"The Memory That Wasn't Mine."
They say memory is a river—always flowing, always moving forward. But mine moves backward, upward, like a serpent made of smoke.
Last night, I dreamed of a kingdom that no longer exists. A silver throne. A man with emerald eyes weeping as he plunged a dagger into my chest. And my hands—my hands were soaked in god's blood, glimmering like starlight.
I've never seen these people. I've never been there. And yet... I remember it like it was yesterday.
My name is Elara Duskveil. I am not who I thought I was.And tonight, the Veil whispered my true name".
BLOOD AND FOG
Elara Duskveil's boots echoed against the marble floor of the forgotten library. Dust curled in the stagnant air, motes dancing in the dying light of dusk filtering through stained glass high above. The sconces had long since rotted, their enchanted flames extinguished for centuries. All around her, bookshelves curved like ribs of a great dead beast, cradling knowledge sealed away by silence.
She pulled her cloak tighter, not from cold but from the sensation crawling along her skin. The wards were still active. Whisper wards. Designed not to repel intruders—but to whisper just enough truth to unmake the mind.
"I told you this was madness," came a voice behind her. Riven Thorne, looming in the corridor's shadow, his wolf-eyes narrow with caution. "This place was sealed for a reason."
"That's precisely why we need it," Elara said, voice steady. "The Grimoire of Veins isn't just myth. It's buried here. And I intend to find it."
Riven stepped forward, arms crossed. "And what if the whispers tell you something real this time?"
She paused. Real? The last time she'd listened to forbidden relics, she'd awoken with blood that moved on its own and dreams that weren't hers. Still, she said, "Then maybe I'll finally understand what I am."
They descended deeper. Beneath the library, a spiral staircase plunged into darkness. Elara's fingers glowed red as she summoned a sigil of bloodlight—only a witch of her line could manifest it. Riven's growl was a low thunder in the narrow stairwell.
At the base, an arched doorway sealed by veins of silver and obsidian met them. Embedded in its center was the relic: a medallion carved with concentric circles and bound by crimson strands.
The Bloodseal.
Elara drew a blade across her palm. The blood that flowed, black —a hybrid's blood, alive with ancient currents. She pressed it to the medallion.
The veins in the door pulsed.
A shriek—like air being torn in half—split the corridor, and the doors peeled open with a wet sigh.
Inside was a round chamber, its center sunken into a ritual pit. Sigils crawled along the walls, alive and shifting, as if reacting to her presence. A whisper echoed—not from behind, not from the walls—but from within her own skull.
You remember, don't you?
The throne of ash. The blade of sorrow. The promise you broke.
Elara staggered.
"Something's wrong" Riven muttered, drawing his crescent-edged dagger. "I feel it. This place is... alive."
She stepped into the ritual pit. As her blood-stained feet touched the sigils, the chamber ignited. Crimson and obsidian light flared, and from the center, the floor dissolved, revealing a suspended memory—glimmering like oil on water.
The past.
A city of white marble, shrouded in eclipse. A woman on a silver throne. Elara gasped.
The woman was her.
Or rather—something that looked like her. Older. Regal. Monstrous.
Around the throne knelt an army of witches, vampires, and werewolves—bound by shadowy chains.
Before the throne stood a man.
Tall. Pale. Hair the color of raven feathers. Eyes like molten gold.
He was weeping.
And in his hand—a dagger carved from black fire.
He mouthed her name.
"Elara."
But not Elara. Something else. A name she could not yet recall.
And then—he stabbed her.
The vision shattered.
She screamed and fell to her knees, blood leaking from her nose, ears, and eyes. Riven caught her.
"What the hell did you see?" he demanded.
"I saw..." she choked. "I saw a world before the Rift. And I was there."
"Impossible."
"No," she whispered. "This chamber—it's a memory vault. Sealed by bloodline."
Riven looked at her with fresh wariness.
"You've awakened something. Something old."
As they turned to leave, a figure stood in the doorway.
Not Aeron. Not Hollow.
Tall, adorned in a cloak of black flame and crimson silk. His skin shimmered with moon-pale luster. His voice was the sound of ash falling.
"A curious place to bleed, daughter of dusk."
Riven lunged, blade drawn.
The man caught it with two fingers.
Elara's breath caught.
"Who are you?"
The man smiled. "Call me... a remnant."
He turned, and just before vanishing into mist, whispered:
"The blood remembers."
And then he was gone.
Riven turned to Elara. "What the fuck was that?"
She stared at the empty doorway. Her blood was still trembling.
Elara pulled herself to her feet, still trembling. "He said... remnant. Not ghost."
Riven's blade remained in hand, eyes still scanning the corridor, as if the figure might return at any moment. "Then what the hell is a remnant?"
They didn't linger. Whatever the chamber had awakened was far from finished with them. They retraced their steps quickly, Elara limping slightly, still bleeding from where the vision had torn at her mind. The staircase seemed longer on the way up. The shadows denser. The whisper wards no longer subtle—they now hissed warnings in dead languages, scratching at the edge of sanity.
At the library's central rotunda, the enchantments flickered back to life as Elara bled onto the command pedestal. Light ignited in columns, and ancient tomes stirred as if waking from centuries of sleep. The library recognized her bloodline—barely—and permitted access.
She summoned the glyph interface, symbols rising like constellations around her. "Remnant," she said aloud. Her voice cracked. "Cross-reference: Rift. Veil. Bloodlines. Time distortion."
Lines of light pulsed. Fragments of data, images, and scrolls hovered in the air. Dust stirred from the shelves as texts not touched in millennia shifted toward relevance. Riven stepped beside her, glancing over her shoulder as her fingers moved swiftly, opening entry after entry.
One read: "Remnants are echoes that bleed. Not spirits, nor revenants. They are beings who survive temporal extinction—creatures whose timelines were unraveled, yet who endured. Memory forged in paradox."
Another spoke in darker tones: "Only three remnants have ever been recorded. All appeared when the Veil thinned. All were tied to the Rift. One bore the mark of the Bloodbane."
Elara froze.
"Bloodbane..." she whispered.
Riven's eyes narrowed. "That name means something to you."
"I've seen it before," she said slowly. "On a seal. In a vision. And now on him."
She looked up at the towering stacks of knowledge and the glowing records floating in the air.
"This library remembers. We need to ask it everything."
And above them, deep in the framework of the dome, a carving of a crowned figure burned faintly red.
Aamon Thereon Bloodbane watched in silence, etched into stone centuries before either of them were born.