The heart of the old house beat with the steady, quiet rhythm Aurora had known her entire twenty years.
In the main parlor, the fire in the colossal hearth cast shifting amber light across the leather-bound spines of the library and the intricate Persian rugs.
The air was a comforting blend of old woodsmoke, dried lavender sachets, and the faint, metallic scent of the copper kettle simmering on the hob.
Aurora sat curled on a window seat, the heavy velvet drapes pulled back just enough for her to gaze into the moonless, star-scattered expanse of the forest that ringed their secluded estate.
Her hair, a peculiar shade of near-white, gathered the firelight and seemed to glow faintly—a strange, soft anomaly in the dim room.
Her mother, Elara, sat upright in her armchair, her needles clicking with almost hypnotic regularity—click-clack, click-clack. It was the sound of a protected, predictable life.
"You should be asleep, child," Elara said, her voice low and even, without looking up.
"It's too quiet tonight, Mother.
The forest feels… coiled." Aurora rarely had these premonitions, but the silence felt less like rest and more like a vacuum before a storm.
Elara's clicking stopped. The sudden absence of the sound was louder than any noise.
"Your father will be home soon," Elara said, but her body had gone rigid. Her eyes, fixed on the hearth, held a depth of ancient anxiety Aurora had never understood.
Crack.
The sound was distant, but entirely wrong. It wasn't the natural breakage of a tree branch or the footfall of a deer. It was hard, abrupt, and quickly followed by the distinct sound of their heavy iron gate being ripped from its hinges.
Elara was on her feet instantly. Her hands, which moments before had held delicate needles, now moved with terrifying speed to slam shut the heavy oak shutters.
"What is it, Mother? Bandits?" Aurora's voice was a nervous squeak.
Elara met her daughter's eyes, and in that moment, Aurora saw something she had never witnessed—not motherly affection, but the fierce, lethal calculation of a warrior. "It is the end of the line, Aurora. They have found us."
Before Elara could utter another command, a chilling, triumphant sound arose from the darkness outside—a sustained, inhuman howl that vibrated through the floorboards and rattled the very glass in the remaining windows. It wasn't a wolf; it was something sharper, colder, layered with a primal, arrogant intelligence. And underneath it, laughter. Not human laughter, but a dry, rattling, eternal sound that spoke of centuries of cruelty.
A powerful voice, smooth and cold as polished ice, cut through the din: "You cannot run forever, bloodline of the Dhampir! The order of Corvus has come for its payment!"
Elara shoved Aurora towards the back corridor, her grip like steel. "The escape route, through the pantry! Do not look back, no matter what you hear!"
But Aurora was paralyzed by the revelation: Corvus. The name her parents had whispered in hushed, fearful tones when they thought she was asleep. The ancient vampire king.
The solid oak front doors exploded inward. Shards of wood flew like shrapnel, and standing silhouetted against the dark chaos were figures of impossible grace and terrifying strength. They were lean, clad in dark, tailored armor, their faces pale, their eyes glowing faint red like embers in a cave.
Their leader, a vampire whose height seemed to dominate the room, took a slow, deliberate step onto the plush rug. His features were beautiful in a terrifying way—sharp cheekbones, a predatory smile, and a cold confidence that promised agonizing death.
"Mistress Elara," he said, his voice a low, mocking baritone. "The King sends his regards, and a final cleansing."
"You will not touch my daughter!" Elara roared, and with a speed that defied her appearance, she grabbed a silver-inlaid carving knife from the mantle.
Just then, Aurora's father, Marcus, burst in from the hidden study, not with a weapon of steel, but with a small, glowing vial clutched in his hand. "Periculum!" he shouted, a word Aurora did not recognize.
The vampire leader sneered. "The last of your pathetic trinkets? Pathetic."
But Marcus ignored him, his eyes locked on Aurora. He didn't fight; he didn't even look at his wife. He only stared at his daughter, his expression a desperate cocktail of love, fear, and ferocious resolution.
"Aurora! Run! Your strength is your only chance! RUN!"
He threw the vial at the fireplace. It struck the stone, bursting into a cloud of iridescent, noxious green smoke that momentarily obscured the parlor. It was a distraction, not a weapon.
Elara seized the chance. With a guttural snarl—a sound that was less human than anything Aurora had ever heard—she grabbed the collar of one of the flanking vampires and slammed him backward into the shattered doorframe. It wasn't feminine strength; it was the raw, untamed force of something powerful.
