Before the blood finally remembered, they considered it mercy when the sun was stolen. In the final days of the Old Age, the sky burned too brightly for the creatures born of the night. Vampires—then called the Firstborn—hid beneath stone and shadows while mortals ruled the light, multiplying, conquering, forgetting the price of power.
It was the humans who broke the world first. They hunted the Vampires not for survival, but for dominion. Vampires blood could heal wounds, extend life, sharpen the mind. Kings drank it in secret. Priests sanctified it with lies. Cities were built on veins that never truly emptied.
War followed.
When the last of the Vampires stood at the edge of extinction, they turned to the one being even the gods feared to wake.
The Sunborn.
She was not a vampire, nor human, but something older—a living covenant between blood, flame and shadow. The Vampires believed the would shield them from annihilation. Instead, she gave them a choice.
End the war, she said, or I will end you both.
They chose neither.
On the night the pact was broken, the Sunborn tore the sky open. She did not destroy the sun—she bound it. She chained it behind veils of shadow so that daylight became a weapon, not a promise. Vampires rose to power, ruling the dusk and the dark, while humanity bent beneath treaties written in blood. But magic always demands balance.
Before vanishing, the Sunborn left behind a final decree, carved into the bones of the world:
When one of mortal blood walks unburned beneath my light, the covenant will break. Crowns will fall. And the night will be judged.
Centuries passed. The Firstborn became kings. Their children became princes. The prophecy faded into myth, whispered only by scholars and madmen.
Until a girl bled on sacred stone—
and the sun remembered her name.