The sun rose sluggishly over Ravenbrook, its light pale and reluctant as it filtered through the dense morning fog. Dante sat on a worn wooden bench outside Alaric's hidden sanctuary, the faint chirping of birds doing little to calm his nerves. The events of the previous night replayed in his mind—his first fight, the sudden burst of power, and the cryptic warning from the hooded figure.
He clenched his fists, staring at the faint glow of the mark on his palm. It had felt like something alive during the battle, something just beneath his skin, waiting to be unleashed. He hated how foreign it felt—and yet, a small part of him craved that power.
Alaric appeared in the doorway, his presence as commanding as ever. "You didn't sleep."
Dante shook his head. "Hard to sleep when you find out people want to kill you for something you don't even understand."
Alaric walked over and sat across from him, placing a small leather-bound book on the bench between them. "Understanding will come with time. But survival can't wait. You need to learn control—now."
Dante eyed the book warily. "What's this? Some ancient spellbook?"
"Not exactly," Alaric said. "It's a guide, written by one of the first Bloodline heirs. It details their awakening, their struggles, and the lessons they learned. You might find it useful."
Dante picked up the book and flipped through its yellowed pages. The handwriting was elegant but barely legible, and the symbols that lined the margins made his head hurt just looking at them. "This is supposed to help me?"
Alaric smirked. "It's a starting point. But theory alone won't save you. Come."
Dante followed him into a clearing behind the sanctuary. The ground was hard-packed dirt, surrounded by ancient, gnarled trees that cast long shadows. Alaric stopped in the center and turned to face him.
"Draw your dagger."
Dante hesitated. "Why? Are we… sparring?"
"No," Alaric said, his expression stern. "You'll learn to focus your power. The mark is tied to your emotions, your intent. Right now, it's uncontrolled, reacting instinctively. That's dangerous—for you and everyone around you."
Dante pulled out his dagger, its blade catching the faint morning light. "What do I do?"
Alaric gestured to a wooden post nearby, its surface scarred and splintered. "Attack that. Focus on the mark. Let it guide you."
Dante frowned, gripping the dagger tightly. He approached the post and took a deep breath, willing the strange energy within him to awaken. He swung the dagger, the blade striking the wood with a dull thud. Nothing happened.
"Again," Alaric said.
Dante swung harder, frustration building in his chest. The mark remained dormant, and his strikes felt clumsy and weak.
"This isn't working," he said, lowering the dagger.
"Because you're holding back," Alaric replied. "The power of the Bloodline is fueled by emotion—fear, anger, determination. You're afraid of it, and that fear is holding you back. Embrace it."
Dante stared at the post, his pulse quickening. He thought of the hooded figure, of their mocking laughter and the threat they posed. He thought of the visions from the cathedral, the blood and fire and chaos.
The mark flared to life.
Heat surged through his arm, and the dagger began to glow faintly with the same crimson light. Dante swung again, and this time, the blade sliced through the post with ease, leaving a smoldering scar in the wood.
He staggered back, breathing heavily as the glow faded.
Alaric nodded, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "Good. That's the first step. But you'll need far more control if you're to survive what's coming."
Dante wiped the sweat from his brow. "What exactly is coming? You keep talking about danger, but you never say what it is."
Alaric's expression darkened. "The Bloodline Lords' enemies have many faces. Hunters, rogue vampires, even other heirs who see you as a threat. And then there are the Lords themselves."
Dante froze. "The Lords? I thought they were… gone."
"Dormant," Alaric corrected. "But not gone. If they sense your power, they may seek to use you—or destroy you. You must be ready for either."
Dante stared at the splintered post, his chest tightening. He had barely begun to understand his powers, and already the stakes felt impossibly high.
Alaric placed a hand on his shoulder. "You have potential, Dante. But potential means nothing without effort. We'll train every day until you're ready."
"Ready for what?" Dante asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Alaric's gaze was steady. "To decide your fate. And to face those who would decide it for you."
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Dante felt the weight of his new reality settle on him. There was no going back to the life he once knew. And deep down, he wasn't sure he wanted to.