Chapter 57: The Pale Heir of Ebonrise
The air in Ebonrise was thick with anticipation and dread. The mourning over the ruined council chambers had barely subsided, yet the city felt no less haunted. Liam stood at the edge of the balcony in the queen's solar, watching the first rays of moonlight slide across the rooftops like silvered fingers. He gripped the iron railing tightly, the events of the last twenty-four hours carved into his mind like deep scars.
Ella sat behind him, her movements uncharacteristically still. She had not spoken since they'd returned from the site of the council's destruction. The sigils etched into her skin glowed faintly—echoes of the blood magic she'd used to shield the remnants of the court. Her silence, usually pregnant with command or purpose, now felt brittle. Like a vase about to shatter.
"They know," Liam finally said. His voice was hoarse, not just from weariness but from the weight of his realization. "Whoever sent that shade… it wasn't just a warning. It was a declaration."
Ella turned her crimson gaze toward him, unreadable. "Yes. And the declaration is war."
Liam pushed off the balcony and paced across the chamber. "Then we have to find out who—what—this Pale Heir is. You've heard the whispers, haven't you? The name's been appearing in the minds of every surviving council member. That can't be coincidence."
She nodded, slowly. "The Pale Heir... it was once a myth. An exile from the old bloodline—someone who had renounced the ancestral oath, choosing death over the throne. But the myth says they didn't die. They were sealed. Buried beneath the Catacombs of First Blood."
Liam stopped in his tracks. "Sealed? Not killed? Why?"
"Because their power couldn't be destroyed," Ella said darkly. "Only bound."
The chamber fell into silence. Outside, the vampire city stirred with whispers, rumors seeping into alleys and underground halls. A cult had begun gathering near the Crimson Basilica, draped in ivory shrouds, claiming the Pale Heir had returned to purify the bloodlines. Liam had seen them with his own eyes—pale-skinned, silver-eyed zealots bearing sigils similar to the one burned into the council's heart.
"If this heir is real," he said, "then they have followers. Loyalists. Maybe even turncoats among our own."
Ella stood, the room growing colder with her movement. "Then we root them out. One by one. Ebonrise will not fall while I wear the crown."
Liam crossed the chamber to her, taking her hand. "We can't do this alone, Ella. We need allies. Mortal ones. Other covens. Even the Nightborn."
At the mention of the Nightborn—the rogue clan who fed openly, defying all treaties—Ella's lips thinned. But she didn't protest.
"We ride at dawn," she said. "To the Catacombs. We'll unearth the truth of the Pale Heir ourselves. If we wait too long, they'll come for us."
---
The Catacombs of First Blood lay beyond the Scarlet Fen, where the land bled mist and the trees wept ichor. Ella and Liam rode through the dense fog with a contingent of elite sentries, their armor engraved with wards old as the coven's founding. The journey took them through memories—the battlefield where Ella had won her crown, the forest where Liam had first tasted immortality, and the hilltop where the moon hung eternally half-risen.
When they reached the Catacombs, the gates were already open.
No sign of forced entry. No scent of blood.
"They've been here," Ella whispered. Her voice echoed through the vast tunnel entrance, carried by unseen winds.
Torches lit themselves as they entered, guided by ancient enchantments. Carvings on the wall depicted the firstborn vampires—winged, horned, alien in beauty. Among them was one figure constantly scratched out, as if history itself had tried to forget.
In the lowest vault, beneath layers of enchanted stone, they found the sarcophagus. It was shaped like a cradle—ornate, child-sized, and bound with a hundred runes.
And it was empty.
On the lid, scrawled in blood that refused to dry, was a single line:
"The throne was promised. The oath was broken. The heir returns."
Ella staggered back. "No… this can't be."
But Liam already knew. The chill in the room. The dreams he'd had the night before—the eyes like mirrors, the voice like thunder under water—it all made sense.
He had seen the Pale Heir.
And somehow, some part of the heir had seen him.
---
They returned to Ebonrise with no answers, only dread. The cult had grown bolder. Fires burned in the lower quarters, and walls had been defaced with symbols none could decipher.
In the heart of the palace, Liam collapsed from exhaustion. In his dreams, the Pale Heir spoke again.
"You wear her blood like a chain. When she falls, you will rise."
He awoke screaming, eyes bleeding from a magic not his own.
Ella was at his side in an instant, cradling him. But her eyes… they were not filled with fear.
They were filled with guilt.
Because deep down, she knew who the Pale Heir was.
And why they'd returned now.
And worst of all, she knew what she had done to them.