It took them several days of relentless travel — days that bled together in streaks of forest and old roads, the sun nothing more than an occasional ghost behind storm-colored clouds. Neither spoke much. The man led with the surety of someone following an invisible thread, and Arina followed with the silence of someone who didn’t trust the scent of her companion, but trusted her instincts less.
When the lights of the city finally appeared, flickering through the rising mist, Arina slowed — the tang of something familiar striking her senses. Her nose wrinkled. The air stank of wolves.
She stopped just short of the city’s border, crimson eyes narrowing. “Really?” she said, her voice dripping disbelief. “You have your little rebellion tucked here? In a city crawling with mutts?”
The man beside her only smiled — a slow, confident tilt of his mouth that carried too much amusement for her liking. “The wolves here are domesticated. Like Rylan — all rules and restraint. They let every creature with polite manners roam free, so long as they don’t make noise.”
Arina’s brow arched. “You’re saying the best place to hide from your enemies is under their noses?”
He grinned, eyes flashing with something feral. “Exactly. Believe it or not… it works. And tonight, you’ll see just how well.”
He moved first, melting into the city’s pulse — and she followed. The streets were alive with nightlife, neon lights pulsing in time with the bass that rolled from somewhere nearby. The scent of blood, sweat, and power blended in the air like perfume.
They turned a corner, and there was a nightclub called Nocturne. The line of humans outside stretched along the block, the waiting crowd glimmering in impatience. Yet the moment the two of them approached, the bouncers straightened and stepped aside without a word.
The man didn’t even glance their way, guiding her past the entrance. The music hit her like a wave — deep, pulsing, alive.
But it wasn’t the humans that drew Arina’s attention. It was the undertone — that faint hum of power in the air, the metallic tang of old blood, the unseen eyes that watched from the shadows above.
They didn’t stop at the bar. The man led her through the shifting crowd, up the spiral staircase where the noise dulled and the lights grew warmer. A soft gold glow marked the VIP zone, guarded by two silent figures. One of them inclined his head, opening the door without a word.
The man turned slightly, his gaze lingering on her as they stepped inside.
“Welcome to the Inner Circle,” he said smoothly.
Arina smiled faintly, though her eyes flicked toward every corner, mapping the danger in the room. “I didn’t say I came to stay,” she murmured.
He chuckled. “Oh, you’ll stay, Arina. Once you hear what we have planned… you won’t want to leave.”
The door to the upper lounge closed with a whisper. The heavy bass of the nightclub below faded into a heartbeat’s pulse.
The man who led her here stopped before a long table carved from dark oak. At its head sat Varric. To his left reclined Seline with crimson curls spilling down her shoulder, eyes bright and venomous. Next to her — dangerously looking guy Darius.
To Varric’s right sat the twins, Cassian and Lira.
The man who brought Arina here stepped forward and bowed his head briefly. His name was Malric.
“Arina,” Varric greeted her. “Our ghost from Rylan’s house of chains. How gratifying it is to see you breathing free again.”
Arina’s lips curved faintly, her smirk carrying no warmth. “I didn’t realize I was anyone’s ghost. Though if I am, maybe I’m here to haunt you.”
A ripple of dark amusement passed through the Inner Circle. Cassian let out a low whistle. “Oh, she’s charming. I like her.”
“She bites,” Lira added.
Varric chuckled low in his throat. “And she bleeds — that’s what makes her real. Sit, Arina.”
She didn’t sit. Her eyes flicked to Malric, her tone cool, lazy, but edged with danger. “You dragged me here without telling me why. Start talking before I decide your open throat’s will serve me better.”
Varric gestured lightly with one hand. “Patience, little storm. You’ll like what we have to offer. You remember, perhaps, your old acquaintances? The ones who organized your capture — who sold your names to the hunters?”
Arina’s smirk faltered, the faintest shadow of memory sliding across her features. “You mean the European coven? The ones who bartered our heads for their survival?”
Varric’s eyes glinted. “Their descendants still walk among us. Proud, foolish — believing the sins of their bloodline buried beneath centuries of dust.”
Arina’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “You’re saying you found them.”
Malric smiled slowly. “One of them. A man named Lucien d’Alvere. He’s in our custody now. And he remembers your name. He’s terrified of it.”
Her eyes gleamed. “You have him?”
Varric leaned forward slightly. “We do. He’s being kept below. Alive, conscious, and very aware of who waits above.”
Arina smiled. “I came here thinking you wanted to recruit me,” she said, stepping closer. “But now I think you brought me home.”