My mother isn't just human. The horrifying realization slammed into Aurora with the force of a physical blow.
"Aurora" Elara screamed, fighting off three vampires at once, her movements blindingly fast, her face contorted in a look of savage, triumphant defiance.
Aurora couldn't breathe, couldn't move. She watched as one of the elite guards plunged a thin, dark blade into her father's chest.
The terrible thud of metal on bone, Marcus's strangled cry—that was the key that unlocked the terror. It wasn't a cinematic death; it was brutal, quick, and final.
The paralysis broke.
Aurora ran. She fled through the kitchen, where the old cook lay motionless, and out the back servant door. The smoke from the parlor was already turning into a full conflagration; the mansion was already doomed.
She didn't stop to think, to mourn, or to plan. She just ran, driven by the absolute, fundamental mandate of survival. The forest was dark, tangled, and merciless.
She heard the shouts behind her—not the laughter of the vampires, but the sharp, commanding orders of the leader. They were hunting her, and her alone.
As she burst past the clearing and into the heart of the ancient oaks, the cold that had begun in the parlor surged into an overwhelming, internal frostbite. It was a burning, painful cold that seemed to be rearranging the components of her blood.
My head is splitting. My skin is on fire.
She clutched at her skull. Every nerve ending screamed. She could feel the subtle shift in her very structure—a tightening of muscle, a surge of adrenaline, and most visibly, an impossible change in her hair.
Her unique, signature white hair—her mother's warning, her family's curse—felt heavy, saturated.
She stumbled to a halt, leaning against a rough bark, and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a puddle reflecting the distant firelight.
Her hair was no longer white. It was now a thick, coarse, uncompromising black. The color of a raven's wing, the color of the midnight forest. It was a sign, a horrifying, undeniable manifestation of the hybrid blood finally awakened by the extremity of terror.
The half-vampire, half-wolf lineage that had kept her family hunted was now visibly etched onto her.
I don't know what I am. The raw, animal panic overwhelmed her.
She had to keep moving. She pushed off the tree, running with a strength that felt foreign—a speed that seemed to blur the trees. But the forest floor was treacherous, and in her panicked, disoriented state, she failed to see the warning signs.
The earth beneath her feet suddenly vanished. With a gasping cry of shock, she fell, plummeting through air, into a cold, earthy darkness that smelled of damp soil and ancient stone. The last sensation was the impact—a jarring, deafening crack—and the world faded to a painless, absolute void.
Consciousness returned in painful, confusing flashes. The sharp, metallic scent of blood—her own—mingled with the smell of woodsmoke and a strong, savory broth.
She was being carried. Not dragged, but cradled. The movement was slow and steady.
She managed to open her heavy eyelids. A ceiling of thatched straw slowly came into focus, followed by a kind, weathered face peering down at her. He was an older man, heavily bundled in homespun wool, his eyes creased with worry, his beard a salt-and-pepper bush.
"Easy, child. You're lucky that sinkhole wasn't deeper. Old man Theron saw you fall."
A gentle hand smoothed the newly-black hair back from her forehead. It belonged to an equally aged woman with eyes that seemed too soft for the darkness of the night.
"Don't you worry, dear. We found you, and we'll patch you up," the woman murmured, offering a sip of water from a wooden cup. "You've come a long way. This is the last of the forest before the main settlements."
They carried her until a small, sturdy wooden cottage appeared ahead, a plume of smoke curling lazily from its chimney. It felt safe, simple, and impossibly far from the terror of the manor
As Theron carefully settled her onto a pile of furs near the blazing hearth, Aurora felt a question bubble up from the depths of her confusion. "Where… where am I? What land?"
The old woman smiled, a soothing, genuine smile that held no malice, only simple kindness.
"You're safe now, child. You're deep within the central domain. This is the only place left where folk can live quiet lives, under the protection of our lord." She tucked a blanket firmly around Aurora's shoulders. "You're safe in Corvus's territory."
Aurora woke to the scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs, not the stench of ash and fear. She lay on a soft bed of cured furs, wrapped in thick, homespun blankets. The cottage of Theron and his wife, Mara, was impossibly warm, illuminated by the flicker of a tallow lamp and a small fire.
Days bled into a week. Mara treated her fractured ankle with poultices of willow bark and mended the tear in her dress with painstaking care. Aurora's head injury had mostly faded to a dull ache, but the vacuum remained.
