Smoke still danced over the ruins, as if unwilling to leave the stage of disaster. The blackened stones of the Auction House trembled in silence. From a cracked tower, where molten metal still trickled down the walls, a figure stood—silent and defiant.
Half her face was hidden beneath a black crystal mask, carved like a broken wing. The other half revealed thin lips and brown eyes glowing with sinister calm. Morgana. Her silhouette remained motionless, surrounded by smoke and the spectral light of dawn.
Below, among the rubble, some saw her.
"She's the one!" a sentry murmured. "The leader of the rebels…"
Morgana didn't answer. She merely raised a ceremonial spear and struck it into the ground with a sharp thud. Then she vanished into the shadows, leaving the survivors with more questions than answers. What they didn't know was that this had been a distraction—a perfectly orchestrated farce to blame the rebels and conceal the true culprits: the Ancients. And Klaus.
Kai jolted awake. Pain sliced through him like an invisible blade. On his chest, where there had once been healthy skin, something burned from within. An incomplete triskel, seared into his flesh.
Arisha knelt beside him, cradling his head with trembling hands.
"What's happening to me…?" Kai whispered between gasps.
She stared at him, her face stained with ash and someone else's blood.
"The same thing that's happening to the world," she said. "It's breaking."
Lessa leaned her back against the damp tunnel wall. Her leg was still bleeding, but the wound wasn't normal. Around it, the skin had mutated, turning a sickly gray. She tore off part of the venom-soaked bandage and let the blood drip.
Where it fell, the tunnel water sparked and boiled.
"Don't touch me," she told Arisha as she reached out. "If you do, they'll mark you too."
Arisha pulled back, sensing that the curse was spreading faster than they could understand.
Baco, meanwhile, walked alone through the upper tunnels. The heat was suffocating, and his skin had begun to crack, as if he were crumbling from within. The only sound was the echo of his own steps and the name he repeated like a mantra:
"Arisha… Where are you?"
Around him, silence mocked his anguish. Every time he thought he found a trace of her—a bloodstain, a torn scrap of cloth—the path led to another dead end.
It was in the shadows of one of those lower tunnels that Mikhael appeared.
Arisha felt his presence before seeing him. The air grew colder, as if death walked with him. The figure emerged from the dark with calm steps, holding a metal-handled cane.
At his feet lay Klaus's body, partially burned. The mask that had once hidden his face had fallen nearby, broken but recognizable.
Mikhael crouched, picked it up, and examined it with curiosity. Then he turned to Arisha.
"There's only one way back," he said in a low voice, as if speaking to a lost child. "And someone has to carry the blame."
Before she could respond, Mikhael placed Klaus's mask on his face. The cracked half revealed his crooked smile.
With forced gentleness, he took her by the arm and led her toward the surface. The corridors trembled with the voices of nobles and survivors demanding answers.
Mikhael emerged before them, the mask in place, casting an imposing figure.
"Klaus betrayed us all!" he shouted. "He allied with the descendants of Nevri—with the hunters of the first generation! This young woman was his prisoner. I rescued her."
The people, starved for a scapegoat, did not hesitate. Mikhael's words spread like wildfire. Klaus's fall was sealed with that lie.
From the shadows of the highest balcony, Nevri watched. Her eyes glowed with an ancient brilliance, impossible to define. Beside her, an elder vampire awaited her command.
"Should we intervene?" he whispered.
Nevri looked at her palm. There, the triskel shimmered with growing intensity.
"Not yet," she said. "Let them drown in their own masks. We are the truth no one dares to face."
And thus, under a sky blackened by fire, lies, and ashes, a new version of the story was born. On the surface, Klaus was the traitor. In the shadows, the Ancients wove the end of balance. And on the chest of a young girl marked by the Moon… the key of fate had begun to turn.