Battery 1% Your device will shut down.

  As she sat there, the screen of her phone faded to black, leaving her with a sinking feeling of frustration. "Dammit, not again," she muttered under her breath.

  Nord turned her attention to herself in the mirror. The room was filled with an eerie silence, broken only by her heavy sighs. She began to undress, methodically untying the laces of her corset, one delicate strand at a time. Her blouse followed, each button revealing a bit more of her skin, and finally, her boots and pants were discarded.

  Standing there in front of the mirror, she examined her body, her canvas, tattoo by tattoo. Each inked design held a part of her, a piece of her soul etched into her skin. But now, a stark realization washed over her like a chilling wave—white spots of untouched skin were spreading across her once-adorned canvas.

  Her tattoos, her legacy, were fading away as if they were never there. Why? Was it the keys? Only being able to use them once?

  A profound sense of loss gripped her. It was more than just losing her tattoos; it was losing a part of herself, her true identity. She traced her fingers over the fading marks on her chest, trying to hold on to what was slipping away.

  Memories of her previous life began to resurface, memories that seemed distant and elusive through her voice but not her voice. Not this voice.

  She couldn't help but think back to the fateful night mentioned in the interrupted video—the night she was dumped by that boy. Her memories didn't match the account of the video.

  She remembered waiting for hours in front of the cinema, the cold gnawing at her, and the loneliness enveloping her like a heavy shroud. She had wandered the city aimlessly, seeking solace in the anonymity of the streets, until she inexplicably found herself in front of a tattoo store with a cat in her lap.

  But one question nagged at her: she couldn't recall finding Kirara, but she was there. She was sure of that.

  As she pondered these mysteries, doubt gnawed at her. Were these memories real, or were they fragments of a forgotten past? How much of herself had vanished from her mind? There was a part of her that yearned to run down the stairs and confront Baal, to ask him if they had met before and if they had been more than strangers. But a voice deep within cautioned her to remain silent, to keep the secret hidden.

  He must not know the truth.

  Not yet.

  "Nord, I wanted to say..." came a voice from the other side of the door, followed by a sudden and unexpected click as the door swung open.

  Startled, she hurriedly picked up her blouse and pants and dressed as quickly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest. As she glanced over, she saw Adamastor standing there, leaning against the wall, his hand covering his eyes, feeling the guilt of walking into something private.

  "I'm so sorry the door was open!" he stammered, feeling a flush of embarrassment.

  "It's fine. You can stop the drama. I'm dressed," she mumbled, trying to regain her composure.

  Adamastor lowered his hand, revealing his red, intense gaze. "I just came to tell you I will work on the cemetery."

  Nord raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "The cemetery? Why?"

  "I want to turn the shrine into... a safe place," he explained hesitantly.

  Her confusion deepened. "What sort of safe place are you talking about?"

  Adamastor struggled to find the right words, and instead, he revealed his fangs, a stark reminder of his true nature: a vampire spawn. "A safe place for you... so it's easier to have me contained. Or that I can go if I feel like…I'm losing control again."

  Nord was taken aback by his candid admission. "Adamastor, I don't think it's necessary, and..."

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  He interrupted her, determination in his eyes. "We both know it's needed, and you haven't felt comfortable with me here. I want to give you something... and this is all I could come up with."

  Nord was at a loss for words, unsure of how to react or what the proper thing to say. She stared at him, her mind racing.

  "Anyway," he continued, breaking the silence, "I'm going there now, so you know. I'll be back to prepare dinner for everyone."

  Adamastor's boots whispered down the manor's grand staircase, one hand grasping a well-worn broom, the other cradling a scuffed bucket. Autumn leaves, crimson and gold, laid a funerary shroud over the graves and the shrine outside. Each leaf was a marker of time slipping away, whispering the approach of winter.

  "Is getting cold," he whispered to himself, the ghost of a smile stretching across his face.

  Silent as a shadow, he glided through the iron gates that separated the estate from the cemetery. The gravel crunched lightly beneath his boots as his fingers danced across the tombstones like a pianist playing a lament. Every etched name struck a chord in the recesses of his ancient memory. "Emily... Daniel... Alaric... Tom... Rosemary... Frank," he murmured.

  Emerging from his reverie, he walked into the shrine. As he pushed the creaking door open, a different set of memories engulfed him.

  The floor still bore the rusty stains of Nord's blood; splotches on the wooden planks and walls seemed to scream at him in silence. He closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by the iron scent still haunting the air. Still enticing him.

  "Damn it," he whispered. "I... I didn't mean to."

  Putting the broom aside, Adamastor picked up his bucket, remembering he needed water and soap—more tools to cleanse, to erase. "Can't leave these old marks haunting the place."

  His eyes wandered to the broken benches cluttering the shrine. "These could be firewood," he mused. He was already conjuring up visions of refurbishing the space: an old couch, a bookshelf maybe—a cage for him but perhaps a welcoming abode where Nord might visit him and see him as something other than a monster. Or at least less of a monster.

