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GAIDA

The passage ahead of us opens suddenly into a vast chamber, easily the size of the Great Hall. The ceiling soars overhead, so high it’s lost in shadow. Unlike the smooth, carved walls we’ve passed through, this space is roughly hewn from the bedrock, shaped by something enormous and angry.

I pause at the threshold, my army of former ferals stopping in perfect sync behind me. The movement sends a chill down my spine. These creatures that once were vampires with individual thoughts and desires now move as a single unit connected to my will. Their eyes, no longer black with feral madness but vacant and hollow, fix on nothing and everything. Their breathing, their posture, their existence is now tied to me by threads of power I never asked for and don’t understand.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something’s different about this chamber. The air feels charged, alive with power that makes my skin prickle and my vampire senses flare. It’s like walking into a storm cloud, electricity dancing across my skin.

“Do you feel that?” I whisper, glancing at Felix.

He nods, his expression uneasy as he scans the chamber. His hand instinctively reaches for mine, our soul bond humming between us like a plucked string. “Crushed and expanded at the same time.”

Dante stops beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact sends a jolt through our new blood bond. The connection between us pulses, raw and unrefined, emotions bleeding across the link that wasn’t there before. I feel his anxiety, his determination, his exhaustion, all layered beneath a constant awareness of my presence that mirrors my own awareness of him. This bond is unbreakable now, another thread in the connections that are growing stronger and more familiar by the minute.

“There’s something...” He frowns, tilting his head as if listening to a distant sound. “I can’t explain it, but I can feel emotions from this place itself. Like echoes of something massive. Something old.” His eyes meet mine, and I know he’s feeling how my new empathic abilities are struggling to process the input. “How are you handling it?”

I don’t have a good answer. The chaos of emotions, his, mine, the former ferals’, and now something coming from the chamber itself, swirls inside me. Only Felix’s magick, somehow integrated with my consciousness through our soul bond, keeps me from being overwhelmed. It’s like having a filter that sorts the emotional input into manageable streams instead of letting it all flood in at once.

“I’m managing,” I say, which isn’t quite a lie. “But something about this place is old.”

I take a tentative step into the chamber, and the moment my foot touches the floor, a ring of silvery blue light ignites around the perimeter. The light spreads inward like ripples on a pond, following the contours of elaborate mosaics I hadn’t noticed in the darkness. The glow reveals what the darkness had hidden. Massive columns carved to resemble twisting bodies, hundreds of them, their faces frozen in expressions ranging from ecstasy to agony. The floor beneath our feet comes alive with iridescent patterns depicting scenes of vampires and something archaic and barbaric.

The light crawls up the walls, illuminating enormous frescoes that seem to tell a story. One panel shows humanoid figures drinking from a chalice. Another depicts a warrior wielding a familiar sword. A third reveals a mass of bodies contorted in what might be transformation or death. The art style is unlike anything I’ve seen before, more primal and raw than even the oldest vampire artefacts.

“What is this place?” Felix whispers, moving closer to me, his eyes wide as he takes in our surroundings. “It feels like we shouldn’t be here. Like we’re intruding on something sacred.”

“I have no idea,” I reply, equally stunned. Despite growing up hearing about the academy’s secrets, despite my father’s endless lectures on vampire history and the Aragon legacy, this chamber has never been mentioned. Which means either he doesn’t know about it, or he deliberately kept it from me. Neither option is comforting.

The former ferals behind us shift restlessly, their vacant eyes reflecting the blue light like mirrors. Through my connection to them, I feel a faint stirring of recognition, not from their conscious minds, which are still dormant, but from something deeper, more instinctual. This place means something to the primal vampire within them, though I can’t decipher what.

My gaze is drawn to the centre of the chamber where a raised dais stands, its surface scorched black. The stone around it has melted and reformed, flowing like wax before resolidifying in unnatural patterns. Directly above it, a narrow shaft extends upward, a tiny point of daylight visible at its apex, impossibly distant.

“That’s our way out,” I say, pointing. “Through there.”

“That’s at least sixty feet straight up,” Dante observes sceptically, squinting at the distant pinprick of light. “How do you propose we?—”

A low rumble interrupts him, followed by the unmistakable sound of stone grinding against stone. The shaft widens as sections of the ceiling recede, allowing more light to filter down. Dust and small debris rain down, forcing us to shield our eyes as the chamber responds to our presence. Or more likely, to mine.

“What’s happening?” Felix asks, instinctively stepping back, his hands raised as if preparing to cast a spell.

