The red thorn

Chapter five

The threshold of the Sunken Woods was marked by a jagged line of black stone obelisks, their surfaces carved with fading, ancient runes. The moment Elora crossed between them, the ambient noise of the outside world—the wind in the pine trees, the distant cries of Oakhaven—snapped shut like a heavy wooden door.

The forest was suffocatingly still. The air tasted of moss, copper, and damp earth.

"Stay on the path," Vanya warned, her iron staff striking the stone trail with a sharp *clack*. "The woods do not welcome those who carry unrefined blood. Stray, and the roots will drag you beneath the mire before you can draw breath."

Elora kept her head down, her heart thumping against her ribs. Every few steps, a fresh wave of grief threatened to crush her chest, but the heat in her veins kept it at bay—a strange, unnatural fever that pulsed in rhythm with her steps.

"How did he find us?" Elora asked, keeping her voice low. "If my... if Sarah hid me for nineteen years, why today?"

"Because your blood awakened," Vanya said without turning around. "The prophecy is not a static script, Elora. It is a dormant spell written into the fabric of your lineage. The moment you reached maturity, your body began to reject its human limits. The spark you gave Old Man Miller? The silver veins? That was your magic breaking its seals. Dracula's scouts carry blood-scrying mirrors. To them, your awakening was a beacon in the dark."

Before Elora could digest the answer, the path widened into a massive, natural amphitheater carved into the side of a moss-covered cliff.

Dozens of women clad in robes of deep indigo and dark grey stood along the stone ledges, their faces hidden beneath cavernous hoods. At the center of the amphitheater sat a wide, circular pool of black water, completely mirror-still.

An elder witch stepped forward from the shadows of the cliff face. Her skin was lined with age, her hair a cascade of stark white, and around her neck hung a heavy medallion fashioned from human bone and iron.

"You bring the abomination into our sanctuary, Vanya," the High Priestess said, her voice echoing off the stone walls like grinding rocks.

"I bring the prophecy, High Priestess Morwen," Vanya replied, bowing her head slightly. "The girl’s power erupted today. Dracula's hound, Julian, was forced to bleed in Oakhaven."

Morwen’s pale, milky eyes locked onto Elora. She glided forward, her robes trailing over the stone, until she stood mere inches away. She reached out a long, withered finger, tracing the line of Elora's jawline. Her touch was icy, sending a violent shiver down Elora's spine.

"Strong bones," Morwen whispered. "The dark noble lineage is clear. But her spirit is weak, cluttered with human tears and soft attachments."

"I am not an abomination," Elora spat, pulling back from the priestess's cold touch, her eyes flaring with a sudden, dangerous flash of silver light. "And I don't care about your prophecy. I want the monster who killed my mother."

Morwen chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Spoken like true vampire stock. Arrogant, hot-blooded, and blind to the larger board."

The High Priestess turned her back on Elora, walking toward the black pool.

"You want vengeance, girl? You will not find it with a kitchen knife or accidental outbursts of light," Morwen said, pointing a finger at the still water. "Look into the glass. See the force that seeks your head."

Elora hesitated, then stepped toward the edge of the dark pool. She looked down into the pitch-black water.

The reflection did not show her face. Instead, the water rippled, revealing a towering, gothic throne room bathed in candlelight. Sitting upon an iron seat was a man with stark white hair, blood-red eyes, and an aura of power so absolute it made Elora’s knees buckle just looking at his image.

Dracula stared directly out of the water, as if looking through the pool straight into Elora's soul.

Beside his throne, three dark-armored vampire nobles knelt, awaiting his command.

"He has mobilized his inner court," Morwen said softly into Elora's ear. "Three hundreds years of hiding is over. He will burn every village, slaughter every human, and tear down every forest until your ashes are scatter in the wind. If you wish to survive, Elora Vance, you will belong to the Coven."