The whispers of your ancestors still cling to your thoughts as you ascend from the crypts, the weight of their counsel pressing against your chest like a second heartbeat. The raven—its message still unread—is no longer perched on the balcony when you return. Instead, a single black feather drifts onto the stone at your feet, its edges kissed by the faint glow of the moon. You pluck it from the ground, turning it between your fingers. It is warm, unnaturally so, and carries the faint metallic tang of the Blood Court’s magic.

You stride through the castle halls, your cloak billowing behind you. Servants and guards alike melt into the shadows as you pass, their eyes downcast. The raven’s absence gnaws at you. It should have waited. The Blood Court does not send messengers lightly, and to let its summons go unanswered is to invite their displeasure—or worse, their suspicion.

You reach the aviary, a towering structure of glass and iron at the castle’s eastern edge. The keepers have long since retired for the night, leaving the space silent save for the rustle of wings and the occasional hoot of an owl. The raven is not here either, but its presence lingers—a sharp, electric hum in the air. Then, a flicker of movement catches your eye. High in the rafters, something glints. A small, ornate box, its surface carved with the same sigil that marked the raven’s leg.

You leap onto the nearest perch, then the next, scaling the aviary with inhuman grace. The box is cold in your hands, its lock yielding to the brush of your thumb. Inside, a single parchment lies folded, its edges crisp. You unfold it slowly, the ink shimmering as if alive. The message is brief, written in the old tongue: 'The Court demands your presence. The Hunter stirs.' Your blood runs cold. The Hunter—a title spoken only in whispers, a relic of a time when vampires feared the daylight not for its burn, but for what walked within it.