Across the city, in the Crane family’s fortified compound. Victor Crane sat in a high-backed leather chair in the living room, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of a massive television screen mounted on the wall. His sister, Anamika, stood beside him, her arms crossed, her dark eyes narrowed as the news broadcast blared. The anchor’s voice, clipped and urgent, filled the room, recounting the fall of Monarch City, the mob tearing through the square, the monarch and his heir devoured by the citizens’ rage. But it was the name that followed that made Victor’s fingers tighten around the armrests, his knuckles whitening. “The Shadow King, Warren, has returned,” the anchor declared, a grainy image of Warren’s silhouette flashing across the screen.Victor’s jaw clenched, his breath hissing through his teeth. “Warren? Back?” His voice was a low growl, disbelief warring with dread. Anamika’s lips pursed, her manicured nails tapping rhythmically against her sleeve. Three years ago, the

Warren leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders tense, while Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her cotton nightgown. Their two-year-old son, Logan, slept fitfully in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling under a blanket stitched with little yellow stars. The two had been discussing silently, trying not to wake him, when a piercing wail shattered the quiet.Logan’s cry wasn’t the usual fussy whimper of a toddler. It was raw, guttural, like something ancient and wild had clawed its way out of his throat. The sound jolted Warren and Cassandra, their heads snapping toward the crib. Cassandra’s heart leapt into her throat as she sprang to her feet, her bare toes curling against the cold wooden floor. Warren followed close behind, his boots thudding softly, his face a mask of concern.“Logan!” Cassandra gasped, rushing to the crib. Her hands reached for her son, desperate to scoop him up and soothe him, but what she saw froze her

The night air was thick with moisture, clinging to their skin as Warren, Cassandra, and little Logan stood before the Ironspire Forest. A towering barricade of barbed wire loomed ahead, crackling with electric sparks that lit up the darkness like angry fireflies. The fence hummed with a low, menacing buzz, a warning to anyone foolish enough to approach. Beyond it, the forest waited—a wall of gnarled trees with branches like twisted fingers, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind. Cassandra shifted Logan on her back, his small body strapped securely in a cloth carrier. His face was ghostly pale now, his cheeks drained of color, as if the life was seeping out of him with every passing second. Her heart twisted, fear gnawing at her insides like a hungry beast.From deep within the forest, guttural roars and eerie howls echoed, sounds no natural creature could make. They sent a shiver racing down Cassandra’s spine, her hands trembling as she adjusted Logan’s weight. She glanced at he

The cavern pulsed with a sickly green glow, the air thick with the stench of rot and the tribe’s guttural chants. Cassandra’s wrists burned under the coarse ropes, her tears falling freely as she watched the blind woman cradle Logan, her claw-like fingers tracing his pale cheek. Warren strained against his bonds, the wooden post creaking, his eyes black with the Crown of the Abyss’s power, but the drugged broth still dulled his strength. The tribe—pale, eyeless figures in tattered hides—circled closer, their chants rising like a storm. Torin, the old man with hollow sockets, stood before a crude stone altar draped in stained cloth, its surface etched with jagged runes that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. Bones hung from the ceiling, clattering like wind chimes, and jars of grotesque relics lined the walls, their contents glowing faintly in the dark.Logan’s whimpers echoed, each one a dagger in Cassandra’s heart. The woman placed him on the altar, her movements reverent, as if of

The mountain’s jagged slope loomed above the Ironspire Forest, its rocky face cutting into the starry sky like a blade. Warren led the ascent, his boots grinding against loose shale, each step a battle against the biting cold that clawed through his coat. Strapped to his chest was Logan, their two-year-old son, his tiny body limp and feverish, his face pale as moonlight. The boy’s breaths were shallow, each one a fragile thread tying him to life after the abyss’s power had drained him in their escape from the blind tribe. Cassandra followed, her legs trembling with exhaustion, her hands raw from gripping jagged rocks. Her dark hair clung to her sweat-soaked face, but her love for Logan burned brighter than her fatigue, pushing her upward despite the ache in her bones. The forest below growled with distant vampire hisses and beastly snarls, a reminder of the horrors they’d fled, but the peak promised answers.The climb took over an hour, the air growing thinner, colder, slicing throu