From the high perch of a crumbling watchtower, a beastkin scout crouched low, eyes glinting in the moonlight as he surveyed the tangled alleys below. The rain-slick roofs of the lower quarter stretched before him, broken chimneys and sagging tiles like jagged teeth.

Then a shadow moved.

A figure, dark and swift, darted across the rooftops, cloak snapping in the wind. Too fast, too fluid to be a drunk or cutpurse.

The scout's ears pricked. His claws tightened on the tower ledge.

"Shadow!" he roared, leaping from the tower, landing hard on the slates below. His cry carried through the quarter, sharp and urgent, meant for every hidden ear of his kin.

The figure ran faster, but the shout had stirred the streets. Another beastkin stepped from the shadows up ahead, crouched low, daggers glinting. The hooded blur was snared, pursuers behind, blockade ahead, and to either side nothing but a deadly plunge into the cobbled streets below.

The figure whirled. Steel flashed.

Without hesitation both beastkin pincered in.

Daggers clashed in the dark, a flurry of blows too fast for any human eye. The beastkin pressed in, striking from both sides, but their quarry moved like water through reeds dodging, parrying, deflecting. Sparks leapt with every strike.

A hood fell back, cast aside in the frenzy.

The scouts froze for a heartbeat. Pale skin. Eyes burning crimson. Fangs flashing with hunger.

"A vampire," one whispered to himself.

The beastkin in front struck with fury, his dagger slicing toward the creature's head. The vampire slipped aside, inhumanly fast, and drove his blade upward in one clean strike beneath the scout's chin, piercing deep.

The beastkin's body went rigid, then fell limp, blood staining the rooftops.

"No!" the second scout cried, stumbling to his friend's side. His own dagger clattered to the stone as he tried desperately to hold the life that poured from the wound.

The vampire was already gone. With a blur of motion and a leap across the rooftops, it vanished into the night, leaving only silence and the dying gasps of the beastkin sprawled on the rain-slick tiles.

The lone survivor knelt over his fallen kin, blood on his claws, grief twisting his face into a snarl. His howl split the night a cry of rage, loss, and warning that echoed through the quarter.

Far from the alleys where blood still cooled, the vampire knelt in the gloom of a shuttered chamber. Rain pattered against the cracked windows, but inside the air was heavy, suffocating.

Before him stood a man cloaked in black, his face half-shrouded in shadow. Only his eyes burned not with hunger, but with fury.

"You were seen," the man hissed, voice like steel scraping stone. "Exposed like a fool. Do you know what risk you've brought upon us?"

The vampire bowed lower, crimson eyes averted. "The beastkin were quicker than expected. It will not"

"Silence." The word cut like a blade. The man's fist clenched. "You failed. And in failure, you've invited suspicion we cannot afford."

The chamber seemed to darken further as the man leaned closer, his voice low and venomous.

"You will return to Neyros. Now. And pray your master finds reason to forgive your incompetence."

The vampire swallowed, then rose, cloak whipping as he slipped into the night, vanishing into the storm.

The body of the fallen scout lay upon a pyre of cedar and ash in the Argent Vale. Beastkin gathered in silence, their faces marked with grief, their ears pressed flat, their eyes gleaming in the torchlight. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and sorrow.

Kael stood before them, fists clenched, his head bowed low. The weight of guilt pressed like iron on his chest.

"This was my failure," he growled, voice breaking. "I led him to the hunt, and I failed to protect him. His blood is on my claws."

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. An elder stepped forward, fur streaked with grey, her hand resting on Kael's shoulder. "You are our Huntmaster," she said softly. "You lead us, but you do not bear the blame alone. We all knew the risk of shadow's knife. He died as one of us, loyal, fearless, in service of the Vale. That is no shame."

The beastkin pressed fists to their chests in salute, their growls low and mournful, their unity unbroken even in death. Kael closed his eyes, torn between rage and grief.

At dawn, Kael left the Vale, his cloak drawn close against the morning chill, and made his way to the Dawnspire Citadel.

But the queen was gone.

In her place upon the throne sat Lord Caren, Master of Coin, robed in deep velvet trimmed with gold thread. Rings glittered on his fingers as he leafed through a stack of reports at the throne's side. His helm was no helm at all, but a polished circlet of silver that glimmered faintly in the torchlight. He regarded Kael with a diplomat's smile, pleasant but sharp, as the beastkin was ushered into the chamber.

