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I need to do something drastic. Even if it means my end.

The academy grounds stretch out before me, once pristine, now scarred by the chaos of feral attacks. Bodies lie scattered across the blood-soaked grass, some moving feebly, others still. The buildings that have stood for centuries now bear the marks of violence with shattered windows, splintered doors, and walls stained with blood. This place I’ve helped build, my sanctuary, my legacy, crumbles around me.

And at its centre, I stand dying, a temporary dam against a flood of madness.

The sword burns in my grip, its golden light pulsing erratically as it drains my life force. Each beat of light corresponds with a pulse of my failing heart, the connection between us growing more tenuous by the second. The blade vibrates with displeasure, its heat scorching my palm. Blisters form and burst, the smell of charred flesh mingling with the metallic tang of blood in the air.

I can feel it searching, reaching beyond me, seeking its true wielder. Its hunger is insatiable and ravenous. It drains me not just of physical strength but of something deeper: memories, emotions, the very essence of who I am. Centuries of existence flash before my eyes in disjointed fragments: the face of the vampire who turned me, my first kill, the day I laid the foundation stone of MistHallow, the first time I saw Gaida.

“She’s not here,” I whisper to it, my lips barely moving, blood bubbling between them with each word. “But I am.”

The admission costs me something. A fragment of pride I didn’t know I still possessed. The sword of Mashtar was never meant for hands like mine. It belongs to the Aragon bloodline, to blood far more ancient and potent than what runs through my veins. Yet here we are, unlikely partners in this desperate hour.

The sword’s light flickers, as if in consideration. For a moment, the burning sensation in my palm lessens, the blade’s hungry pull on my life force easing fractionally. A reprieve? Or merely the calm before a greater storm?

Around me, the ferals strain against their magical bonds, sensing my weakening control. The golden threads that connect us, hundreds of them stretching from the sword through me to each feral vampire, grow thin and brittle, they threaten to snap at any moment. Their black eyes fix on me with predatory intensity, hungry for the moment when my barrier falls. Some drool, saliva mixed with blood, dripping from elongated fangs. Others emit low, continuous growls that raise the hair on the back of my neck, a primal sound that speaks to the oldest part of my brain, triggering instincts far older than civilisation.

The air smells of death and desperation, the stench of fear and blood so thick I can taste it with each laboured breath. Wind whips across the academy grounds, carrying screams and snarls from distant battles still raging within the school’s walls. How many of my students still survive? How many of my colleagues? Each life lost weighs on me, another failure added to a ledger already too full.

Aurelius watches with clinical detachment from just beyond my barrier, the chalice glowing faintly in his hand. He is waiting—watching and waiting for my downfall. Even in the midst of chaos, he maintains an aura of aristocratic composure. His clothes are immaculate, his posture perfect, and his face a mask of cold calculation. Only his eyes betray his true nature—old, predatory, burning with fanatical purpose.

The chalice in his grip glows with soft, blue-white light, its rhythm deliberately at odds with the sword’s golden flares. The ancient artefact shimmers in opposition to the sword, their rhythms deliberately discordant. These two objects are at odds with each other. As are the creatures inside them.

Whatever waiting game Aurelius was playing ends.

He paces along the edge of my barrier, testing it periodically with light touches that send ripples of golden light across its surface. Each touch weakens me further, draining the little strength I have left. He knows this, of course. He’s simply waiting for me to fall.

“You know,” Aurelius says conversationally, circling just outside my barrier’s edge, “this was always inevitable. The old ways were failing. The bloodlines are growing thin. Someone had to take action.”

His voice carries easily through the barrier, cultured and refined with the faintest hint of an accent so indistinct, I can’t place it. For someone orchestrating the death of thousands, his tone remains remarkably pleasant, almost friendly. The disconnect between his manner and his actions makes him all the more terrifying.

“By causing mass severance?” I spit blood onto the ground between us, the crimson droplets hissing as they hit the earth, steam rising from them like small ghosts. “By turning thousands of vampires feral? That’s not taking action, Aurelius. That’s genocide.”

My voice sounds foreign, raspy, hollow. The voice of a dying man. Each word costs me, my lungs struggling to draw enough air to form sentences. The taste of copper fills my mouth, my blood welling up from somewhere deep inside, internal damage manifesting.

He shrugs, unmoved. “Sometimes the forest must burn to grow stronger. Those who survive will be part of something greater. A new hierarchy with the Aragon bloodline at its centre, as it was always meant to be.”

As he speaks, he tilts the chalice slightly, its contents, not liquid but something more nebulous, like captured moonlight, swirl hypnotically. The ferals nearest to him react to the movement, their eyes tracking the chalice with desperate hunger, as if it contains something they need more than blood.

“With you at the centre, you mean.” My legs tremble beneath me, muscles spasming as my body begins to shut down. The sword grows heavier in my grip with each passing second, its weight seeming to increase as my strength fades. My arm shakes with the effort of holding it upright, tendons standing out like cords beneath my skin.

Blood runs freely from my nose now, splashing onto my shirt in a steady pattern. My head pounds with each heartbeat, vision blurring then sharpening in nauseating cycles. I can feel my organs failing, one by one. Even with vampire healing, there’s only so much damage a body can sustain before it surrenders to the inevitable.

