Location: The parisan street to Aiyana's penthouse
Timing: 5 AM
---
Rain lashed against the streets of Paris like a thousand tiny daggers. The storm from the Château had followed her back — a wild, furious mirror of her own unrest.
Aiyana Vale walked through it unbothered, her dark coat clinging to her frame, her heels slicing through puddles. Thunder cracked above her like applause.
Her mind replayed the night — the fight, the kiss, Lucien's hand trembling against her throat. His scent still clung to her like an unwanted memory.
He had warned her, pleaded even, for restraint.
And yet, beneath his fury, she'd heard it — desire.
That was his weakness.
Emotion.
Mortality.
And weakness had no place in her world.
---
A Reckoning of Power
By the time she reached her penthouse, dawn was already bleeding into the clouds.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing her sanctuary — glass, steel, velvet, and silence. She stepped inside, throwing her soaked coat aside, water dripping from her hair onto the marble.
Her reflection in the mirror was chaos — eyes glowing faintly gold, lips swollen from violence and hunger, pulse steady but furious.
You're losing control, a voice whispered — her own, or Seraphine's, she couldn't tell anymore.
She pressed a palm against the mirror, eyes narrowing. "No," she murmured. "I'm just starting to find it."
Because she'd realized something.
Lucien had power — but not hers. His control came from the Order. Hers came from chaos.
And she would master it.
She opened her drawer and retrieved a thin, ancient book she had stolen weeks ago — Les Rituels du Sang Interdit. The pages reeked of old magic and darker promises.
Flipping through the brittle parchment, her eyes caught on a passage written in Latin:
> "To bind thy blood to thine will, seek the mark of the crimson sigil. Drink not for hunger, but for command."
A Blood Pact.
A forbidden ritual that could amplify a vampire's strength tenfold — but at a cost.
She smiled faintly. "Perfect."
---
The Meeting in the Catacombs
The ritual required more than power — it required a witness. A vampire outside the Order.
Which meant finding one.
Aiyana changed swiftly — black leather, boots, and a hooded coat. Her eyes burned faintly as she slipped into the shadows, following the scent of death toward the underworld of Paris: the catacombs.
The tunnels were endless, lined with skulls and bones that whispered with every step. To most mortals, this place was horror. To her, it was home.
She wasn't alone for long.
"You shouldn't be here, little blossom," a voice purred from the dark.
Aiyana turned, smirking. "You're the second person this week to call me that. The first one's still alive. Barely."
From the shadows stepped a man — tall, sharp-featured, his eyes glowing faintly violet. He wore an old military coat, and his smile was all teeth.
"Vincent Moreau," he said, bowing mockingly. "Last of the Parisian rogues. And you're the new whisper, aren't you? The one the Order wants chained."
"That depends," Aiyana replied smoothly. "Are you one of them?"
He laughed. "I haven't taken orders in two centuries."
"Good. Then you'll help me."
Vincent's eyebrow arched. "With what?"
She opened her palm, showing the sigil she'd burned into her skin with her own blood — a crimson spiral glowing faintly under her flesh.
He stared, stunned. "You're insane."
"Probably," she said. "But I'm also serious."
"The Blood Pact hasn't been performed since Seraphine herself. It kills most who attempt it."
"I'm not most."
Vincent studied her — the fire in her gaze, the quiet arrogance, the beauty that bordered on divine. Then he smiled. "You remind me of her."
"I'm nothing like her," Aiyana snapped.
"Maybe not yet."
---
The Pact
They descended deeper into the catacombs until they reached a circular chamber lit by dripping candles and old runes carved into the floor.
The air pulsed with ancient energy. Bones lined the walls like silent witnesses.
Vincent drew a dagger, its blade black as night. "Once this begins, you can't stop. You'll either rise stronger… or burn."
Aiyana met his gaze. "Then light the fire."
He sliced his palm, letting his blood fall onto the runes. They glowed crimson, the air vibrating.
Aiyana followed suit — her blood hissed as it touched the ground, silver and red twisting together.
The candles flared.
"Now," Vincent said, voice low, "speak the vow."
Her voice echoed, resonant and cold.
> "By blood I bind the will of death to mine.
By fire I claim the hunger as my own.
By shadow I break the chains of silence.
I am the blood, and the blood is me."
The chamber trembled. The runes crawled up her skin, glowing like liquid light. Her veins burned — agony and ecstasy colliding.
Aiyana gasped, arching backward, the magic searing through her. The whispers of a thousand dead filled her ears — voices of those who'd tried before her and failed.
But she didn't fall.
She rose.
Her eyes snapped open — glowing crimson gold. The pain vanished, replaced by clarity sharper than any blade. She could feel every heartbeat in the city above. Every drop of rain. Every whisper of fear.
Vincent stepped back, awe and fear in his face. "What… what are you?"
Aiyana looked at her hands — faintly glowing with red light. "Something they can't control."
---
The Order's Response
Far above, in the Cathedral of Shadows, the Order felt it.
The pulse of forbidden power rippling through their domain.
Morvane slammed his hand onto the table. "She's done it. The Blood Pact."
Another elder hissed, "Impossible — that ritual was erased."
"Not erased," Lucien said quietly, stepping from the shadows. "Just forgotten."
Morvane turned, fury twisting his face. "You knew!"
"I suspected," Lucien replied evenly. "And I warned you. The more you push her, the more she becomes exactly what you fear."
Morvane bared his fangs. "Then you will fix your mistake. Kill her before the power settles."
Lucien's hand drifted to the hilt of his blade. But his voice, when he spoke, was soft. "And if I don't?"
"Then she'll burn this city to ash — and you with it."
---
Aftermath
Back in the catacombs, the storm above grew wilder. Aiyana stood amid the fading glow of the ritual, her power humming like a song in her veins.
Vincent watched her warily. "You've changed."
She smiled, turning toward him. "Good."
"What will you do now?"
She looked up, sensing the distant fury of the Order — and somewhere, the familiar, conflicted heartbeat of Lucien D'Arden.
Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "Whatever I want."
As she climbed the stone stairs back toward the surface, lightning tore through the ceiling cracks, illuminating her figure — hair wild, eyes aflame, power radiating like a living storm.
The Blood Pact had remade her.
No longer prey.
No longer the lost girl who stumbled through the night.
Now, she was something else — something the world wasn't ready for.
---
Above the City
When Aiyana emerged from the catacombs, dawn was breaking again — pale light spilling across the Seine. Paris was calm, unaware that beneath its streets, a new queen had awakened.
She stood on a bridge, her reflection rippling in the river below. Her skin still shimmered faintly with crimson light, fading with each breath.
A quiet voice stirred inside her — Seraphine's, soft and pleased.
> Well done, my darling~. You've crossed the line that divides the hunted from the divine.
Aiyana smiled coldly. "Then let them come for me."
Her eyes burned gold against the sunrise.
"They'll find I bite back."
Be careful, the devil can hear your prayers too. He doesn't always comes with horns & a pitchfork, sometimes he comes dressed up like everything you wanted. 🌹🩸
---
End of Chapter 9