Chapter 1
© Luciana Rielle 2026. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the author’s written permission.
MIRA
Thirsthold Archives
I wasn’t supposed to be here after curfew. No human was. Especially not in the Thirsthold Tower.
But here I was, again, hidden between shelves older than the Dregs, whispering promises to myself that I never kept.
Just one more page, I’d say.
Just one more paragraph.
One more glimpse into a world I wasn’t meant to see.
And maybe you’re wondering, what could possibly be so important?
What was I reading that made me risk being found in a place ruled by creatures who fed on fear and Blood?
It wasn’t just a book.
It was about him.
The Thirstborn, some still whispered the old name: the Vampire King. But that title belonged to another time, a forgotten world.
The book wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t fiction. Not entirely, anyway. I had found it by accident, tucked away in a dusty corner of the archives, when I had been cleaning, its cover a deep, rich black, almost reflective, like the surface of water at midnight.
It had an unsettling weight to it, as though it carried secrets too dangerous for anyone but the ruling vampires to know. Yet, here I was, holding it, reading its pages that told stories of a Thirstborn who hadn’t been seen in decades.
Kairo Thorne. The First Fang of Thirsthold.
But none of the pages explained why he vanished. Why the world still feared him. Why even the Blood Authorities, the vampire heads of each sector, never spoke his name.
I’d never seen him. Not once.
And I worked here.
Just a plain human girl with a quiet mind, collared and cataloguing, barely noticed among monsters. I lived in his tower, and yet I had never seen a glimpse of the Thirstborn.
Some say he still walks the halls at night. That’s why curfew was created, why no human is allowed beyond their quarters after dark.
I don’t know if I believe that. Part of me wonders if… maybe there is no Thirstborn anymore. Maybe he’s long dead. Or worse, maybe he’s locked away somewhere, a secret the Blood Authorities don’t want us to find out.
The book said his body rejected blood. That every slave given to him ended up torn apart, as if his hunger had become something else, something crueler. Something monstrous.
Maybe that’s why they buried him in silence.
CRASH.
I jumped.
The book slipped from my hands and hit the tiled floor with a sharp thud. My breath caught, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I turned, squinting into the shadows behind me, but saw nothing.
Was someone or something there?
Panic clawed at my throat. I was going to get caught. What was I supposed to say? That I got lost on my way to sleep? That's not believable, I worked here, I was supposed to know my way around here even if I was blind.
“I... I’m sorry,” I whispered into the darkness. “I didn’t mean to be out here this late. I’ll leave. Right now.”
Still no answer.
The air felt colder suddenly. Heavier.
Please don’t let it be a Bloodhound.
The name was misleading. They weren’t animals. Not exactly. They were vampires bred, or maybe cursed, to hunt through scent, sound, and aura. Some were blind. Others could see too much. Either way, they didn’t need eyes to find what didn’t belong.
Like me.
I fumbled with the pouch at my side, my fingers brushing against the smooth metal of my blood band, a thin capsule that held a vial of my own blood. Every registered human slave had one. Proof of ownership. Proof I wasn’t trespassing… even when I was.
I unlatched it quickly and held it out, praying that if something was watching, it would smell me, recognize the blood marker, and walk away.
But the silence stayed.
Not a step. Not a breath.
But that was the biggest mistake ever.
“Blood.”
The word came from the shadows, low, rich, and ancient. It wasn’t just spoken. It was felt. Like his voice echoed from the bones of the tower itself.
My blood band nearly slipped from my trembling fingers.
That voice didn’t belong to a Bloodhound.
It didn’t belong to any Authority I knew.
It belonged to someone... older.
Hungrier.
And suddenly, I knew, deep in my chest, in my marrow, in the part of me that still dreamed of freedom, that I wasn’t alone in this archive.
Before I could do anything, the darkness crept closer, looming, shifting, moving like it was alive. It was large. Heavy. And as it approached, I found myself tilting my head up… and up… and up, until all I could see were eyes.
Red. Glowing. Unblinking.
I trembled.
“Human,” the thing said again, its voice deep, ancient. The sound wrapped around me like smoke, thick and heavy, and the shadows seemed to swirl with every word.
I stood frozen, heart thundering in my chest, as my blood band floated from my hand, lifted by some unseen force. It drifted toward the massive shadow.
And then…crack.
It hit the floor and shattered.
The blood vanished.
Gone.
It had drunk my blood.
And that’s when everything changed.
The darkness began to shift. Stretch. Grow.
Something was taking form. My heart was trying to escape, clawing up my throat with every beat.
First came the boots, black and heavy, clicking against the tiles like they belonged to something not meant to walk in this world. Then legs, long and powerful, wrapped in fabric so dark it seemed to drink in the light.
He rose.
Taller than anything I’d ever seen. Seven feet, maybe more. His shoulders were broad, his frame built like a statue carved from war and shadow. Clawed fingers curled and uncurled, hungry for something more.
He took a deep breath. Slow. Steady. Too calm.
Then his face emerged from the shadows.
A sharp jaw. Skin as dark as obsidian, smooth and gleaming like polished stone beneath the low lights. Blood clung to his lips, My blood. His eyes, those same red glowing eyes, locked on me.
His hair was black, wild, and fell past his shoulders like he’d just crawled out of some ancient sleep.
And maybe he had. I trembled all over.
He looked... old. But not weak.
No.
He looked like something the archives tried to forget.
A nightmare with a name.
“More,” he growled, voice low and ravenous.
And then, I was in the air.
Lifted like I weighed nothing.
I was going to die.
His hand wrapped around my throat, cold and firm.
Too fast.
Too strong.
Then….pain.
His teeth sank into my neck and I screamed, the sound echoing through the hollow silence of the archives.
Something else was draining from me too. My voice. My name. Myself.
No.
He wasn’t just feeding.
He was going to kill me.