Seline tilted her head, eyes narrowing in dark delight. “Do you accept what’s offered, then?”
Arina’s gaze didn’t leave Varric’s. “You give me Lucien,” she said, “and I’ll give you the blood of the Originals.”
Cassian laughed lowly, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, this one will set the world on fire.”
Varric smiled cold and triumphant. “Then burn it with us.”
And as Arina turned, Malric fell into step beside her. Down beneath the club, into the corridors where the scent of blood thickened with every step.
Beneath the club, the air was thick — a grave’s breath, stale and damp with centuries of rot and secrets. The stone corridor spiraled downward, lit by the blue light.
Malric walked ahead, the iron key spinning idly between his fingers. “He’s been… compliant,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “For a man whose ancestors fancied themselves gods among leeches, he whimpers like a rat now. But—” he cast her a sidelong glance, “—you’ll get your own impression soon enough.”
Arina didn’t answer. Her face was a sculpture of beauty frozen by centuries of betrayal.
When Malric opened the last door, the hinges groaned. Inside, the cell was narrow, lit by a single, trembling bulb. Chains clung to the walls. And in the center, bound to an iron chair, was Lucien d’Alvere — a man who had once moved through courts and cathedrals, now reduced to a shivering husk. His clothes hung loose, torn, stained by the metallic glisten of dried blood. Yet even in ruin, there was arrogance in the tilt of his chin, the faintest remnant of that old noble pride.
When his gaze lifted and met Arina’s. “You,” he rasped, voice cracking under disuse. “You can’t be real.”
Arina smiled with the slow bloom of venom. “They used to call me myth,” she said softly, stepping closer until her shadow fell across him. “But myths, dear Lucien, have a habit of walking again when history bleeds enough.”
Lucien’s eyes widened. “I— we were ordered— it wasn’t—”
“—your choice?” she interrupted, her tone lilting, mocking, almost tender. “Ah, yes. The classic words of cowards. It wasn’t your hand, only your voice. It wasn’t your betrayal, only your signature. Tell me, Lucien, which part of you watched as they chained us? Which part smiled when my brother screamed?”
Lucien trembled, his lips parting soundlessly. “You should have died,” he whispered. “You were never meant to survive that night.”
Arina’s smirk deepened, a glint of fang flashing beneath her lips. “I didn’t completely.”
Her hand snapped to his throat, slamming his head back. The chains clattered, the bulb flickered, and Lucien’s strangled gasp filled the chamber.
“You know,” she murmured, leaning close, “for years, I’ve wondered if the taste of your kind changed even a bit. Shall we find out?”
Her fangs grazed his neck, a teasing pressure before she drew back, letting the moment stretch.
Lucien’s voice broke. “Please—”
Arina tilted her head. “Please? Oh, I do love the sound of that word from lips that once ordered my death.”
Her hand twisted sharply and the crack of bone echoed through the room. Lucien screamed, and Arina watched detached.
“You remember the hunters you allied with?” she whispered near his ear. “The ones who dissected us? I remember their laughter when they realized we still felt everything.”
She released his throat, only to grab the dagger from the nearby table — a silvered blade made for torture. “You were a student of history, weren’t you, Lucien? Let me give you a lesson of my own.”
And she began to carve lines and symbols that mirrored the markings once burned into her own skin centuries ago.
Lucien screamed again, his voice fracturing against the stone. Arina’s movements were almost ritualistic.
Malric leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with detached intrigue. “You do beautiful work,” he murmured.
Arina didn’t look at him. “Beauty,” she said, “isn’t what’s seen. It’s what’s felt — when the pain finally remembers who it belongs to.”
Lucien’s breath came in shallow, trembling gasps. “Wh-what do you want?”
She crouched before him, meeting his eyes. “I want your line to remember,” she said softly. “To know that the blood of traitors never sleeps easy, that the Blood Twin has come back to finish what both of them started.”
She bit into her wrist, dragging her fangs through her own flesh until blood welled dark and rich. Then, gripping his chin, she forced it between his lips.
Lucien gagged, gasping as her blood burned through him.
“Now you carry a piece of me,” Arina whispered. “So when you dream, you’ll dream my memories. When you wake, you’ll taste my screams. That’s how you’ll remember.”
When she stood, her shadow stretched across him. “Keep him alive,” she ordered Malric without looking back. “Let him feel it for a century before he’s allowed to die.”
Malric smiled faintly. “You do realize that makes him yours now?”
Arina turned her head, eyes still glowing with crimson hunger.
“I know,” she said. “That’s the point.”
The door closed behind her. And in the dark, Lucien began to weep.
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