There were no memories—not a name, a face, or a place that offered familiarity. She was a blank slate, a ghost in her own mind. Theron and Mara, seeing her distress, gently named her 'Ashen' for the color of her initial clothes and the vacant look in her eyes. Aurora, having nothing to compare it to, accepted the name.
"You took a nasty tumble, girl," Theron would say, sitting by the hearth, carving intricate symbols into blocks of pine. "The doctor in the town said it'll pass. You just need patience."
But it wasn't just patience; it was fear. Fear that when the memories returned, they would be as devastating as the sight of her new hair. It was a dense, heavy black that felt utterly foreign against her pale skin.
When she asked Mara about it, the old woman merely shrugged and said, "A shock can do strange things to the body, dear. You must have been frightened terribly."
Life in the cottage was simple. They ate thick stews, dried meat, and rough bread. Theron worked outside daily, bringing back neatly split wood, while Mara tended a small, walled garden. The quiet, repetitive rhythm of their existence was calming, yet unsettling. Aurora, or 'Ashen,' noticed small, peculiar things:
TheFood
The meat Theron brought back was always deep red, almost purple, and incredibly rich. Aurora found herself craving it with an almost painful intensity, and
TheSchedule
Theron and Mara were early risers, but they never ventured out after dusk.
Every window was heavily shuttered and barred before the sun fully set, and the fire was banked low.
TheSilence
The small settlement they lived near was unnervingly quiet after dark. No barking dogs, no distant merriment—just a profound, heavy silence that pressed against the cottage walls.
"We need supplies," Mara announced one morning, looking at the near-empty flour bin. "Your ankle is healing well enough. You must come with me to the settlement market today, child. You need to breathe fresh air."
Aurora was hesitant. She was afraid of crowded places, afraid of being recognized by a past she couldn't recall. But the thought of being useful spurred her on.
The settlement, barely a day's ride from where she had fallen, was larger than she expected. It was a well-kept, orderly village. The people moved efficiently, their heads generally bowed. There was no joy, but there was prosperity.
"Corvus is a harsh king, but he keeps the roads safe, and the harvest is always shared," Mara murmured, sensing Aurora's confusion at the orderly, almost silent flow of people. "He ensures survival."
They reached the main square. In the center stood a magnificent black stone pillar, adorned with a sculpted raven—the unmistakable crest of Corvus.
At the base, a notice board was posted. A large, stylized drawing was pinned there: a portrait of a noble, severe-looking man with piercing eyes and a crown of sharpened points.
A shudder, cold and deep, traced the length of Aurora's spine. It wasn't recognition; it was revulsion, a primal rejection of the image.
As they approached a butcher stall, a woman next to them suddenly collapsed. She was thin and pale, clutching her stomach.
"Ah, the Blood Tax," a man muttered darkly, quickly pulling his wife away.
Mara rushed forward, helping the woman up. "Daria, are you alright?"
"The collection was hard this month, Mara," Daria whispered, tears leaking from her eyes. "My youngest… he's very weak. They took too much."
Aurora watched, horrified. "The Blood Tax? What is that? Do they… do they take their life savings?"
Mara's smile vanished. Her eyes darted nervously to the two large, silent men standing near the black pillar—men who looked far too well-fed, far too clean, and whose pupils never seemed to adjust to the daylight.
"It is the price of protection, child," Mara said, keeping her voice carefully flat.
"Once a month, every household contributes what the King requires. It ensures the safety of the realm from the monsters outside the walls."
The truth, unspoken, hung heavy in the crisp morning air
The King was protecting them from monsters, but he himself was the greatest predator, feeding on his own flock.
Back at the cottage, Mara was unsettled. "You must not ask questions in the village, Ashen. Curiosity brings the wrong kind of attention."
Aurora nodded, but the image of the suffering woman and the silent guards was seared into her mind. She tried to busy herself by fetching water from the well, the chill of the morning air easing the tension in her head.
As she lowered the bucket, she felt a profound, almost dizzying emptiness in her stomach. It wasn't hunger for bread or stew. It was a deep, aching thirst, sharp as a needle.
She pulled the bucket up. The water was clear and cool, but it offered no comfort.
She caught sight of a small, thin cut she had gotten on her arm from a stray nail earlier in the day. A single, pearlescent bead of blood had formed on the pale skin just below her wrist.
In that instant, the world narrowed. The sounds of the forest faded.
The rational part of her brain, the part that belonged to 'Ashen,' the amnesiac girl, screamed No.
