Thornhill, Vankar Island
Northern Isle region,
Kingdom of Ashtarium
October 11th 6414
2:00 pm
The Enoch estate stood far removed from the rest of Thornhill, nestled in a secluded corner near the Salish Sea. The ride from the mansion to town was a long stretch of emptiness. Ella and I didn't pass another soul on that winding road—just tall trees and the occasional view of the sea peeking through the branches. It gave me an odd sense of calm, as if the world had temporarily forgotten about us. For a brief moment, I could almost let go of the ever-present vigilance that had become second nature to me. Still, I couldn't shake the unease that simmered beneath the surface. The thought of venturing into town, mingling with strangers, made my chest tighten. I would have preferred to stay behind the estate's gates, where control and familiarity kept the chaos at bay. But Ella was determined.
After being cooped up in the Perium region for so long, denied the simplest freedoms and constantly watched, she was now seizing every opportunity to live on her own terms. She wanted to know Thornhill, to experience it—not from behind a window, but firsthand. Her fierce desire for independence had even driven her to pursue Dungeon raiding, a career that, in my mind, seemed recklessly dangerous. I tried to talk her out of it. The idea of her placing herself in harm's way churned my gut, but I also understood her need to push forward. Ever since her Awakening, her cultivation had become her singular focus, and she believed that facing the Dungeon would strengthen her.
As we cruised down the lonely road, the landscape began to shift. The trees grew thinner, the light brighter, until we finally emerged onto the main road leading into town. Thornhill was just as I'd seen it the night before—quaint and unexpectedly vibrant. The decorations for Remembrance Day were now more prominent, hanging from lampposts and decorating storefronts. Posters of historical figures from the Pre-War era gazed down from windows, their somber faces a stark contrast to the lively streets below.
Rows of buildings flanked us as we rode past. Many were charming old apartments with retail shops on the ground floors. The sidewalks were dotted with planters filled with bright, seasonal flowers. And unlike the eerie emptiness we'd left behind on the estate road, the town itself was alive. Parents strolled hand in hand, children darted between them with laughter, and shopkeepers adjusted displays behind glass windows. The streets weren't just bustling; they were brimming with a rare harmony.
What struck me most was the diversity of the crowd. Vampires and humans walked side by side. Families of mixed bloodlines—Manaborns of every kind—meandered together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Their presence was palpable; I could feel the subtle energies of different species moving through the crowd. A dwarf-like figure passed us, her mana faint but distinctly different from that of the vampire couple strolling behind her. A group of humans, their essence completely mortal, chatted with a fae who fluttered an idle, iridescent wing as they laughed. In other regions, such integration would be nearly unthinkable. The factions that defined the Manaborn world rarely mingled, their lines drawn too firmly in the sand. Yet here, in Thornhill, those lines blurred. The town was its own quiet rebellion against the old order.
Ella's hand tapped my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts. I followed her pointing finger to an ice cream shop on the corner. Its cheerful awning, striped in faded green and white, beckoned as if promising a momentary escape. The smell of fresh waffles drifted toward us, and Ella's face lit up with the kind of smile I hadn't seen in years. In her eyes, there was a spark of the girl she used to be before all of this—before the Awakening, the Cultivation, and the weight that our lives now carried. For a moment, she wasn't a future Dungeon raider or a fledgling cultivator. She was just Ella, craving something simple and sweet.
"Stop there. I want to check it out," Ella said, her voice cutting through the gentle hum of our bike's engine. I guided the vehicle onto the pavement and parked near the store, taking note of a sign that declared parking was prohibited after evening hours. Once the engine died, I removed my helmet and glanced over at Ella as she swung her leg over the seat.
I couldn't help but watch her remove her own helmet, her silver hair spilling out in a glossy curtain. She looked striking in her outfit: a sapphire-blue V-neck sweater paired with a light pink skirt that somehow matched perfectly with her hair. She might have been on the shorter side, but the go-go boots gave her a bit of added height. My mind drifted back to that awkward moment in her room—her wrapped in towels, water droplets trailing along her shoulders. I'd seen Ella in nothing but underwear before when we were younger, so I couldn't pinpoint why this memory made me so uneasy now.