Kael wasted no time. His claws dug into the marble floor as he spoke.

"One of my scouts is dead. Slain in the lower quarter. His comrade swears he saw the killer's face before he fled a vampire. One of Neyros's brood walks our alleys while the Court squabbles over coin."

Caren set the reports aside with deliberate care, folding his hands atop his knee. His smile did not waver, though his eyes cooled.

"A grim thing, Huntmaster. Truly. And yet... secrecy is an expensive luxury. You chose to chase shadows without the Court's knowledge. Now a life has been spent and the account does not balance."

Kael's ears pressed flat, his teeth bared. "And had I come to the Court, would you have acted? My people are spat on in your halls, Caren. Called beasts. Trusted less than thieves. Tell me, who would have stood with me?"

For a moment, Caren's smile lingered, then thinned. He leaned forward, voice dropping, the silver in his tone cutting sharper than steel.

"Perhaps fewer than you deserve. But do not mistake disdain for blindness. I see the cracks, Kael, even if others choose to look away. If your scout's word is true, we face something greater than insult. A vampire loose in Veyra is no petty quarrel."

Kael's voice was hard, every word edged with grief.

"The vampire is already gone. My surviving scout swore it fled into the night. The trail is cold, and we are left with nothing but blood on the stones. That is why I cannot sit idle. Justice is not enough I will have vengeance, for the hunter and the scout alike."

Caren steepled his fingers, studying the beastkin with eyes that revealed nothing. Then, with a slow nod, he said,

"Then we share a cause. I will lend what coin and influence I can. But mark this, vengeance when spent too quickly, bankrupts the soul. Strike blindly, and you may lose more than you gain. Patience, Huntmaster. Patience is profit, and it may yet bring us the opening we need."

Kael's claws tapped against the marble, restless, his fury unsoftened.

"Patience will not bring back my dead."

He turned sharply and left, his cloak snapping behind him.

The Luminar Woods glowed with their eternal light, every tree shimmering faintly as if touched by dawn even in the depths of night. Seralyth stepped carefully beneath the radiant boughs, her breath visible in the cool air. Beside her walked Lyra, the Court Mage, her pale hands clasped around her staff.

"This way, my queen," Lyra said, her voice hushed. "You must see it with your own eyes."

They wove through a tangle of roots and twisted trees until the forest suddenly opened into a wide glade. At its centre rose a vast rock formation, like a labyrinth carved by ancient hands. Seralyth's eyes narrowed as Lyra guided her through winding corridors of stone, the air growing warmer, sharper, alive with unseen energy.

When they reached the heart of the labyrinth, Seralyth stopped.

There, upon a pedestal of smooth crystal, lay a necklace. Its chain was woven silver, its pendant a glowing gem the colour of sunrise.

Lyra bowed her head. "The elves found this days ago. The formation itself appeared without warning, as though the land had birthed it overnight. At its centre this. I have studied it as best I can, but its power resists me. There is only one explanation."

Her eyes met Seralyth's.

"An artifact. Forged by Falrion himself."

Seralyth's heart caught in her chest. She stepped forward, staring at the necklace as if it were a vision. She knew this relic not from books, but from memory.

"The Necklace of Dawn," she whispered. "It was worn by General Thaen, who fell in the First and Last. I watched him ride into battle with it shining upon his chest."

Yet here it was, untouched by time, flawless, as though placed upon the pedestal that very day.

Seralyth reached out, and as her fingers neared the chain, she felt warmth pulsing from it, a heartbeat of radiant power. When at last she clasped it around her neck, light surged through her body.

Her breath caught. Her strength returned. She felt her mind sharpen, her vision clear as though the veil of years had been stripped away. The silver in her hair shimmered, strands of gold spreading like fire until her tresses shone as they once had. The faint lines of age upon her face melted into nothing.

Lyra's eyes widened. "Falrion's blessing," she whispered. "Doubled... renewed."

Seralyth straightened, her spear in hand. She felt power thrumming through her veins, stronger than it had been since the god-war itself. For the first time in years, she did not feel weary. She felt... whole.

She lifted her gaze to the glowing canopy of the woods, her voice firm.

"With this gift, Veyra will not fall. The light of dawn will endure."

And in that moment, for all her burdens and doubts, Seralyth believed it.

The end of chapter one.