The vampiric plague first appeared in the year 857 of the current Vampiric Era, in colonies near the northern villages of the Iron Empire. To this day, no cure has been found for the mysterious affliction that seems to target only those of darkblood origin. Some claimed it was a virus, a weapon forged by the Saints. Others insisted it was a curse, the echo of an ancient wrath cast by the god Ashém himself. There were many theories. But few answers.
Ashes had already gathered on the traveller's cloak and shoulders. He knelt in a courtyard caked with dried blood, the silence of the place unnerving. His lips were cracked, his throat raw with thirst. He could have been mistaken for a corpse if not for the subtle movement of breath—and the sharp glint in his eye.
He was not dead. Not yet.
Not if he could convince the darkblood standing before him that he wasn't a threat.
Slowly, he raised his head toward the vampire. A vibration stirred at his calf, where a silver dagger lay hidden beneath his robes.
"You carry steel, Saint," said the darkblood, eyes of polished silver catching the dim light above them. "Bold of you, if your intention was to speak with a vampire prince."
The man frowned. But fear did not reach his eyes.
Even now, with another vampire looming behind him, a jagged blade of black crystal poised near his neck, the traveller held his ground.
"I've come for help," he said, his voice catching in a plea.
"Insolent," hissed the vampire behind him, pressing the dagger closer to his skin.
The silver-eyed prince raised a pale hand and spoke with cold patience.
"Easy, Orion. That's no way to treat a guest. This mortal has come seeking... something. And I am curious."
The saint glimpsed a chance—slim, but there.
And just then, his gaze slipped past the vampire's shoulder and down into the valley. They stood on a high ledge, overlooking a bleak settlement. A line of human figures in grey robes waited outside a tall, central hall, shivering beneath the rain of ash. Blood-donors, no doubt. The herd. Humans stripped of their will, standing like livestock under the eyes of darkblood overseers. Some bore whips. Others carried weapons made of bone.
Slaves.
A cold dread tightened his stomach. He looked away.
"It's harvest day," said the vampire, reading the pain in his face.
"I'd rather not know the details," the saint replied sharply.
Orion remained poised to strike, but the prince did not give the order.
"And so?" the vampire asked, leaning forward with interest. "Speak, mortal."
The traveller drew a deep breath.
"I need to get someone out of Rohaar," he said quickly. "As soon as possible."
Orion laughed, still pressing the blade to his nape. But the prince tilted his head, intrigued.
"Not many mortals cross the border so easily," he mused. "Let alone to ask a darkblood for 'help.' So this person must be important. Special enough to make one of you crawl here, alone. But tell me, why come to the Iron Empire? Why trust a vampire to hide a Saint?"
The traveller glanced around, as if fearing they were being watched.
"Because this deal benefits you, too," he whispered. "I know things, darkblood. The Darksouled from the Otherworld whispered to me beneath the last waning moon. They told me I could trust the prince who rules the southern empire. They showed me your name in the future they revealed."
Orion narrowed his eyes.
"Leave us," the prince commanded. Orion hesitated, then vanished into the shadows. The prince turned back. "That sort of magic... it's not like you Saints. That's heresy. Forbidden sorcery. And from what I've heard, witches no longer exist. Why should I believe you?"
In response, the traveller drew a dagger from his boot and offered it.
"This belonged to a coven leader. Forged to sever the bond between a Saint and their Pact. With it, you can kill one of our High Masters."
The vampire studied the blade in silence. His silver gaze darkened.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"They're coming for you—and for him," the man said. "The Darksouled warned me. The fate of Alexandria lies here, in the lands your kind poisoned. In you, Prince Kaladin."
Kaladin stiffened.
"Who do you want to save from Rohaar?"
"My son."
A pause.
"He has to get out before the Church discovers what he is."
The vampire narrowed his eyes.
"And what exactly is he?"
The saint remained still, then stripped off the top half of his robes. Kaladin's eyes widened. Etched across the man's torso were intricate black tattoos—symbols of a long-forgotten order. Markings of an ancient oath.
The seal of the Last Martyrs.
"You're a..." Kaladin faltered, stepping back. "Then your son is..."
"Yes. And you must protect him, Prince Kaladin. Only you can."
Kaladin looked skyward, ash drifting like snow through the dead air.
Nothing in this world is coincidence, he thought. This mortal—this Seedbearer—had come to him. The threads of fate pulled in his direction. He would not waste the advantage.
"The Darksouled spoke of more," said the saint, his voice shaking now.
Kaladin stepped forward. He picked up the dagger, turning it in his hand. A chill echoed around them, a thousand whispers sucked back into the blade like ghosts retreating into bone.
Silence followed.
A silence that felt... familiar.
"Very well," the prince said. "Tell me everything they said."
"And after?"
Kaladin smiled faintly.
"After? We'll see. For now... you have my full attention."
The saint nodded, and while the ash rained upon the Iron Empire like a slow and silent snowfall, he began to speak.