"Lil, you coming?" she asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I nodded and swung my leg over the bike, catching sight of a passing couple who greeted us warmly. Ella, always gracious, smiled and waved back. I mumbled something under my breath and pushed open the door to the small ice cream shop for her.
"Why, thank you," she said, stepping inside.
The interior of the shop was quaint, with a few tables and chairs lined up beside a wide window overlooking the street. Soft lighting overhead illuminated a row of framed pictures—old photos of Thornhill through the decades, if I had to guess. The air was thick with the sugary scent of every flavor you could imagine, from vanilla bean to salted caramel.
Behind the counter sat a middle-aged man, half-hidden behind what looked like an actual newspaper. It surprised me—paper news was practically extinct in bigger cities. Clearing my throat, I gestured for his attention, and he folded the paper with a start.
"Hello, ladies," he said with a polite nod. "Sorry about that. Didn't expect to have any custo—" He paused when he fully took us in, eyes flitting between me and Ella. I noticed his gaze linger on the scar I carried, then dart away as soon as I narrowed my eyes. "You must be the new folks who moved into the Enoch estate."
I felt my shoulders tense. "How do you know that?"
He shrugged, lips quirking into a half-smile. "Small town. Everybody talks. New folks buying the Enoch land? That's the biggest news since we got our first traffic light." The man's voice held a hint of mischief, but there was curiosity there too. "That place has been abandoned longer than I've been alive."
Ella's fingers tapped nervously on the counter as she studied the menu displayed overhead. I followed her gaze and noted the variety of classic and experimental flavors, each name spelled out on faded boards. She glanced at his nametag—Winston—and pointed at the mint chocolate chip. "I'll have that, please. And you, Lith?"
"I'll take the same," I said. Winston tapped at an ancient-looking computer terminal.
"Two mint chocolate coming right up. That'll be seventeen ninety-nine credits."
I pulled out my wallet and swiped the card Sanders had given us. A strip of paper chugged from the receipt printer—more old tech that seemed to fit Thornhill's quiet, somewhat outdated charm.
"Cones or cups?" Winston asked, retrieving two big scoops from the chilled containers.
"Cones are fine," I replied, accepting the cold treats as he handed them over. "By the way, do you know who originally owned Enoch's estate?"
Winston leaned forward, lowering his voice. "No one really knows who claimed it first. That land's been empty for as long as folks can remember—maybe even before the Long War. Some say Enoch Manor was the very first settlement in Thornhill, possibly even the first in the entire New World continent." He paused, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. "People around here think it's haunted. They say ghosts wander those halls."
I tried not to roll my eyes too obviously. Stories of ghosts and curses always flew around old places. Still, I couldn't deny Enoch Manor had a certain…unsettling energy. I took a tentative lick of my mint chocolate cone and was pleasantly surprised by the creamy sweetness.
"That's really good," I said, genuinely impressed. "Thanks for the ice cream."
We thanked Winston again and stepped outside, back into the crisp air. The clouds had shifted, letting sunlight from the dome overhead spill across the street in a bright, hazy glow. Thornhill's dome wasn't as scorching as the one back in the capital—it felt milder, more subdued. I couldn't help wondering how such a remote part of the Region maintained a dome at all, especially so close to the Savage Islands. If Thornhill didn't attract all sorts of business travelers and curious tourists, I suspected the rest of the world might've forgotten it existed.
I took another bite of my ice cream, lost in my own thoughts. My mind drifted to Sanders—why had he insisted on bringing us here? What game was he playing?
"I wonder what kind of ghosts are living with us," I muttered sarcastically. When Ella didn't respond, I glanced over. She was uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes focused on a spot in the distance. "Hey… Are you okay? You've been quiet since we left the shop."
She hesitated, staring at the last melting drip on her cone before finally meeting my gaze. "Do you really believe in ghosts, Lil?"