“It’s responding to us somehow,” I say, watching in amazement as the ceiling opens. With each passing second, more daylight pours in, illuminating dust motes that dance in the beams like tiny stars. “Or maybe to me. To my blood.”

The thought sends a pang of frustration through me. Once again, it comes back to my bloodline, to the accident of my birth that seems to define everything in my life. Even this ancient chamber recognises what I am before knowing who I am.

As the shaft widens, a spiral staircase carved into the wall of the vertical tunnel is revealed. It’s narrow but serviceable, ascending in a tight coil toward the surface. The steps look worn, smoothed by the passage of countless feet over what must have been millennia.

The former ferals behind us stir more actively now, their vacant eyes tracking the expanding shaft of light with what almost looks like hope. Their bodies sway forward slightly, like flowers turning toward the sun. I feel their presence in my mind more intensely, not overwhelming me anymore, thanks to Felix’s magick acting as a buffer, but still there, a constant background hum of disconnected consciousnesses seeking an anchor.

“They want to go up. They can sense something happening above us.”

“Luke,” Dante says, his voice soft but certain. He closes his eyes briefly, extending his own much-reduced empathic sense. “They can sense Luke.”

My heart skips a beat at the mention of his name. Through the chaos of empathic impressions now crowding my mind, I’ve been aware of Luke’s presence, distant but growing stronger as we got closer to the surface, like a lighthouse beacon guiding us home.

His emotional signature blazes with an intensity that borders on frightening. Power radiates from him in waves I can feel even through layers of stone. Is this what Dante always felt from him?

“He’s using the sword,” I murmur, reaching out with my newfound senses.

Felix frowns. “We need to hurry.”

The shaft has widened enough now for us to climb through comfortably, the spiral staircase fully revealed as the stone continues to recede. Without hesitation, I start toward it, my strange entourage following silently. Their footsteps match mine exactly, the sound multiplied like a macabre echo.

As we climb, the silvery blue light from the chamber below follows us, casting long shadows that twist and dance along the walls of the shaft. Each step upward brings us closer to the surface, closer to Luke, closer to whatever the hell we are going to find.

The steps are uneven, some worn almost to smoothness, others jagged and treacherous.

As we ascend the staircase, I can feel the pull growing stronger, not just Luke’s presence, but something that calls to my blood with a siren song of power and purpose. The sword of Mashtar. It wants me, has always wanted me, but now it seems satisfied with another. The thought sends a chill down my spine.

“Gaida,” Dante says suddenly, catching my arm, his fingers digging in with enough force to leave bruises. “Wait. Something’s changed up there.”

I pause, trying to feel what he is. The moment I do, I gasp, nearly buckling under the flood of sensation. Dante is right. The emotional landscape above has shifted dramatically. Where before there was chaos, the blind rage and hunger of ferals, the fear of survivors, now there’s confusion. Disorientation. Relief. Wonder. Shock.

And a blazing star of power that can only be Luke.

“What’s he done?” I whisper.

Felix pushes past us, taking the steps two at a time. “We need to see for ourselves.”

The staircase winds upward, each step taking us closer to the surface. Light grows stronger, and with it, the sensations flooding my mind intensify. The former ferals behind us grow more agitated, moving with greater urgency, some even pushing past us in their eagerness to reach the top. Their vacant eyes now hold a glimmer of anticipation.

“They know. They know what’s happening.”

“What?” Dante demands, frustration edging his voice. “What’s happening, Gaida?”

I shake my head, unable to articulate the impressions flooding through me. It’s like trying to describe colours to someone who’s never seen, or music to someone who’s never heard. “Something impossible. Something that feels way too much like healing. How?”

It’s the mending of what was broken at a fundamental level. The ferals’ severed bonds, somehow being restored or replaced.

The staircase ends abruptly at a stone door etched with strange symbols. They shimmer and shift as I look at them, refusing to settle into recognisable patterns. The longer I stare, the more they move, rearranging themselves like living things.

“What language is this?” Dante asks, running his fingers over the markings, his expression a mixture of fascination and unease.

“I don’t know,” Felix says, studying the symbols. “They don’t match any vampire script I’ve seen, nor any human language I’ve studied.”

Without thinking, I rip open my palm and press it against the central symbol, leaving a smear of blood. The moment my blood touches the stone, the symbols flare with the same silvery blue light as the chamber below, and a sensation like an electric shock runs up my arm, making me gasp.

The door slides open with a grinding rumble, revealing a vast underground hall. Rows of stone sarcophagi line the walls, each bearing different crests and symbols. Some are elaborately carved with scenes of battle or feasting, others are stark and simple. At the far end, another staircase ascends toward daylight.

