge on the Thornes?”

Salis’s voice cut through the quiet behind me, casual on the surface but laced with that familiar thread of doubt.

I glanced over my shoulder as Salis stepped into the room, wearing the same skeptical expression he always pulled when he thought one of my plans was flawed but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to say so.

I rolled my eyes and turned to face him, letting the smirk rise like it had a mind of its own. “Is this your way of telling me you forgot the plan?” I let the sarcasm hang for a beat, then added, “Or are you just hoping I’ve come up with something more dramatic since breakfast?”

His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. “I’m just saying...” He hesitated, gaze flicking away. “We lost Rook. And without the journal, it feels like we’re just... stuck here. Waiting for something that’s not coming.”

His voice wavered slightly, a flicker of something softer passing over his face. It was gone in a blink, but I caught it. Saying it aloud cost him something.

We’d finally gotten around to burning what was left of Rook after Salis’s version of a proper send-off. His death hadn’t surprised me. Rook had always been living on borrowed time—a rock and a fang away from dying.

“Please,” I said, waving a hand as if shooing away a fly. “If Xylar hadn’t done it, someone else would’ve.”

Salis’s brows pulled together, disbelief written across his face. “He died for what, exactly?” His gaze swept the room, searching for meaning in its cold grandeur before his arms fell limply at his sides. “So we could be holed up in the old Markham Estate, pretending we still have a shot at this?”

My smirk barely faded. I let my gaze drift across the bedroom.

Heavy curtains drawn halfway. Dustless wood gleaming where the sun reached. And the bed—untouched, a monument to a man long gone. Above the hearth, a cracked portrait tilted slightly, catching just enough light to feel watched.

It was ideal—for now. I wasn’t optimistic. I knew the plan wouldn’t unfold cleanly.

Especially with the Thornes finding the Moore girl before I had—and the most unpredictable one already getting too close. Xylar was never the sentimental type. Not back then. Either he’s changed… or she’s changing him.

“Rook’s death didn’t open these doors. Charm did.”

I moved toward the hearth, uncorking Markham’s stash of bourbon. “Back in my day, I would've killed for a place like this at your age.” I tilted my head slightly. Give a line enough space, and it usually lands sharper.

“Yeah. I know.” Salis glanced toward the door, tension still in his voice. “I can still smell the body we lit up yesterday.”

I smirked and raised the glass. “That’s just new home smell.”

He didn’t laugh. Just shifted his weight, like the room suddenly didn’t fit right. I took a sip, watching him from over the rim of the glass. He wanted something I didn’t offer—not comfort, not hope. Just the illusion that this was still a fight we could win.

I placed the glass back onto the hearth after gulping down my drink.

“Look, don’t stress about it.” I rolled my eyes. “So we hit a bump. Not exactly the end of the world.”

“I just think we might be in over our heads with this one,” Salis said, locking eyes with me. His voice was steady, but it didn’t hide the weight behind it.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” My tone stayed light, but my gaze narrowed. I already knew the answer—I just wanted him to say it.

He hesitated. “I don’t know... maybe we fall back. Come at this when we’re not so outnumbered.”

I studied him for a long second before turning back toward the balcony. “If numbers are what you’re worried about, then you haven’t really been paying attention.”

“What, you figured out how two vampires are supposed to bring down a dragon empire?” he said. The sarcasm was there, but underneath it—genuine curiosity.

“You make it sound impossible.” I leaned on the railing, watching the town slowly shake off its sleep. “Any empire’s just reversed Jenga. Pull the right piece and the whole thing crumbles.”

I let the pause sit for a beat. “The only question is, what piece to move?”

My eyes drifted toward the Town Hall—the Thrones’ personal ballroom, dressed up in the name of Founding Family tradition. A monument to their legacy. A perfect target.

“Vivian’s little stunt at the Moon Festival is going to echo. Once word gets out a Moore’s still alive, the ones looking to finish what they started will come crawling out of the woodwork.”

“Okay... how long are we supposed to wait around for that?” Salis asked, his arms folding again. “Another few decades?”

As if on cue, the sound of boots echoed down the hall—measured, unhurried. A familiar rhythm I hadn’t heard in far too long.

“Try seconds,” Olivia said, stepping inside like she owned the room. “You survived the war, Salis. I’m impressed. Didn't think you'd last.”

I turned, eyes landing on her figure with a slow sweep. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was someone’s high-fashion mistake—a model who took a wrong turn into a war zone. But I knew better. That walk? That gaze? Olivia Clayton was anything but lost.

“Nice seeing you again too, Olivia,” Salis muttered. His tone didn’t even try for enthusiasm.

“Olivia Clayton,” I said, letting the name curl off my tongue. “Still as deadly as ever, I imagine.”