I exhaled sharply, trying to sound casual even as I felt a slight tremor of unease. "You're not actually worried by what Winston said, are you?" Her silence answered me better than any words could. Ella's cheeks flushed, and she turned her gaze toward the parked bike.
I couldn't help but feel a little protective. Ella was usually the cheerful one, buoying the mood wherever we went. Seeing that hint of uncertainty in her eyes made me want to reassure her—even if I wasn't sure what lay within Enoch Manor's ancient walls. One thing was certain: Thornhill had mysteries of its own,
"Never mind," Ella murmured with a dismissive wave of her hand. Almost at once, her eyes lit up again. "Hey! Look—there's a vintage record shop!" Before I could even respond, she grabbed my wrist and towed me across the street, which was mercifully free of passing cars at that hour.
From the outside, the record shop was a humble, almost quaint-looking storefront squeezed between two larger retail spaces. A single neon sign flickered above the door, casting a faint glow on the pavement. It had to be the tiniest shop in the entire town center, but it exuded an old-world charm. I hadn't seen a place like this since I'd left Yorkside—truth be told, such shops were practically nonexistent there. In Yorkside, if you wanted physical music at all, it usually came from a hyper-curated Royal Family archive. Devices that survived from before the war were a rarity, and proper record players were considered relics.
"We don't have a record player back at the mansion," I protested, hoping to discourage Ella from dragging me inside.
"Not true," she countered breezily. "There's one in the study, remember?"
I didn't get a chance to argue further because Ella pulled me in through the door. A small bell above us chimed, and almost immediately a teenage boy in a gray apron appeared from a back room. He maneuvered around towering shelves—some stuffed with vinyl records, others packed with dusty books—and arrived behind the counter.
"Hello—" he began, but the moment he caught sight of Ella, his words trailed off. His eyes went wide as if he'd been struck by lightning. I recognized that look: the dazed, slack-jawed expression of someone instantly charmed.
"Hi," Ella said, leaning casually against the counter. She smiled at him and batted her eyelashes, completely oblivious to the effect she had on people.
"H-how…can I help you?" he stammered, clearing his throat in a desperate bid for composure.
"I was wondering what kind of music you carry," she said, tossing a glance my way. "My sister, Lith, is really into—"
She was still talking, but I slipped away to browse the shelves. Rows of vinyl albums were arranged neatly by genre, labeled on small handwritten tags. Rock, classical, R&B, hip-hop, techno… It felt surreal to see so much pre-war music collected in one tiny corner of Thornhill. Back in the capital, anything from that era was rare, guarded by the royals or private collectors. My own fascination with punk music had started thanks to some old tapes Ariella gave me—but finding entire records out in the open? Practically unheard of.
I moved closer to the rock section, heart pounding when I noticed a particular cluster of punk records. One album immediately seized my attention: Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols. My pulse quickened. It was the legendary (and infamously controversial) debut album by one of the most notorious punk rock bands of all time. I'd heard a few scattered tracks before, but never managed to locate the full album. This was a goldmine—and in a small-town record shop of all places.
As I reached for the record, a voice cut through the soft hum of the store's overhead fan.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"
I nearly jumped, turning to see a boy with long, shaggy dreadlocks and olive-toned skin. He wore a beat-up leather jacket over a white T-shirt, paired with black boots. An edgy look, sure, but it was the challenging tone in his voice that put me on guard.
"They're not toys, you know," he added, nodding at the record in my hand.
I frowned, bristling at his attitude. "I'm pretty sure I know exactly what this is."
"Do you now?" He took a step closer, and to my surprise, he sniffed the air around me—like some suspicious dog. A moment later, his brow furrowed, which only made me more defensive. I'd showered after fixing up the bike, so it definitely wasn't hygiene.
"You're not one of those Sanguine Hills kids," he muttered. "You're human."
I blinked, rolling my eyes. "Of course I'm human," I replied. I'd already figured he was a Lycan—some Etherborn had that sharp, animalistic sense of smell.
"You're not from around here," the boy persisted, gaze steady on me.
I shrugged, trying to hide my annoyance. "What gave it away?"
