Blood & Moon: Rise of the Fallen Vampire King Book 1

Prologue

In a forgotten age, when the stars still bowed to fate and prophecy, a realm hidden from the sun existed, the land of twilight, where immortals ruled.

The land where the vampires reigned as sovereigns and all other night-born creatures,

Witches, shape-shifters, fae, and spirits woven from shadow lived beneath their dominion. In this twilight world, the moon was law, blood was covenant, and immortality was the crown that bound them all.

Among the firstborn of Umbralord were two brothers of purest night. Born of the blood, yet destined to opposing fates.

Liam, the elder, was chosen to rule, not by decree, but by the will of the people. He was a creature of balance, strength tempered by mercy, and power bound by love. His reign brought calm to the restless darkness, and under his feet, even the moon bent low to light his path.

But Lazarus, the younger, was not content to live in his brother’s light. Though he shared Liam’s blood, he was not blessed with his heart. The kingdom adored Liam; even the stars seemed to favor him. Envy took root in Lazarus’s heart, growing like poison in his veins. What began as admiration turned into bitterness, and from bitterness into hunger for the Dominion.

In secret, Lazarus turned to those whom his brother had forbidden, the coven of the forsaken witches, exiled long ago for their dark sorceries. Liam had cast them out when their magic sought to devour souls and corrupt blood. But to Lazarus, they offered the power he needed. They whispered promises into his dreams of a throne carved from bone, of eternity pursed in blood. And so, envy became betrayal.

On a night when the moon swelled to its fullness and the eclipse began its slow descent, Lazarus fulfilled his pact. He took from Liam the one thing his brother loved more than life itself. Lena, his beloved mate, is the heart that tethered his mercy. She was slain upon the altar of shadow, her blood sealing the witches' spell.

On a journey through the borderlands, far from home, Liam felt the tearing of his soul – the bond between mates screaming through the void, and the mark of their mating burned through his soul. His heart convulsed, and the world grew still. He returned in fury and despair, finding only silence and blood.

The earth shuddered. The stars turned their faces away. Blinded by grief, Liam tore open the heavens and unleashed the storm of blood and vengeance. For three nights, the sky rained crimson, and the dead whispered his name in reverence and fear. The moon dimmed, and Umbralord turned red as his fury devoured his enemies.

Even the heavens trembled at the force he could command. Fearing the storm he had awakened, Lazarus sought once more the help of forsaken witches. Together, they rose against Liam, weaving a spell of moonlight and ash, a sorcery older than time and forbidden, capable of awakening earthly terror, binding Liam’s power in chains forged from their darkest magic. His strength was broken, and his dominion crumbled beneath the weight of their might.

They sealed his might within the fabric of time itself, scattering it across generations yet unborn. Weakened and betrayed, Liam was cast out of Umbralord, exiled to the mortal realm, a shadow among men, stripped of crown and power.

Yet curses are living things. From the blood that stained the altar, prophecy was born. The stars themselves carved their judgment into the moon:

“Upon the lunar eclipse, when the moon ascends in crimson light, a child shall be born beneath its gaze, a soul bound by death and destiny. Through her veins shall flow the power of the fallen, and through her blood, the curse shall be lifted.”

Fearing this, Lazarus hunted every child born beneath that moon, drowning the prophecy in its cradle. But fate is patient.

Over a millennium has passed. The brothers' names faded into myth. Umbralord slept beneath the veil of time, its memory buried in shadow. Yet still, the moon waited.

Then, on the night when the eclipse returned and the moon rose highest once more, its silver light brushed the world with ancient memory. A child was born into mortal hands. Her grandmother, herself a witch, a descendant of those who once served the exiled king, had a vision of her great-grandmother, who warned her that the child must be kept safe.

The child was named Anastasia, meaning ‘resurrection’. For though her, the fallen king would rise again.

Her cries echoed softly through the silence of the night, and the stars trembled in recognition. Though she would grow among mortals, her blood sang to the forgotten night.

The heavens stirred, and the old curse began to awake, ready to be broken.