The Moon’s Forbidden Blood.

Five thousand years.

That’s how long I’ve walked this world, and for every one of those years, I’ve tasted blood on my lips and steel in my hand.

I was born into battle, raised in the shadow of war, and honed to be a weapon. My name is Isolde Virelai, last of the Drakanthar, the bloodline that once ruled the night with blade and power. The world has known me as The Sword of Virelai, the sharp edge that cut down our enemies, and for centuries, I carried that title proudly.

But now, they call me The Wise One. As if I’ve become some relic they can hide in the dark, a name to be whispered, not a blade to be wielded. The truth is, I’ve been leashed—my fangs pulled, my sword sheathed. And for what? To be caged inside this fortress while others fight for me?

They think they’ve tamed me. They’re wrong.

Once, my family’s name carried the weight of legends. The Drakanthar bloodline was feared, our power unrivaled. We didn’t just rule over the northern territories—we owned them. The other covens may have held their domains, but we were the ones who led the charge. Our enemies crumbled before us, their bones broken beneath our boots, their blood feeding the earth.

That was until the Lycans’ Night. The night the moon ran red and the beasts came for us, ravenous and unstoppable. While I led our forces in the west, they descended on our ancestral home, tearing through our walls, our warriors, and our legacy. When I returned, there was nothing left but the ruins of my bloodline. Nothing but ash and corpses.

The Drakanthar died that night. All except for me.

Valkar told me that I survived because it was fate. The fates, he said, had other plans for me. That I was meant to rebuild our house, to be the cornerstone upon which the next empire of Virelai would be built.

I called it what it was: luck. The kind that doesn’t feel like luck at all.

Valkar has ruled the Virelai for ten thousand years. He’s the reason we still hold power over the north, the reason we still thrive while other covens have fallen. But he’s not like me. He’s never held a sword in the heat of battle. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel the blood of your enemies wash over you, the thrill of standing victorious on a field of corpses. No, Valkar has always preferred to pull the strings from the shadows, to weave his webs and play his games. And for a time, I respected that.

But now? Now he’s keeping me caged, hidden away from the war that never ended.

The lycans have always been our enemy, the beasts that claw at our borders, howling under the full moon as they hunger for our blood. We fought them for centuries, and every time they came at us, we sent them back to the dark corners of the world with their tails between their legs. But they’ve never been stupid. Savage, yes. Feral, absolutely. But never stupid.

They’ve learned. Evolved.

For centuries, they’ve been planning, waiting, biding their time. The Lycans’ Night was the first strike. They thought they could end us, that they could wipe out the Drakanthar and break the spine of the Virelai coven. They failed. I made sure of that.

And still, they haven’t stopped coming. Lately, they’ve grown bolder, their attacks more calculated. They know we’re watching, but they no longer seem to care. They hunt on our lands with open defiance, a challenge they know Valkar won’t ignore forever.

And me? He tells me I’m too valuable to be risked. That I’ve earned my rest after centuries of battle.

Rest? I don’t need rest. I need blood. I need to be back on the battlefield, cutting down those cursed beasts. Because that’s who I am. I’m not some wise old vampire meant to sit in a chamber and guide the council with careful words and quiet wisdom. I am a warrior, forged in the fires of war, sharpened by the blood of our enemies.

The night I was given the title of The Wise One, I stood before the council, my hands at my sides, feeling the weight of centuries of battles in my bones. The room was cold, lit by flickering candlelight, and the elders—vampires whose faces had long forgotten the color of youth—watched with those same lifeless eyes. Valkar stood at the head of them, his gaze like ice, and pronounced me The Wise One. The mantle of advisor and leader for the future of the Virelai.

They stripped me of my title as The Sword of Virelai that night. They think I didn’t see it for what it was, but I did. A chain, gilded with honor, meant to bind me. I was too powerful, too dangerous, too vital to be left free. Valkar wasn’t protecting me from the lycans; he was protecting himself from what I might become if I stayed on the battlefield.

He made me sit down and listen, while others fought the war I was meant to win.

But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The lycans are still out there, scratching at the edges of our territory. And every night, I feel it—the pull of the battlefield, the call of blood and steel. I may be leashed for now, but a leash can always be broken. I’ve waited centuries for my moment, and I’ll wait a few more if I have to. Because when the time comes, I’ll be ready.

And I know it’s coming.

There’s something in the air. A shift. The lycans are stirring more than usual. They hunt with purpose now, not the mindless hunger that usually drives them. And I’ve heard whispers in the dark. Of old stories, of ancient bloodlines, of prophecies that the elders dismiss as myths.

A hybrid. A creature born of both vampire and lycan blood, capable of breaking the balance between our races. They say it’s just a legend. Something to scare the fledglings.

But I’ve been around long enough to know that every legend has a grain of truth buried in it.

Let them keep their council meetings. Let them talk about balance and strategy and preservation. I’ll bide my time. But when the moment comes—and it will come—I will fight again. And when I do, I will remind the world who I am.

I am Isolde Virelai, the last of the Drakanthar.

And I am the sword that will bring this war to its end.