He folded his arms. "I know everyone in Thornhill."
Before I could come up with a retort, the boy from the register sidled around the corner, Ella trailing behind him. "Ben, are you scaring off our customers again?" he asked, exasperation evident in his tone.
Ben, the nosy Lycan, chuckled, taking a slow step back. Though I was relieved to have a little personal space again, I was still gripping the Sex Pistols record tightly. My heart was thumping from the unexpected confrontation,
"Of course not." He said.
"Plus I don't scare easily," I said as I pushed past Ben to get to Ella.
"So, did you find something?" Ella said excitedly. "Neil here said he could give it to us for a discount."
"Wait, what discount," Ben said. He followed us to the counter where I got my card ready to pay for it.
"When did you start handing out discounts?"
"Since Anna here could negotiate," Neil said. He swiped my card and handed it back to me. I turned to Ella surprised at her. She winked and turned back to Neil.
"Thank you, Neil." She said.
"You do know she's a Vampire," Ben said. "She could have charmed you into doing it."
"Anne would never do that," I said. Charm on a human was a serious crime. Only members of the R.E.T.U could use it and only on criminals.
"Don't listen to Ben," Neil said. "Your sister was quite-"
"Sister! Don't be ridiculous, they don't look anything like sisters." Ben said. I raised my eyebrows at him. He was beginning to get on my nerves, this damn dog. "What! It's true." He was quite right. But in a way, Ella was like a sister to me. Actually, she was more than a sister to me. But he didn't need to know that.
"We're sisters. I was just adopted, that's all." I said as I finished my ice cream. I threw the cone in the trash, not in the mood to eat it.
"Oh." was all Ben said.
"Ben, beside manners," Neil said. "I don't want you scaring off our teammates,"
"Teammates," Ben and I yelled at the same time. I couldn't help but frown at this dog that was as stunned as I was.
"Yes, Neil and I agreed that we should combine our team and work together as a group in the Dungeon." Ella said. The excitement in her eyes was enough to scare me. I knew she would never use Charm on an unsuspecting human but I was scared of the way she was using her natural beauty to her advantage.
"Are you guys Dungeon Raiders," I said to Neil.
"Yeah, we just recently got our license so we plan on raiding the Dungeon," Neil said. "Since you guys own the land around Enoch estate and the woods, I guess you must own the rights to the Dungeon."
"Yes, we do" Ella said. It turned out that the rights to the Dungeon and the land it was on belonged to whoever owned Enoch estate. So when Sanders mysteriously bought their new home, they became owners of the Dungeon. Before the rights were theirs, ownership of the dungeon belonged to the Dungeon Association that was also a part of the town's administration. If one wanted to become a Dungeon raider, they had to apply and show qualifications that they could handle the environment of the Dungeon. The number one qualification was that the person had to be an Ascendant-one who could cultivate. It didn't matter what race one belonged to. As long as you could cultivate the Primal power within oneself, they were allowed to become a Raider. When Ariella awakened her Vampirism, she had also awakened her soul core, which made it possible for her to ascend.
As Neil and Ella animatedly discussed the Dungeon, I gravitated toward the store's window, letting their voices fade into the background. Outside, the main road was still mostly quiet, except for a slow-moving cluster of people. They were all dressed in white—simple yet elegant garments that stood out starkly against the muted tones of the street. At their center, two limousines rolled by at a solemn, measured pace. It didn't take much to recognize the scene for what it was: a funeral procession. Vampires, unlike humans, dressed exclusively in white when burying their dead, a custom that reflected their ancient traditions.
"The funeral is for the Vikram family," a voice murmured behind me. Startled, I turned to find Ben standing there. He'd appeared so quietly that I hadn't even sensed his approach. That alone told me he wasn't an ordinary Lycan. His movements were too refined, too practiced—his presence too fleeting, like a shadow that barely disturbed the air. I found myself wondering just how old he was. With Manaborns, you could never trust appearances, and cultivation only made it harder to gauge. Even Vampires, with their ageless beauty, were often centuries older than they seemed.
