Palmer stood in the dim glow of the study. The weight of history sat heavy in the room, pressing against Damien and Sarah like an invisible force. He had been speaking for what felt like hours, unraveling the ancient past of their bloodline and the cursed artifacts—until the door creaked open.A figure staggered inside, dragging something behind him."Sorry to interrupt," Lucius muttered, his voice strained. His injured body swayed slightly, but he held his grip firm on the thing he had dragged in—an unconscious figure, its body flickering between two forms, as though the very air around it refused to accept its existence.Damien’s stomach twisted. What the hell?Lucius shoved the creature forward. It slumped onto the marble floor with a dull thud, its limbs twitching in unnatural spasms."Found him lurking in the courtyard while I was setting up my domain," Lucius said, wiping a smear of blood from his lips. "It stole Sila’s body. Passed out from fear when I caught him." He exhaled s

The night was thick with tension, the city lights blurring into streaks of white and amber against the dark. Inside the dimly lit limousine, Edward Ashworth-or the skinwalker that wore his body sat stiffly, his face pale under the flickering glow of the passing streetlights. The skinwalker's thoughts raced. "We miscalculated. We didn't expect a noble vampire there... Completely changes everything about the plan. What do I tell them?" His fists clenched on his knees, a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow "Are you alright, sir?" the driver, Walter, asked, stealing a glance through the rearview mirror. His voice was casual, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. The skinwalker forced a stiff smile, masking the dread brewing beneath. "Yeah, yeah... I'm fine. Just the pressure of it all getting to me." Walter didn't push further. "Alright sir," he replied, focusing back on the road, though the unease lingered in the tense silence between them.The car glided through the

The temple was a monument of forgotten horrors. Its towering stone pillars were etched with cryptic runes, faded from centuries of blood and decay. Cracks veined the cold dark walls and faint whispers seemed to seep from them, like echoes of souls long devoured . The air was thick, saturated with the metallic scent of dried blood and the faint, sickly sweetness of rot. Shadows stretched unnaturally long into the darkness. At the heart of this decaying sanctum, sat a throne--not carved from stone, but forged from the bones of countless victims, twisted together with iron and gold. Upon it's lounged a silhouette with long, dark cascaded hair like black silk, stained at the ends with fresh blood. Crimson eyes, glowing with the intricate pattern of noble lineage--the same haunting design etched into Palmer's gaze on the day of the werewolf attack -- pierced through the gloom. She was devouring the remains of a lifeless body, drained of blood, it's skin pale and shriveled like parchment