But the deep, newly awakened instinct—the hybrid part, the ravenous, hidden half that had changed her hair—surged forward.
Her eyes locked on the crimson bead. Her heart began to pound a frantic, heavy rhythm against her ribs.
The scent of her own blood, subtle to a normal human, was suddenly an overwhelming, intoxicating perfume. Her muscles tensed, and her gaze grew dark, predatory. She felt the sudden, alarming elongation of her incisors.
With a gasp that was half-sob, half-growl, Aurora slammed the bucket down, splashing cold water over her face. The shock broke the spell. Her eyes cleared, her pulse hammered, and the terrifying, sharp hunger receded, leaving behind a profound self-loathing.
She stared down at her hands, which trembled violently. The cut was gone, healed with impossible speed.
I am not just injured.
I am not just human.
Whatever is hidden in my blood, it is not kind. It is demanding.
Aurora knew, with a certainty that transcended her amnesia, that the silence of Corvus's reign was not protection.
It was a vast, terrifying prison, and she was a monster slowly waking up inside it.
The transformation of her hair was the most jarring anchor in Aurora's sea of amnesia.
Every morning, she would examine the thick, raven strands, running her fingers through them as if trying to massage the memory back into her scalp.
Her reflection in the small, polished copper disc Mara kept was a stranger—a pale woman with an unfamiliar darkness crowning her head.
"Why black?" she whispered one afternoon, alone in the cottage while Theron and Mara were out gathering roots. "Why not just brown? Why this absolute, consuming black?"
She had spent the last several days struggling to suppress the unnatural urges that had surfaced at the well.
The hunger had returned, less urgent but more persistent, a low, demanding drumbeat beneath her skin. She found herself obsessively tracking the old couple's veins when they slept, focusing on the blue pulse beneath their skin.
The scent of her own healing wound—gone within a day—was still maddeningly appealing.
She had to test it.
Lifting a heavy carving knife from the counter, she pressed the edge against her fingertip. The sensation was cold, sharp, and immediate. A deep crimson bead formed, fat and bright against her skin.
The primal hunger slammed into her, hard. Her pupils constricted, becoming vast, black pools. A low, throaty sound—more wolf than woman—escaped her lips. She brought her hand up, the scent of the blood filling her nostrils, driving out the mundane smells of woodsmoke and lavender.
Just a taste. Just one drop.
She felt the subtle, terrifying shift in her teeth—a slight lengthening, a sharper point emerging on her canine. Her heart hammered, not from fear, but from exhilaration.
A sudden, sharp knock on the cottage door fractured the moment.
Aurora gasped, dropping the knife onto the floor with a metallic clang. The shock was enough to break the predatory trance. Her breathing hitched, her pupils snapped back to normal, and the sharp edge on her tooth receded. She stared, shaking, at her hand. The small cut was already a faint pink line
"Is someone in there? We saw smoke from the chimney," a stern, male voice called from outside.
It was one of the King's Guards—the well-fed, silent men from the marketplace.
Panic clawed at her throat. She snatched up the knife and slid it beneath a loose floorboard. Then, moving on her still-tender ankle, she quickly wiped the droplet of blood from the floor with the hem of an old apron.
"Yes! I'm here. Just tending the fire!" she called, trying to inject calm into her shaking voice.
She opened the door just enough to peer out. The man who stood there was tall, draped in a dark cloak embroidered with the raven crest. His face was cold, and his eyes, though technically human, held no warmth.
"We heard a disturbance," the Guard said, his gaze sweeping over her face. He lingered on her black hair and her unusual pallor. "You are the girl Theron took in?"
"Yes, sir. Ashen. I dropped a heavy cooking pot. I'm still a bit clumsy from my fall." She kept her hands clasped tightly behind her back, afraid they would betray her trembling.
He took a step closer, his breath smelling faintly of spiced wine and something else—something metallic and sharp, like the blood she had just craved.
"Clumsy. Be more careful, little bird. King Corvus appreciates order. Disorders are dealt with swiftly." He paused, his gaze dropping to her throat, then back to her eyes. "And keep that odd color of hair covered in the village. It draws too much attention."
He turned without another word, his cloak swirling around his boots, and melted back into the shadows of the street.
The interaction left Aurora breathless and soaked in cold sweat. She knew, with chilling certainty, that he hadn't believed her. Her lie was clumsy, but her fear had been genuine enough to perhaps mask the more dangerous truth.
