PROLOGUE
THE BLOOD THAT SURVIVED
Seven years ago, the world forgot a name.
Rython.
He remembered it.
He remembered the chains.
The screams.
The smell of blood.
And most of all,
Varek.
The cavern was silent now.
Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the stone as Rython walked deeper into the mountains.
Blood covered his hands.
Not his own.
His breathing was slow.
Controlled.
Behind him lay the remains of the place that had once been his prison.
Varek was dead.
The others were dead.
Dracula had destroyed everything.
Everyone.
Except him.
Rython stopped beside a frozen stream and looked at his reflection.
For a moment, he saw the monster Varek had created.
Then he saw something else.
A man.
His eyes changed from crimson to gold.
His claws slowly disappeared.
The curse inside him remained.
Always.
The werewolf blood wanted the moon.
The vampire blood wanted blood.
And something deeper wanted more.
Rython closed his eyes.
He could still hear Varek’s voice.
You are the future.
Rython opened his eyes.
“No.”
His voice echoed through the mountains.
“I am not your future.”
He looked toward the distant kingdoms.
“I am my own.”
A howl suddenly came from the forest.
Rython turned.
Another howl answered.
Then another.
Werewolves.
He could smell them.
They were close.
But they weren’t hunting him.
They were afraid.
Rython smiled faintly.
“So they know.”
He stepped into the darkness.
Far away, beyond the Five Kingdoms, the snow-covered land known as the Bloodlands remained untouched by the wars.
At least,
that was what the kingdoms believed.
A lone figure stood upon a cliff.
Alaric Veyne.
He had spent much of Dracula’s war here, far from the armies and kingdoms.
Now he stared into a valley hidden beneath the mist.
Something moved below.
Alaric’s hand slowly tightened around his silver rapier.
He had seen ancient creatures.
He had seen armies disappear.
He had witnessed vampires older than kingdoms.
But this was different.
The ground beneath his feet trembled.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Alaric whispered:
“What have you awakened?”
A deep sound came from beneath the earth.
Not a roar.
Not a growl.
A heartbeat.
Alaric’s eyes narrowed.
He turned away from the valley.
He had to warn Dracula.
The Bloodlands were no longer silent.
In Veyrath, Dracula stood alone inside his throne room.
The kingdom was rebuilding.
His enemies were scattered.
Damien had failed.
Varek was dead.
The Five Kingdoms were wounded.
Everything should have been falling into place.
Yet Dracula could not forget the final words spoken to him.
The real war begins.
A cold wind passed through the throne room.
The candles flickered.
Dracula looked toward the darkness.
“You’re here.”
No answer came.
Then a voice whispered from somewhere beyond the shadows.
“Not yet.”
Dracula’s eyes narrowed.
The voice continued.
“But soon.”
The darkness disappeared.
Dracula remained motionless.
He reached for his sword.
For the first time in centuries, something unfamiliar stirred inside him.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Recognition.
Across Valedorn, Elara suddenly woke from her sleep.
Her heart raced.
She looked around the dark room.
Lucian was asleep nearby.
Then,
the vision came.
A frozen mountain.
A creature standing beneath a blood-red moon.
A giant emerging from a forest.
A woman surrounded by black flames.
A vampire standing before a broken crown.
And finally,
a pair of golden-red eyes.
Elara gasped.
The vision vanished.
Lucian immediately woke.
“Elara?”
She looked at him.
Her hands were trembling.
“I saw something.”
“What?”
She stared toward the window.
“The war…”
Her voice became quieter.
“It wasn’t the end.”
Lucian sat beside her.
“What did you see?”
Elara looked into his eyes.
“Blood.”
A pause.
“Everywhere.”
Outside, thunder rolled across the kingdom.
And somewhere in the distance,
a wolf howled.
Then another.
Then something much larger answered.
The age of peace had never truly existed.
The war had only changed its face.
And beneath the blood-soaked earth, ancient powers were beginning to wake.
The first war was over.
Now the Age of Blood begins.
