Rain fell steadily over Ravenbrook, the rhythmic patter blending with the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Dante followed Alaric through the winding alleys of the ancient city, his footsteps splashing against the wet cobblestones. The mark on his palm burned faintly, its pulsing heat a constant reminder of the strange new reality he had been thrust into.
"Where are we going?" Dante asked, his voice sharp with frustration.
"To where your questions will find answers," Alaric replied without breaking stride. His coat swirled around him as he turned into a narrow passageway.
Dante clenched his fist, hiding the glowing sigil on his hand. "You always say that. How about some actual answers for once?"
Alaric glanced back, a faint smirk crossing his face. "Patience, Dante. Some truths are best shown, not told."
They emerged into a desolate courtyard, the space dominated by a towering cathedral that loomed against the stormy sky. Its blackened stone facade was etched with intricate symbols that seemed alive, shifting whenever Dante tried to focus on them.
"This," Alaric said, gesturing toward the cathedral, "is where it all began."
Dante frowned, his unease growing. "What do you mean, 'all'? This place looks like it's been abandoned for centuries."
Alaric turned to face him fully, his silver eyes sharp and unyielding. "The Bloodline Lords once ruled from this city, Dante. Their power shaped the world, binding both mortal and supernatural alike to their will. This cathedral was their seat of power."
Dante felt the weight of Alaric's words press against him. He looked at the towering structure, its spires cutting into the clouds above. The air around it was heavy, suffused with an energy he couldn't explain but instinctively felt.
"They're gone now," Dante said, almost as if trying to convince himself.
"Gone?" Alaric let out a low, humorless laugh. "No. They are merely dormant, waiting for the right moment to rise again. And now, their power stirs."
Dante's hand throbbed, the mark glowing faintly beneath his glove. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "This mark... it's connected to them, isn't it?"
"It is more than connected," Alaric said, his voice grave. "The mark is a bond, tying you to the Bloodline Lords. It identifies you as one of their heirs, a vessel for their power reborn into this world."
Dante took a step back, his head spinning. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't choose it!"
Alaric's tone softened, but only slightly. "The Bloodline doesn't ask for permission. It chooses. And now that choice has fallen to you. But with it comes danger. Many will see you as a threat. Others will see you as a prize to be claimed."
Dante looked back at the cathedral, its foreboding presence filling him with equal parts dread and curiosity. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Survive," Alaric said simply.
The cathedral doors creaked open with a deep groan, revealing a faint red glow spilling from within. The light flickered like firelight, illuminating the rain-slick stones at their feet.
"Come," Alaric said, motioning for Dante to follow.
Inside, the air was colder, the silence oppressive. At the far end of the cathedral stood an altar bathed in crimson light. Resting upon it was a massive, ancient tome bound in black leather. Glowing runes adorned its cover, pulsating in rhythm with Dante's mark.
"What is that?" Dante asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"A chronicle," Alaric said. "The Bloodline's history, their power, their downfall. Everything they were—and everything they could become again."
He gestured toward the book. "Touch it."
Dante hesitated. The mark on his hand burned hotter, as if drawn to the tome. Slowly, he extended his hand, placing his palm against the rough leather cover.
The moment he made contact, the world seemed to tilt. His mind was flooded with visions: castles bathed in blood-red light, shadowy figures wreathed in power, battles waged under a sky veined with lightning. He saw faces he didn't recognize but felt he knew, voices echoing in a language he couldn't understand.
And then, one word cut through the chaos—a voice soft but commanding, whispering:
"Awaken."
Dante jerked his hand back, gasping for breath as the vision faded.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded, his voice shaking.
"The Bloodline calls to you," Alaric said calmly. "They offer a glimpse of what you are destined to inherit. But it is only a glimpse. The true test lies ahead."
Dante looked down at his hand, the mark glowing faintly again. "Why me? Why now?"
Alaric's gaze was steady, his tone somber. "The world is shifting, Dante. Old powers are stirring, and the Bloodline seeks its champions. You are one of them. Whether you want it or not, the time to choose is approaching."
As they stepped back into the stormy night, Dante felt the weight of unseen eyes watching him from the shadows. The air crackled with tension, and he knew he had stepped into a world far larger—and far deadlier—than he could have ever imagined.
And there would be no turning back