Aurelius’s eyes gleam with fanatical intensity, catching the golden light of my barrier and reflecting it back with an unnatural brightness. “The prophecy has always been clear. The Blood Queen will rise from chaos to restore order. Gaida is that queen, whether she accepts it or not.”

He speaks of his daughter as if she were an object, a tool to be used rather than a person with her own will and desires. In his vision, Gaida exists not for herself but for the fulfilment of a prophecy he’s spent centuries interpreting to suit his own ambitions.

“Prophecies,” I mutter, blood bubbling between my lips, “are notoriously open to interpretation.”

The words come out slurred. The sword pulses again, drawing more of my essence into itself, its hunger never satisfied. I wonder, distantly, how many others have died like this, drained dry by an artefact they couldn’t control, their lives sacrificed to feed its terrible purpose.

A feral to my right lunges suddenly, testing the boundary of my control. Its face is twisted in rage, black veins spreading across its skin like a spider’s web. The golden thread connecting us stretches dangerously thin, vibrating with tension. For a moment, I think it will snap, releasing the creature from my control.

With a desperate surge of will, I reassert my grip on the sword, channelling what little strength I have left into reinforcing the barrier. The effort sends a spike of agony through my skull, like an ice pick driven directly into my brain. The feral crashes back to the ground with a howl of rage, momentarily subdued.

But the effort costs me. Fresh blood pours from my nose, my ears, and the corners of my eyes. My vision blurs, darkening at the edges as if a vignette filter has been placed over my perception of reality. Sounds become distant, muffled, as if I’m sinking underwater. I’m running out of time.

The sky above has changed since this began. The clear blue of afternoon is giving way to the deep purple of dusk. The first stars appear, cold and distant witnesses to the carnage below. How long have I been standing here, holding back the tide? Hours? It feels like centuries.

Aurelius notices my deteriorating condition with a satisfied smile, his perfect teeth gleaming in the fading light. “You’ve put up an impressive fight, Blackthorn. I’ll grant you that. But it’s over now. Release the sword. Accept the inevitable. Perhaps I’ll even let you serve in Gaida’s court, once she takes her rightful place.”

He steps closer to the barrier, close enough that if it fell, he could reach me in a single bound. His confidence is absolute, his victory all but assured in his mind. After all, what am I compared to him?

His condescension ignites a final spark of defiance in me. If I’m going to die here, I won’t die serving Aurelius Aragon’s twisted ambitions. I won’t die giving him what he wants.

I remember Gaida’s face as I left her with Felix and Dante, determined, afraid, but unbowed. The fierce intelligence in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the compassion that sets her apart from her father despite their shared blood. She deserves better than the fate her father has planned for her. She deserves a choice.

And if my death can buy her that choice, then so be it.

With a tremendous effort, I drive the sword into the ground before me. My muscles scream in protest, joints grinding like rusted hinges as I force my failing body to obey. The blade sinks into the earth easily, as if the ground itself recognises its authority. Golden light spirals up the length of the blade, intensifying until it’s painful to look at directly.

The ferals skitter backwards, momentarily cowed by the display of power. Their black eyes reflect the golden light, making them appear almost human for a fleeting instant. Some cover their faces, others prostrate themselves on the ground, ancient instincts responding to the sword’s authority.

Even Aurelius takes a half-step back, his confidence faltering for the first time. The chalice in his hand blinks more rapidly, responding to a threat, its blue-white light flaring in counterpoint to the sword’s golden glow.

“What are you doing?” he demands, genuine concern breaking through his composed facade. A faint line appears between his brows, the first sign of worry he’s shown since this confrontation began.

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. All my focus is on what must be done. The world has narrowed to this single purpose, this final act. Everything else—pain, fear, regret—falls away, leaving only crystal clarity. I understand now what I must do, what I’ve perhaps been meant to do since I first set foot on these grounds centuries ago.

MistHallow was never truly mine. I was merely its caretaker, preparing it for this moment, for her. Gaida will rebuild what her father has destroyed. She will redefine what it means to be the Blood Queen. But first, she must survive. First, she must escape.

The sword of Mashtar was never meant to be wielded by someone like me. It belongs to the Aragon bloodline, to Gaida specifically. But in this moment, it needs me as much as I need it. We have a common purpose: to protect Gaida.

With my free hand, I slash across my palm with my extended fang. The pain is distant, muted by the greater agony already consuming my body. Blood wells up immediately, dark and thick with age. I stare at it for a moment, mesmerised by its deep crimson hue, blood that has sustained me for fifteen centuries, blood that has witnessed the rise and fall of empires.

Blood that will now serve a final purpose.

I bring my cupped hand to my lips and whisper words I never thought I’d use, an incantation so old it predates written magick. Words passed down through whispers and shadows, a ritual known only to those who have walked the edge between life and death and chosen neither.

“ Sanguis meus, anima mea, vinculum meum. ”

My blood, my soul, my bond.

The words seem to hang in the air, vibrating with power. The ground beneath my feet trembles slightly, recognising the significance of what I’ve done. The ferals grow utterly still, their constant growls silenced by a power older than their hunger.