“What is this place?” I breathe, stepping inside cautiously.

The hall feels different from the chamber below. Less primal, more formal. The architecture is still ancient, but more refined, possibly created centuries after the rougher chamber. The air smells of dust and age, but also of something metallic, like old blood.

“No idea,” Dante replies, his eyes scanning the room. “But it feels sacred.”

Felix moves to the nearest sarcophagus, brushing dust from its lid to reveal an ornate crest: a stylised bat surrounded by thorns. “These look seriously old,” he says.

“Whatever this place is, it can wait. We need to keep moving,” I say, already making for the staircase. “Luke is close. I can feel him.”

As we cross the hall, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. The stone eyes of the carvings follow our progress, judging us and measuring our worth.

The second staircase is narrower than the first, forcing us to ascend in a single file. I lead, with Dante behind me and Felix bringing up the rear. The former ferals spread between us like bizarre honour guards. Natural light grows stronger with each step, and with it comes the smell of fresh air mixed with smoke, dust, and blood. The metallic tang of violence hangs in the air, along with the ozone scent of powerful magick recently unleashed.

“Be ready for anything,” I warn as we near the top, though what preparation could possibly be adequate, I have no idea.

When we finally emerge, it’s into a scene so unexpected it stops me in my tracks. We’re in the western courtyard of MistHallow, but it’s unrecognisable. The wintery lawns are scorched and torn, the ancient trees uprooted, the stone pathways cracked and broken. The elegant fountains that have stood for centuries lie in ruins, water mixing with blood to create crimson puddles that reflect the moonlight. We’ve been underground for hours, it seems.

Bodies lie scattered across the grounds, some moving feebly, others terribly still. Students, professors, and staff members are now broken and bleeding. Some bear the marks of feral attacks—savage wounds to throats and limbs. Others show no external injuries but lie motionless, as if the life was drained from them by some invisible force.

But what truly freezes my blood is the sight of Luke, standing tall and powerful in a way he used to before I severed his bond. He’s surrounded by a perfect circle of scorched earth. It looks like a controlled explosion originated from where he stands. His clothing is torn and blood-soaked, but he shows no signs of injury. In fact, he radiates vitality and power that makes the air around him shimmer.

In one hand, he holds the sword of Mashtar, no longer the golden weapon I remember, but its blade shifting between gold and crimson, light spiralling around it in hypnotic patterns. In his other hand, he clutches what can only be the chalice, its surface gleaming with an opalescent light that catches and refracts the sunlight into rainbow patterns.

The sight of it makes my heart thud uncomfortably. Dante hisses when he sees it, and Felix moves in closer. They know who is in there and they know what he wants.

Me.

Around Luke, vampires who moments ago must have been feral now stand with clear eyes, looking confused but distinctly themselves again. Dozens of them, all standing in perfect stillness, their expressions full of bewilderment and awe. No longer lost to bloodlust but restored.

Dante whispers beside me, his voice thick with shock. “He’s healed them.”

My father lies on the ground several yards away from Luke, his perfect composure shattered, his immaculate clothing torn and stained with dirt and blood. His face is contorted with fury and disbelief, his eyes burning with a rage I’ve never seen before. For the first time in my life, Aurelius Aragon looks genuinely afraid.

Luke turns, sensing our presence. Our eyes meet across the ruined courtyard, and what I see in his gaze terrifies me. Because while it’s still Luke looking back at me, there’s something else there, too. An ancient and dreadful force far more potent than the vampire I love more than life itself.

His eyes glow with light that shifts between gold and crimson, matching the pulsing blade of the sword. His stance is different. More regal, more commanding. Power crashes over him in waves, I can feel even at this distance.

“Gaida,” he says, his voice the same deep melody that enchants me. “You’re safe.”

The former ferals behind me surge forward suddenly, moving as one toward Luke. But they don’t attack. Instead, they approach him with something like reverence, their vacant eyes fixed on the sword and chalice. As they draw near, a glow of golden light spreads from the artefacts, washing over them.

One by one, awareness returns to their eyes. Not the vacant stare of before, nor the black rage of ferals, but true consciousness. They blink, look around in confusion, and raise their hands to touch their faces, confirming they still exist.

And then he smiles. A chilling smile that will haunt me until the day I leave this world.

“Luke,” I whisper. “What have you done?”

“What was necessary,” he replies, his voice carrying easily across the distance between us.

The chalice, which my father apparently guarded for so long, now rests in Luke’s hand as if it belongs there. The sword, which should be mine, responds to him as if he were born to wield it.

“Oh, fuck,” I mutter as I feel the pull of the chalice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”