"The Vikram family?" I repeated. The name carried weight. The Vikrams were a branch family of the Ruthven House—one of the seven great Vampire noble houses, alongside the illustrious Ashtarmel House. Their patriarch, Lord Vikram, held sway over the Northern Isle region. But what puzzled me was why they were here, in this sleepy town of Thornhill, instead of one of the grand cities where their kind typically resided.
"Yeah, the Vikram family. Michael Vikram's the mayor of this place," Ben said, his voice even. Mayor? That was a surprise. "The eldest son died recently."
That explained it. The Lord I'd heard of might not have been here, but another Vikram clearly oversaw this town's affairs.
"What happened?" Ella asked, her soft voice drawing me out of my thoughts. She had moved to my other side, her gaze fixed on the slow procession outside.
"No one knows," Neil chimed in, finally stepping away from the counter. His voice was lower now, more serious. "But the leading theory is that he was killed in the Dungeon."
The air seemed to grow heavier. The words "killed in the Dungeon" hung between us like a lingering shadow. Everyone knew that Dungeon raiding was one of the most dangerous occupations in existence. High mortality rates were part of the job description. It was a grim truth: immortality did not mean invincibility. Manaborns, for all their resilience, could still be destroyed. I was well aware of the methods, and so were the creatures lurking in the depths of the Dungeons.
Neil's words carried the weight of a warning—reminding us that the monsters in the Dungeon were not merely things of myth. They were real, deadly, and more than capable of bringing down even those who thought themselves untouchable.
After a pause, Neil offered, "Hey, if you want, Ben and I can show you around town."
Ella brightened. "Really?"
"Don't you have a store to run?" Ben and I spoke almost in unison. I shot him a sideways glance, unimpressed by the fact that we'd agreed on something.
Neil shrugged. "What's the point? We don't exactly have a line of customers out the door." With that, he pulled off his apron and tossed it onto the counter. "My uncle won't mind if I close a little early."
Ella turned to me, her expression full of anticipation. She'd just finished her cone and was clearly ready to explore. I knew what was coming and decided it was easier to go along with it.
"Fine," I muttered, resigned.
Ella let out an excited squeal and threw her arms around me in a quick hug. Ben watched us intently, his dark eyes unreadable. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but I didn't like the way he looked at us. Something in his gaze made me feel like I needed to keep a closer watch on him—this wasn't a Lycan I could afford to underestimate.
_
Royal Palace of the Ashtarmel family
Yorkside Region, Pandemonium City
Capital of the Kingdom of Ashtarmel
August 3rd, 6406
6:50 p.m.
Ariella shifted her weight, silently observing her father and uncle as they murmured in hushed tones. The enclosed elevator made every word feel close yet unreachable. Their serious expressions were a sharp contrast to the soft chime of the descent. She couldn't help but wonder why they were heading to the palace's basement—a part of the estate strictly forbidden to her. Her father rarely, if ever, allowed her into these hidden recesses. The very notion sent an anxious thrill coursing through her.
It had been years since her eighth name day, the event that marked a turning point in her life. That day, her father had gifted her a silver dagger bearing the Ashtarmel house symbol—a blood-soaked sun engraved into the hilt. That same day, he had insisted it was time she learned to fight. She'd eagerly taken to weapon training under Sanders, relishing any opportunity to make her father proud. But there had been a change in the air since then, a sense that something important—something secret—was happening just out of her sight. Now, standing here in the elevator, Ariella felt that same electric tension bubbling up again.
The elevator's soft hum came to a halt, and the doors slid open with a gentle whoosh, revealing a long, sterile corridor bathed in the cool glow of floating orbs of light. Her father and uncle stepped out first, her father's firm grip on her hand guiding her forward. Waiting for them in the corridor was Sanders, dressed sharply in his military uniform. His stoic face betrayed no hint of what lay ahead. When he saluted, his voice carried a measured formality.
"My King. My Lord."
"Sanders," her father acknowledged with a slight nod.