She stepped further into the room with that same fluid grace that made danger look like fashion.

“Dorian,” she replied, her gaze locking with mine, steady and sharp. “I see you managed to charm your way out of death.”

I gave a lazy shrug. “Let’s just say... death has questionable taste.”

“Good to see you two haven’t changed much,” Salis muttered, clearly over it already.

“Of course not,” I said, casually strolling toward them, gaze still locked on hers. “Olivia’s always been like family. Complicated, armed to the teeth, and rarely approved of her taste in men.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly—no smile, no bite. Just that quiet, calculating stillness she always wore before someone ended up bleeding.

“So,” I said, tone smooth, “did you see him yet?”

She didn’t blink. But the pause that followed wasn’t silence—it was control.

“My personal life isn’t up for discussion,” she added, voice clipped. “I’m here because we all have unfinished business with the Thornes.”

She turned slightly, just enough to signal without words. “This time, I brought backup.”

My gaze followed hers as two men stepped into the room—silent, precise in their movements. They didn’t posture. Didn’t need to. The kind of men who were either professionals... or about to prove they were.

“These are my men—Wayne and Nicholas. Trained mercenaries, like me.” Her eyes returned to mine, calm and deliberate. “We came the second we heard the good news. And you know me... I never like to show up unprepared.”

“Prepared, armed, and dramatic,” I said, lips curving into a smirk. “Gods, I really did miss you.”

A genuine flicker of satisfaction sparked somewhere behind my smirk. Olivia always had her own agenda—she probably still does—but when blood starts to spill, there’s no one I’d rather have at my side. And she wasn’t the type to let personal matters interfere with her work—though watching her react to Melissa might just test that theory.

“Did you expect anything less?” she asked, eyes still glinting from whatever game she was already three moves into.

“Not from you.” I slipped my hands behind my back, taking a casual step toward the hearth. “Actually, your timing’s perfect. I’ve got a bit of a reptile problem your men could help handle.”

Her brow lifted slightly. She didn’t ask for details—just waited.

“We needed him for information and shocker,” I dipped slightly, that unconscious lean I always fall into when the punchline’s about to land. “He didn’t have it. Now he’s just a walking tracker to our location.”

Olivia didn’t respond. Just glanced briefly at her men—and they were gone without a word. That kind of loyalty? That kind of instinct? I missed that two centuries ago.

“I guess I’ll go point them toward Erzan,” Salis muttered, already moving like he knew the conversation had shifted without him. “Not like I’ve got a better plan.”

“Appreciate it,” I said without looking his way. The sound of the door closing behind him was smoother than expected.

Once we were alone, Olivia’s gaze returned to mine, sharp and steady.

“They’ll catch up once I’ve seen what I’m working with,” she said, folding her arms with that slow, deliberate poise of hers. “Assuming that wasn’t the main event.”

She never lingered where she wasn’t needed. Not until the knife was already in.

“You do have something more satisfying than cleaning up a half-blood. Right?” She added.

“Always save the best for last,” I said, pacing once in front of the hearth. “I need you to pay a visit to Annabelle—the Historian.”

Olivia’s brow lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“See if she’s feeling chatty about those iron daggers.”

If she’s hiding what I think she is, that information is the thing standing between me and the blades that can cut through the Thornes’ bloodline.

Annabelle’s family made a career out of helping the town rewrite its own history—sanding off the bloody parts, burying the real stories just deep enough that no one thinks to dig. But she knows the truth. She always has.

Her gaze sharpened. She didn’t ask which daggers—I knew she wouldn’t. Olivia’s always kept a mental file on the weapons that can kill her targets.

“And if she’s not?” she asked, voice smooth as silk and just as thin. There was already an answer waiting behind her eyes.

“A little persuasion goes a long way,” I said, letting the smirk return as I met her gaze.

“I’ll make sure she talks.” And with that, she vanished—wind kicking up behind her like a finishing move.

Alone now, I crossed back to the hearth and poured another glass of bourbon, slower this time. With Xylar wrapped around the Moore girl, getting to the journal wasn’t going to be simple. But then, nothing worthwhile ever is.

The Thornes weren’t untouchable. They were just too comfortable. All I needed was a sharp enough tool... and Olivia was already carving the first crack.

I took a sip, eyes drifting toward the balcony again. The mist was thinning, the town revealing itself one shadow at a time. It still looked peaceful. Predictable. But the truth was already shifting beneath it.

I turned from the sunrise, from the burn it promised, and faced the room instead. There was no fear left in me—only the hollow calm I chose to keep after death. Pain, I could use. Fear had no place here.

Fifty years in the ground had stripped away everything soft. And Vivian? She’d respond, eventually. I was counting on it. I wasn’t just walking back into their world. I was here to end it.