  As he stooped to remove larger branches and rocks from the shrine's floor, a sting pierced his index finger, a scorching pain so intense he gasped. Confused, he examined the minor cut and the blood that welled from it, just two drops. "I haven't felt pain like this since—"

  His hands, almost paralysed with agony, reached down to pick up loose rocks and branches, reorganising the floor with an almost desperate need for order. And then—a sudden sharp pain lanced through his finger as if punishing him. It was a torment he hadn't felt since his transformation into a spawn.

  "What the—?" he stammered, staring again at the small but searing cut on his index finger. The pain twisted through him, completely at odds with the insignificance of the wound.

  His eyes widened when he brushed aside more leaves to reveal two ornate daggers lying hidden on the ground. The blades glinted ominously, engraved with the names—Morningstar and Berith.

  "You did come prepared, Nord," he said softly, lifting one of the daggers.

  A glance at the sky hinted at the day's approaching end. With the daggers held cautiously, Adamastor turned his back on the shrine, heading toward the manor and the dusk beyond.

  "Time to make dinner," he muttered.

  The door creaked softly as Adamastor stepped into the warm, amber-lit kitchen. His eyes met the weapons he had just placed on the high shelf—gleaming, deadly, almost mystical.

  Below them, Finnea and Kirara had already claimed their respective seats at the dining table. They watched him as though he were a walking succulent chicken.

  Adamastor chuckled, shaking his head. "Are you girls hungry?"

  Before they could reply, a boyish voice shattered the quiet as Bram leaned back in his chair, legs dangling. "What's for dinner tonight?"

  "Really, Bram?" his mother, Perdita, chided gently. "Perhaps you might ask Mr. Adamastor if he needs help first."

  She turned to Adamastor, her eyes like glowing embers in the dusky room. "Mr. Adamastor, do you need a hand with anything?"

  A shadow of a smile crossed the vampire's lips. "I've got it, thank you. But there is a bottle of red wine in the pantry. Merlin and Baal might enjoy a glass when they come down."

  Perdita's gaze followed an invisible path towards the stairs. "Merlin was planning on joining us after his bath. Nord, on the other hand…" Her voice dipped as her eyes clouded over with uncertainty.

  Wordlessly, she reached for a wine glass, filling it almost to the brim. She offered another glass to Adamastor, who accepted with a nod.

  As if on cue, Baal burst into the room. "Wow, it smells amazing in here."

  Perdita offered a wine glass filled with ruby-red liquid, her lips curving in a smile. "For you."

  His attention, however, was quickly captured by the two gleaming daggers on the shelf. "Those blades," he said, almost in a whisper, "where did they come from?"

  Adamastor glanced over his shoulder from the stove, where the aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air. "Found them in the shrine. They belong to Nord, I presume."

  The atmosphere grew taut as a bowstring. Baal's eyes narrowed, his voice carrying a hard edge. "Impossible. Those blades can't be Nord's."

  Adamastor shrugged his attention still on the sizzling pan before him. "I'm only telling you what I know. They came with her other belongings."

  "Other belongings?" Baal's grip tightened around the hilt of one of the daggers. "And where would she get Allatori blades?"

  The word "Allatori" dropped like a stone in a pond, sending ripples of unease across the room. It seemed to weigh down the very air, shrouding the kitchen in an unspoken dread. So consumed was Adamastor by the weight of this new revelation that he failed to notice the pan, now sizzling uncontrollably. It slipped from his grasp and clanged as loud as thunder on the floor, spattering oil in all directions.

  A drop of blood trickled down Adamastor's finger.

  Admastor has a cut. It was just a tiny cut.

  Just wanted to say a huge thanks for sticking with my story. Seriously, your support means the world to me and gives me a fuzzy feeling inside.

  Here's the scoop: I've already finished Book One - as I mentioned several times in comments (and yeah, it's literally just called Book One). Big oat on the shoulder for that!

  Moving on to Book Two, I'm almost there—just need to punch out another 20 chapters and polish up the ones I've got. I also finished Book Two.

  And there is no second without a third. There's going to be a Book Three. I haven't started it yet as I'm still working out the best way to wrap up everything, but that should come together once Book Two is all tied up.

  I'm also chipping away at a new novel called Hexe. Fair warning: it's not PG13 like Morningstar, so I'm not sure if it's everyone's cup of tea. It's my third attempt at this one, and I'm really into it—the world is massive, and the story's a long haul. If you're into sneak peeks or extras, I could drop some here, unless you'd rather stick to Morningstar stuff.

  I don't do these author notes often since I'm never sure what you'd want to hear about. Before I forget, I'm planning to release a new chapter every three days in December—starting on the 5th, then the 9th, 12th, 15th, 18th, and so on.

  Thanks a million for reading. Means a lot.

  Your Storyteller,

  Lara Reis.

  NOTE: Now is a good time for suggestions, questions, and possible plots you need to have resolved. In case they are not specified in Book One or Two, I can gather them in Book Three. So far, all questions presented in comments are solved in Book Two, but anything you wish to see (more or less), please keep these comments raining.