The rest of the day, she could not shake the feeling of the Guard's gaze on her throat. She realized she couldn't rely on Mara and Theron forever. To survive in Corvus's territory, she needed knowledge—both of her surroundings and of herself.
That night, Aurora didn't sleep. She waited until the steady, deep breathing of the old couple confirmed their slumber. She slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the furs, and crept to the heavily shuttered window.
She pushed the latch. It was old and creaky, but the thick pine shutters held the sound. She forced the shutters open just a crack—enough to peer into the silent, starless night.
The oppressive silence of the King's rule was there, but tonight, she noticed a sound beneath it. It was faint, carried on the frigid wind, and it resonated deep in her chest.
A howl.
Not the victorious, arrogant cry of the vampire soldiers that had attacked her home, but a deeper, more sorrowful sound. It was the sound of a living creature, confined and in pain.
As her mind tried to rationalize it—a feral dog, a fox—something inside her strained toward the noise. It wasn't just a sound; it was a call. Her muscles tensed, not in fear, but in recognition. Her senses sharpened beyond human ability.
She could smell the pine needles, the damp earth, and something heavy, metallic, and wild from the deep woods.
She felt an overwhelming, frantic impulse: To answer the call.
Her fingers gripped the wooden sill, digging crescent-shaped dents into the dry wood.
The feeling was a fierce, protective urge, the need to join a pack she didn't know existed. It was the other half of her blood, the wolf, fighting for dominance against the cold, measured hunger of the vampire.
My family. Who were you?
She slammed the window shut, panting, collapsing back onto the cold floor. She was a battlefield, and her amnesia was the wall keeping the two monsters inside her from destroying the human girl left in the middle.
The next morning, Theron looked tired. He did not greet Aurora with his usual cheer.
"Theron, what is it?" Aurora asked, pouring him a simple, weak coffee.
He sighed heavily, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his tunic. It bore the raven crest of Corvus.
"The King's newest decree," he said, his voice low and defeated. "He is hosting a Purification Festival next week. A celebration of his long reign."
Mara entered, her face etched with worry. "Every young person between the ages of eighteen and thirty is commanded to attend the manor for the festival. It is an honor, the decree says."
"But what does it truly mean?" Aurora asked, her throat suddenly dry.
Theron looked at her, his usual gentle eyes clouded with fear. "It means the King is selecting new staff. New servants. New… contributors to the blood tax. It is mandatory, Ashen. To refuse is to invite the Guards to burn our home."
He looked directly at her black hair, which she had quickly tucked under a shawl. "You are easily within that age range, child. And you are strong. The King's guards are looking for strength."
Aurora felt the walls of the safe cottage collapse around her. She had been rescued from the fire only to be delivered, cleaned and fattened, into the very jaws of the man who started it.
A cold, steely resolution settled over her. She was a weapon that didn't know how to fire. She was trapped in the enemy's camp, forced toward the enemy's heart.
"If I must go to the manor," Aurora said, her voice surprisingly steady, "then I must go. But I will not go as 'Ashen.' I need to know everything you know about King Corvus. Every detail. If I am to walk into his den, I will walk in with my eyes open."
Theron and Mara exchanged a desperate glance. The price of revealing Corvus's secrets could be death, but the price of sending Aurora unprepared was certain doom.
The silence of the old couple was broken only by the crackle of the fire, as they wrestled with a terrible choic
The fire sputtered, casting long, nervous shadows on the walls of the cottage.
The silence between the three of them was louder and more oppressive than the silence of the night. Theron finally broke it, the sound of his rough sigh carrying the weight of decades of fear.
"Sit down, Ashen," Theron said, pulling a worn stool close to the hearth. Mara quickly moved to bar the door, her movements practiced and urgent.
"There are things we do not speak of, child, for fear they might take form," Mara whispered, her eyes wide. "But your life is now staked on this knowledge."
Theron leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravelly, conspiratorial whisper. "You heard the name in the village. Corvus is not just a king. He is a monster. He is not from this land; he merely claimed it, five hundred years ago, when the great wars of the night creatures finally settled."
"He is the King of Vampires," Aurora stated, though the words felt dull and inadequate to describe the devastation he had wrought.
"He is more," Theron corrected, his eyes fixed on the fire. "Corvus is one of the First-Turned.
He doesn't just rule by force; he rules by a terrifying, ancient legality. He demands order, because order means access to what he truly craves—blood, and power."
Theron reached for a piece of charcoal and a clean sheet of parchment. He began to sketch a rough, hurried map.