Aurelius’s eyes widen. “Blackthorn, don’t?—”

I pour my blood onto the sword’s hilt, watching as the metal drinks it in greedily. The blood doesn’t drip or flow over the surface. Instead, it sinks into the metal itself, thirsty for sustenance. For a moment, nothing happens, and I wonder if I’ve failed, if my blood isn’t potent enough, and if my sacrifice is not worthy.

Then the runes etched along the blade flare to life, no longer golden but blood-red, pulsing with my heartbeat. The sword’s vibration changes, a low, hungry hum that seems to penetrate to my bones. The air around me grows heavy, charged with potential, like the moment before lightning strikes.

The effect is immediate and devastating.

Power courses through me, not from me but through me. The combined power of the sword and something else, something older and far more terrible. It’s not just my blood the sword has accepted, but my oath. My willing sacrifice. In that moment of surrender, I’ve given the sword something it values more than my life force.

The pain is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. My body arches backwards, spine bending to an impossible angle as the sword’s power floods through me. It feels like being turned all over again. Every cell in my body dies, and is being reborn simultaneously, my consciousness stretched to breaking point and beyond.

Through the haze of agony, I hear a voice—archaic, cold, and utterly inhuman. It resonates directly in my mind, bypassing my senses to speak directly to my soul.

You will do for now.

Mashtar’s voice echoes in my head, and I stumble back. Devastation is about to go down, and I’m not sure I can survive the backlash of power that Mashtar has drawn from my blood, my oath.

The sword rises from the ground of its own accord, hovering before me at chest height. Its blade glows with alternating waves of gold and crimson, the two colours spiralling around each other like lovers in a deadly dance. The ferals surrounding us shriek, some dropping to their knees in worship, others backing away in primal fear.

Aurelius stands transfixed, the chalice in his hand glowing with answering power. “What have you done?” he whispers, awe and horror mingling in his voice.

I can barely speak through the tempest of power raging through my body.

The golden light from the sword explodes outward in a blinding wave, no longer just binding the ferals but changing them. I feel Mashtar’s power flow through me, archaic and heinous, forcing its will upon them.

The ferals scream in pain and confusion. Their bodies convulse, many falling to the ground as if struck by lightning. I watch as the transformation takes hold.

One by one, the ferals’ eyes clear. The blackness recedes, replaced by normal irises. They look around in confusion, as if waking from a nightmare. The mindless rage that had consumed them moments before fades, replaced by dawning awareness.

“No!” Aurelius roars, his face contorting with rage. “What have you done?”

I can barely stand, but I manage a grim smile. “I’ve healed them. Just as Gaida did.”

Somehow, impossibly, the sword has used my blood and my oath to restore the severed bonds, to heal what was broken. Not in the way they were before, but the feral madness has been purged from them.

“Impossible,” he hisses, raising the chalice. “The sword cannot heal severed bonds.”

“Oh, but it can when it wants to,” I say, feeling my consciousness fading beneath the onslaught of power still coursing through me. My body is a shell, a temporary vessel for something far greater and more monstrous than myself. “I’ve given it something it values more than my life.”

“And what might that be?” Aurelius demands, his knuckles white around the chalice’s stem.

“My consent.” Blood bubbles from my lips as I speak, internal damage manifesting. “I’ve surrendered to its purpose rather than forcing my will upon it. Something you never understood about power, Aurelius. True power isn’t taken, it’s given.”

The words come not entirely from me but through me, Mashtar’s ancient wisdom flowing from my lips. The sword hovers closer, its blade gleaming with renewed purpose. I feel its satisfaction, its anticipation.

It’s not finished yet.

The chalice in Aurelius’s hand shakes and then flies upward. He gasps in shock, his centuries of control shattered in an instant of surprise. Aurelius tries to snatch it, his reflexes vampire-quick, but the chalice is quicker. I hold my hand up, and it zooms through the air to smack against my palm.

The moment of contact sends another shockwave of power through me, this one almost sweet in its intensity. The sword and chalice, reunited after who knows how long.

I give him a sinister smile as I close my fist around it. “Mine now.”

Aurelius’s face contorts with fury and disbelief. For the first time in perhaps centuries, the ancient vampire looks truly afraid. “No!” Aurelius thunders and lunges towards me, moving with the blinding speed of his bloodline.

But he never reaches me. Mashtar’s sword sends up a flash of light that knocks him flat onto his back. The blast radius expands outward, creating a perfect circle of scorched earth around me. The formerly feral vampires remain untouched, protected by whatever new bond now links them to the sword.

I feel stronger now, the sword and chalice working in tandem to repair the damage done to my body. Healing me completely and giving me the power for what must come next. Both of them want me. Both of them need me.

“What have you done?” he roars from the ground, his perfect composure finally shattered.

“Saved Gaida. That’s what this is all about. Saving her.” I turn on my heel, my strength returned, better than ever, with Mashtar as my new sire.

Read on with book 3: Blood Queen

If you love MistHallow Academy, you will love SilverGate, the Academy where nothing is as it seems. Coming Summer 2025: Eternal Legacies