Prologue: Crimson Tide
The Crimson Tide
Third Person POV
Lightning shattered the sky, its blood-red glare illuminating the obsidian towers of House Virellian as the storm screamed against the cliffs. Wind howled through shattered windows, dragging with it the acrid stench of fire and the iron tang of spilled blood. Screams echoed from the outer halls—loyal guards cut down, servants torn apart by their own kind.
Lady Seraphine Virellian clutched the newborn to her chest, heart pounding, lips pressed against the downy crown of her daughter’s head. “Hush now, my star,” she whispered, her voice low and trembling. “Don’t cry. Don’t let them hear you.”
The baby stirred but did not cry; a faintest glow pulsed between her small shoulder blades. A sigil—ancient and forbidden—etched into her skin like burning ink. The Crimson Mark.
The sound of footsteps—fast, heavy—drew closer.
The door burst open.
Lord Therion Virellian staggered in, blood dripping from his gauntlets, the edge of his doublet torn. His blade was slick with fresh kill. Behind him, smoke curled into the chamber like fingers seeking prey.
“They’ve breached the inner sanctum,” he said, voice grim. “It was Vyros. The bastard turned on us. He’s leading them. Feeding them our secrets.”
Seraphine’s breath caught. “He was like a brother to you.”
“He was always watching her,” Therion growled, nodding toward their daughter. “Even before she was born.”
Outside, another crash—this one closer. Stone crumbling. Glass raining down the staircase.
Seraphine turned, walking to the altar in the center of the chamber, her long silver-blonde hair trailing behind her like a banner of mourning. She laid the baby into a cradle carved of crimsonwood and pressed her fingers to the air above her child’s chest.
Ancient words spilled from her lips, the incantation burning gold as it weaved a protective seal around the infant.
“I won’t let them have her,” she whispered. “Not her blood. Not her name.”
Therion crossed to them and cupped Seraphine’s face. “Take the hidden passage. Nyel awaits below with horses. She knows what to do.”
Her eyes shone, silver and fierce. “You’ll come too.”
He shook his head, brushing a kiss to her lips. “No. I’ll hold them here. I’ll give her time.”
Seraphine trembled, then nodded. She lifted the baby back into her arms and kissed Therion one last time.
More crashing.
A roar of unnatural fury filled the halls outside.
Therion turned toward the door and bared his fangs, the ancient sigil of House Virellian burning bright across his collarbone.
“Run,” he said without looking back.
And Seraphine did.
The hidden passage wound downward like the throat of some ancient beast, the stone walls narrow and slick with centuries of damp. Seraphine’s breath came in short gasps as she ran, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. Her gown was torn and bloodstained; her arms clutched her daughter tightly to her chest.
Behind her, the world she knew burned.
She paused only once, pressing her back to the wall as she heard boots pounding above, voices barking orders, steel scraping. The language was that of the Council Guard—but the cadence, the accent—those were Virellian. Her people.
Traitors.
Her eyes stung, not from smoke—but betrayal.
The sigil on her daughter’s back pulsed with a low, eerie glow, casting red light across the stone as if the bloodline itself were mourning.
“Quiet now, little flame,” she whispered, voice raw with emotion. “We’re almost there.”
A figure emerged from the darkness below—tall, hooded, the glint of a curved dagger held low.
Seraphine stepped forward without fear. “Nyel.”
The woman pulled back her hood, revealing sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes. “My lady. The path is clear. I have the horse waiting. But we must go—now.”
“Therion stayed to hold them.”
Nyel’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing. Only took the child and wrapped her in dark cloth, careful not to touch the glowing mark. “She’s pulsing with it. Power. If they catch her—”
“They won’t.” Seraphine lifted her chin, regal even as her world collapsed around her. “She’s the last of us. The Crimson Heir. Take her. Raise her far from this place. Hide her name. Erase it if you must.”
“And you?”
“I’ll seal the tunnel once you’re through.”
From far above, a sound like thunder shook the earth.
Then a scream—one she would have known anywhere.
Therion.
Seraphine closed her eyes. For a single, shattering breath, she faltered.
Then she reached for the pendant at her throat, tore it free, and pressed it into the bundle of blankets swaddling her daughter.
“Let her find it when she’s ready.”
Nyel met her gaze. “She will return. One day.”
Seraphine nodded. “And when she does—make them bleed.”
Nyel turned, disappearing down the tunnel with the child.
Seraphine watched until the darkness swallowed them.
Then she raised her hands, the blood on her palms slick and trembling with magic. Ancient words tore from her throat as she carved a sigil into the air.
Stone cracked. The passage groaned.
And with a final whisper—“Live, little flame.”—Seraphine Virellian brought the tunnel crashing down behind her.
Snow fell in slow, whispering flurries outside the crumbling chapel, settling on the shoulders of the cloaked woman who stood at its threshold. Nyel’s breath came in clouds as she stepped inside, cradling the bundled infant tightly against her chest. The cold bit at her skin, but she did not flinch.
She had ridden for two days without rest, through blood-soaked trails, hidden valleys, and dead forests. Twice she’d smelled the copper tang of Council scouts on the wind. But none had seen her. None would take the child.
The chapel was old—older than the Council, older than the bloodlines that warred for power. Its walls were carved with faded sigils and forgotten prayers, and at its center sat a single stone altar wrapped in shadow.
Nyel knelt there.
She laid the child down on the altar and peeled back the blankets.
The Crimson Mark still glowed, faint but pulsing—etched between the baby’s shoulders like the first stroke of a prophecy yet to be spoken. Power radiated from it. Raw. Ancient.
“She will rise,” Nyel whispered. “And when she does, the world will remember her name.”
A creak stirred the air behind her.
Nyel turned quickly, dagger in hand—but it was only the old priest. Blind, wrinkled, and more shadow than flesh.
“I felt her coming,” the priest rasped, voice like rust. “She carries the storm.”
Nyel rose, eyes narrowed. “Keep her safe. Raise her in the human world. Use the old names. Bury her bloodline so deep not even the Council’s seers will smell it.”
“And if she awakens too soon?”
“Then you run.”
She tucked a velvet pouch beneath the baby’s blanket—a small collection of heirlooms: the pendant, a ring with the sigil of House Virellian, a strand of her mother’s hair, a name written in forgotten ink.
The priest lifted the child gently, murmuring words Nyel could not hear.
And then, far away—beyond the chapel, beyond the mountain—
A figure stood at the edge of the cliff.
Tall. Cloaked in black. Pale hair caught in the wind. Red eyes gleaming beneath the hood.
He watched the smoke curling on the horizon where the estate had burned. Watched the trail of blood that led from ash to refuge.
The Reaver Prince.
His lips barely moved.
“She lives.”
He did not smile.
He only turned away, vanishing into the storm.
