Caelum emerged from the sacred cave in silence, his boots crunching softly against the stone path. Twilight had deepened the shadows of the sanctuary, but his golden eyes adjusted easily to the dim.
The vision from the blood stone lingered in his thoughts—flashes of fire, carnage, blood that cursed and killed, a warrior wreathed in flame with eyes like his own.
What the stone had shown him left him conflicted. It felt like a glimpse into the past—something real, something significant. And yet… it had not answered his questions. It had only raised more.
The only clue he could hold onto was the symbol etched into both the altar and the warrior's armor—a coiled serpent wreathed in fire.
…
The elder stood waiting at the threshold, unmoving, as if he had never left. His crimson eyes met Caelum's the moment he stepped into the open.
Caelum drew a breath, ready to speak—
—but the elder lifted a hand, stopping him before the words could form.
"The stone has judged you," the elder said evenly. "What it revealed is what it deemed necessary. Anything beyond that.., you must uncover it yourself."
The words settled heavily, leaving no room for argument. There was no malice in the elder's voice, no sympathy. Only certainty.
Caelum held his gaze for a moment longer, then let the breath leave him.
He understood.
There was nothing more to ask.
He inclined his head slightly, forcing the tension from his voice. "Thank you… for allowing me to come this far."
The elder gave no reply. He simply stepped aside.
And Caelum walked past him, leaving the ancient place behind.
…
It was dusk now.
The Forbidden Forest whispered around him, wind curling through the trees like a distant breath. Its inhabitants were beginning to stir as the light faded—faint howls of dark mongrels echoing through the distance, the skittering of acromantulas threading through the undergrowth.
But for Caelum, the path back felt easier than the journey in.
Not because it was less dangerous—
but because something in him had changed.
The movement ability he had been struggling to master suddenly snapped into clarity. The sharp jolt of pain he had felt after the vision in the cave had awakened something within him, like a veil lifting from his mind. And with it, understanding came rushing in.
He stopped at a clearing along the forest path.
The shadows beneath him stretched, twisting like tendrils of smoke as they coiled up around his body.
Then—without sound or warning—he vanished, only to reappear dozens of meters ahead in a flicker of darkness. Caelum steadied himself, his breath catching slightly as the sensation settled.
This wasn't the same as the natural gliding, merging within the shadows, most vampires possessed, what had awakened in him felt different. It wasn't merging or hiding—it was tearing through space in short, precise bursts. A form of short-range teleportation, steeped in darkness, bound to his line of sight. He could feel its limits already, only a few times in quick succession before the strain became too much—for now.
But it was enough. Enough to carry him swiftly toward the forest's edge. This gift, this instinctual leap through darkness, he would call Voltis.
There was something else as well.
Another knowledge, newly awakened in his veins.
But this one… he had not dared to try.
The power over blood.
A power he understood without needing to test it—something that could rot, control, destroy. And once used, it could not be taken back. So until he understood more about his origin… and what he was becoming—Caelum chose to leave it alone.
…
By the time he reached the outer perimeter, the stars were just beginning to prick the sky. A familiar voice broke the stillness.
"Bloody finally!" Bastian barked, arms crossed, face drawn tight with worry poorly disguised as irritation. "Another five minutes and I'd have stormed the Auror Office myself."
"You're alright?" Evran asked, eyes narrowing as he took in Caelum's appearance.
Vesper said nothing at first. Her eyes scanned Caelum with precision, noticing the faint signs of battle—the tears on his robes, the scratches across his neck and sleeves. But she didn't pry.
"I'm glad you're back," she said softly.
Caelum nodded. "So am I."
…
Back within the sanctuary, far behind them, the elder stood alone beneath the moonlit trees, facing the mouth of the cave.
The woman from before approached from behind, her voice low.
"The stone's resonance… it won't go unnoticed. They must have felt it by now."
He did not turn.
"They will come," she continued. "Why didn't you warn the boy? Why not tell him the truth?"
The elder remained silent for a moment before answering.
"We are vassals," he said at last. "Sworn and bound to our duty. Whether those traitors come for him or not… that is a path he must walk alone."
A brief pause.
"As is his fate."
"Our binding to this place is complete. Our duty is done."
He turned then, his robes whispering softly against the stone.
"And once more… we wait to see what fate will bring."
…
Far away, in a hidden fold of the Carpathian Mountains, a grand castle rose from the rock like a black crown. Warded from all muggle sight, it stood silent and ancient, towers piercing the low clouds, its walls steeped in shadow.
Within, in a room sealed from all outside light, a man stood delivering his report to a figure behind a heavy desk shrouded in darkness. Even when knowing this is part of routine activities, the man couldn't help to felt nervous every time he stand before the figure.
"…the local wizarding presence remains ignorant," he reported to the figure seated in the shadows behind the desk. "There are also rumors of wraith sightings near Albania, but nothing conclusive."
Before he could finish, the heavy doors creaked open.
Another man stumbled in, breathing heavily.
The first messenger turned sharply, alarm flashing across his face. He knew how much the figure behind the desk despised interruptions—especially in the middle of a report.
The figure looked up.
His eyes narrowed.
"Speak."
The second man swallowed, his voice unsteady.
"My apologies, my lord. The vaultkeeper insisted this be brought to you at once. He said… one of the artifacts has stirred."
A cold silence fell over the room.
"Which one?" came the voice from the shadows—cold, smooth, ancient.
"It's the Torch, my lord," the second man said.
…
The seated man finally stirred, pushing back his chair.
His face emerged into the low candlelight—ageless and commanding, his skin pale as frost. Crimson eyes gleamed with slow-burning intelligence, rimmed faintly with gold at the edges—a distinction no one dared speak of.
He was Lucian Vortelan, Patriarch of the oldest vampire covenant still existing in Romania.
He stepped toward the far wall, where a grand tapestry hung, woven in deep crimson and jet black. It depicted a vampire warrior in the midst of a triumphant battle, a spear driven through the chest of a fallen foe.
But on closer inspection—if one truly studied it—there it was.
Faint, but unmistakable.
Etched into the battered armor of the fallen enemy.
The mark of the vanquished.
A coiled serpent, wreathed in flame.
Lucian's gaze lingered on it.
"It seems," he said quietly, "the boy has awakened the blood."
He turned back to the room, his presence shifting, his voice gaining weight.
"Prepare everything. We are no longer waiting."
And in the silence that followed—the shadows moved.