"Are you sure about this, brother?" General Nehemiah said, his voice uneasy. "If they find out we have it…"
"They won't," her father replied curtly. "And it's not 'it.' It's a person, Nehemiah." He gave Ariella's hand a small squeeze. "Come along now, Ella."
Ariella quickened her pace, struggling to keep up with the adults as they turned down the corridor. Glass-paneled doors lined the walls, each one concealing some unknown purpose. The smooth floor beneath her feet gleamed under the floating lights, and the cold, sterile air carried a faint metallic scent.
They stopped in front of one of the glass doors, and Sanders gestured towards it. Ariella's stomach tightened as she peered through the transparent barrier. Inside, a girl was perched on a stainless steel bed. She had an almost feral energy about her, even in stillness. Ariella felt an unexplainable pull toward her—a strange tug at her chest that made her press closer to the glass.
As if sensing their presence, the girl's head snapped up. Her eyes burned with something untamed, and before Ariella could react, the girl bolted toward the window. She struck the glass with a fierce punch, causing Ariella to jump back instinctively. But the reinforced pane didn't give. Instead, the force of her blow sent the girl sprawling backward, crashing onto the floor.
Ariella's heart lurched. The girl's pain was palpable, and without thinking, Ariella rushed to the door. She grabbed the handle, but it was locked. Turning sharply, she glared at Sanders.
"Open it," she demanded.
"I can't do that, Princess," he replied coolly.
"I command you, as your First Princess, to open this door," Ariella said, her voice edged with authority.
Sanders hesitated, then turned to the king. "Your Grace, that girl killed ten of my best men back in the Dread Forest," he said. "Saint Astarth could barely restore her to a proper state, and it took two full squads to transfer her here. She's highly dangerous."
"I don't care," Ariella said firmly.
"Better do as she says, Richards," her father said with a faint smirk. "Her temper is worse than mine."
Sanders sighed, pulling a card from his pocket and swiping it against the lock. The door beeped and slid open. Ariella didn't wait for permission—she darted inside.
The room was stark white, devoid of decoration. A single steel toilet sat in one corner, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly. The girl lay on the floor, groaning softly as she struggled to stand. Her legs wobbled, betraying her weakened state. Ariella moved toward her, her hand outstretched.
"Are you alright?" she asked gently.
The girl's head snapped up. "Leave me alone, you fucking bloodsuckers," she spat. But as her eyes settled on Ariella, she faltered. Her wild expression softened, confusion creeping into her gaze.
"You're not a vampire," the girl murmured, her tone a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
"I am," Ariella said. "I just haven't awakened yet. Do you need help getting up?"
The girl shook her head, pushing herself upright with slow, deliberate movements. Despite her earlier outburst, Ariella couldn't help noticing how striking she was. The girl's light brown skin contrasted with her midnight-black hair, and a jagged scar ran from her lower lip to her jawline. But it was her eyes—bright orange and full of fire—that captivated Ariella the most. They reminded her of a wild predator's, untamed and alert.
"I'm fine," the girl said, brushing off Ariella's concern. She raised her arm—the same one she'd used to punch the window—and rotated it gingerly. There were no obvious signs of injury.
"You're strange for a vampire," the girl said, her tone less hostile now. Her eyes flicked past Ariella to the adults standing outside the glass. "I take it the one in the middle is your father."
Ariella glanced over her shoulder at her father, then back at the girl. "Yes. How did you know?"
"You look alike," the girl replied simply. "Why am I here?"
Ariella opened her mouth to answer but found she didn't know what to say. She had no idea why this girl had been brought here—or why her father had decided to involve her.
"Ariella," her father called, his voice calm but firm. "Come here."
She hesitated, torn between staying and obeying. Finally, with a heavy heart, she walked back to her father. As she stepped out, Sanders closed the door behind her.
"Father," she began hesitantly.
"It's time to go back upstairs," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We wouldn't want the Queen to worry now, would we?"
She nodded, her gaze drifting back to the girl behind the glass. Those piercing eyes followed her, burning into her memory. Ariella knew she wouldn't soon forget them.