The red thorn

Chapter eleven

The air in the Dead Marshes didn't move. It hung heavy, thick with the stench of stagnant water, decaying alder wood, and a sharp, metallic tang that made Elora’s tongue feel coated in iron.

Above them, a perpetual canopy of weeping gnarled ash trees choked out the afternoon sun, casting the wetland in aThe air in the Dead Marshes didn't move. It hung heavy, thick with the stench of stagnant water, decaying alder wood, and a sharp, metallic tang that made Elora’s tongue feel coated in iron.

Above them, a perpetual canopy of weeping gnarled ash trees choked out the afternoon sun, casting the wetland in an eerie, eternal twilight. Black moss dangled from the branches like shredded silk, and every few feet, pockets of pale marsh-gas bubbled up from the black muck, releasing tiny, ghost-like wisps of light that flickered before dying out.

Elora waded through knee-deep water, pulling her mud-caked white robe above her boots. Her muscles ached, and the fever in her blood had settled into a dull, thrumming pulse at the base of her skull.

"How does this place hide us?" she asked, her voice hushed to avoid carrying across the dead water. "It feels like a grave."

"It is a grave," Silas replied smoothly, stepping from one exposed root to another with unnerving grace. His boots barely left a ripple on the water's surface. "Four centuries ago, Dracula slaughtered an entire rebellion of rogue vampires and coven witches right here. The sheer volume of spilled blood and dying magic saturated the soil. It creates a localized dark energy field. To any scrying glass or blood-tracker, your signal just blends into the background noise of ancient slaughter."

He paused on a wide, mossy stone outcropping and turned to face her.

"Which makes it the perfect classroom," Silas said, folding his arms. "First lesson, thorn: your magic isn't witch-craft. You aren't pulling energy from the earth or drawing on ancient spirits. You are drawing on *him*."

Elora stopped, wiping mud from her cheek. "What does that mean?"

"Your blood carries the exact same genetic blueprint as Dracula's core lineage," Silas explained, his eyes locking onto hers with intense focus. "Vampiric magic is entirely internal and raw. It feeds on instinct, memory, and sheer, uncompromising willpower. When you blew up Morwen’s basin, you didn't cast a spell—you suffered an emotional leak."

He stepped off the stone, landing in the shallow water right in front of her.

"Do it again," Silas commanded.

Elora blinked. "What?"

"Focus. Summon that silver fire on command. Right now."

Elora took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She tried to conjure the burning sensation she had felt in Oakhaven and in the Coven's amphitheater. She pictured the velvet-coated monster; she pictured Sarah’s body on the stone steps. She gripped her hands into fists, willing the heat to move down her arms.

Nothing happened. Her skin stayed pale and cool.

She opened her eyes, frustration burning in her throat. "It's not working."

"Because you're trying to summon anger like a human," Silas said, taking a step closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "Anger is weak. Anger is chaotic. A vampire doesn't fight with anger; we fight with *dominion*. You don't ask the blood to burn, Elora. You *command* it."

Before she could process his words, Silas’s hand shot forward. His fingers locked around her throat, slamming her backward against the trunk of a weeping ash tree.

The water splashed violently around her legs. Elora choked, her hands flying up to grip his iron wrist, her boots kicking uselessly in the mud. Silas’s eyes burned a fierce, luminescent amber, his fangs extending past his lower lip.

"Command it," he growled, tightening his grip just enough to cut off her air. "Or let me choke the life out of Dracula’s final threat right here in the mud.