"His manor, the one you must attend, is built atop the ruins of an ancient fortress. The settlement is merely a feeding ground.
He never kills wantonly; that would be inefficient. He harvests the 'blood tax' to keep his soldiers healthy and to maintain his power. But the Purification Festival…" Theron's hand trembled, marring the charcoal line.
Mara took over, her voice sharp with dread. "The Festival is a show of force, Ashen. He does not take servants; he takes thralls. They are young, they are strong, and they are beautiful. They are brought in to serve his court and to provide the freshest blood."
Aurora felt her throat constrict. "Thralls... those who lose their will?"
"Worse," Mara choked out. "The King's blood—it is potent. It does not just feed; it binds. Anyone who serves too close to Corvus becomes obsessed, loyal, incapable of disobeying, even when he drains them nearly dry. They lose themselves, and their life is spent catering to the endless night."
Theron tapped the parchment, pointing to a dark, shaded area near the center of the sketch. "The manor has three key areas.
The Outer Court, where the Festivals are held and the human staff stays. The Upper Terrace, where his vampire court resides. And the Lower Deep."
He circled the lowest point with thick charcoal, making it look like a black sun.
"The Lower Deep is where his true power is stored. It is said to contain the original artifact of his turning—the source of his long life. It's guarded by his Inner Circle—the oldest, most ruthless vampires who have been bound to him for centuries."
Aurora's mind raced. If this King was a historical, five-century-old vampire, then her family's rivalry must be just as old. Her parents weren't just fighting for their lives; they were fighting a war of lineage.
"What about my family?" Aurora asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Why did he target them?"
Theron and Mara hesitated, their eyes meeting in a silent agreement that they couldn't risk the full truth.
"Your family carried a name, child," Theron finally admitted, looking at her black hair. "A name tied to the First Hunters—those who swore to keep the balance between man and night. Corvus did not kill them for a simple grudge.
He killed them to erase the last of a line that historically posed a threat to his absolute rule. He killed them because of what you are."
The realization that her very existence was an act of rebellion settled over Aurora like a shroud of iron. She was not just a victim; she was the last piece of a powerful, ancient puzzle.
"I need to blend in," Aurora decided, pushing the fear aside. "I need to be forgettable. What about my hair?"
Mara immediately brought out a basket containing dried mud, soot, and oil. "It's a common practice for travelers here. We will apply a paste of black soil and herbs. It will dull the unnatural sheen and make it look common—like the hair of the mountain folk."
As Mara worked the thick, cool paste into her dense, black hair, Aurora focused on the map. She committed the layout of the manor to memory: Outer Court, Upper Terrace, Lower Deep.
Then, she focused on her inner turmoil—the hunger and the feral instinct.
"How do I hide what is inside me?" she asked them.
Theron looked at her, his expression a mixture of profound pity and awe. "That is the hardest part, Ashen. What you feel is the power of the blood, and the nature of the beast. But you have two things the King's thralls do not."
He pointed a calloused finger toward her.
"First: Amnesia. Your mind does not remember the past, so your will has not yet been broken. That is your shield."
He then pointed to the raw red meat they kept stored in a small icebox.
"Second: The Hunger. The King's kind, they only feed on man. But your kind... they have a greater range. You must feed the beast inside you with the flesh of animals.
You must use the wolf's strength to suppress the vampire's thirst. If you are strong and feed that darkness, you will retain your will."
Aurora stared at the meat. It felt disgusting, yet compelling.
"And if Corvus tries to bind me?"
Mara looked grim. "If he offers you his blood, Ashen, you must refuse it. If you taste him, you are lost forever."
The preparations continued late into the night. Aurora practiced controlling her breathing, memorizing Theron's map, and forcing down the cold, metallic animal flesh to quiet the terrible, demanding void in her stomach.
As the sun began to paint the distant sky, a carriage arrived outside the cottage. It was a heavy, unmarked black wagon, driven by one of Corvus's silent guards.
"It is time, Ashen ," Mara whispered, straightening Aurora's newly dull, muddy-black hair.
Aurora, no longer Ashen, no longer entirely human, stepped outside the door.
She looked back at the simple, safe cottage one last time, a tear finally falling down her cheek for the family she couldn't remember but whose sacrifice she now understood.
She was going to the manor, not as a victim, but as a weapon delivered straight to the King's fortress. The fight for her memory, her soul, and the lineage of the First Hunters was about to begin.