Your fingers move with practiced precision as you untie the slender ribbon binding the message to the raven’s leg. The parchment is crisp beneath your touch, its edges slightly frayed from the journey. As you unfurl it, the scent of aged ink and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps—tickles your senses. The script is elegant but urgent, penned in the looping calligraphy of the Blood Court’s scribes.

"To the Prince of the Night," it begins. "The Veil weakens. The First has stirred in his slumber. The Court demands your presence before the next crescent moon, lest the old bonds shatter and the shadows rise unchecked."

The words settle like a stone in your chest. The First—your ancestor, the progenitor of your line. If he wakes, the delicate balance of power between the vampire houses will crumble. The raven lets out a low croak, as if sensing your unease, before taking flight into the ink-black sky.

Your advisor steps closer, his frown deepening. "Trouble, my prince?" he murmurs, though his sunken eyes betray his own dread. The wind howls around the spire, carrying with it the distant howl of wolves. The night suddenly feels heavier, as if the stars themselves are watching.