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The name “Zariah” had always sounded ordinary to her. A name whispered by her mother in bedtime prayers, scrawled across school papers, shouted during dreams. But now it carried weight. Every time she spoke it—really spoke it—it shook something loose in the air.She tested it again in the candlelight: “Zariah Baptiste.”The walls of the church seemed to pulse in response. Her blood markings flared.Lucien watched her closely. “Names are power,” he said. “Especially when the enemy feeds on forgetting.”Darius stepped into the room carrying a bundle wrapped in black cloth. “We found this buried under the orphanage floor. Another mask—different design. And this…”He unwrapped the bundle.Inside was a scroll, its paper aged and ink faded.Zariah gently opened it, revealing a map of the Southern United States—but the landmarks were unfamiliar. Cities that no longer existed. Rivers that ran through towns that were now dust.One place was circled in deep crimson:Ashridge, Mississippi.Lucien narrowed his eyes. “That place was razed during the Fire Rebellion in 1872. A vampire enclave wiped out by an unknown force.”Zariah nodded. “Then that’s where we’re going.”Darius frowned. “Even the Houses won’t go near Ashridge. It’s cursed.”Zariah folded the scroll. “So am I.”They traveled under cover of night.Ashridge was buried deep in the woods, accessible only by an overgrown path that had devoured three GPS signals and every attempt at tracking magic. When they arrived, the trees were silent. Not dead—listening.“Something’s watching us,” Lucien said.Zariah looked up. The stars above didn’t match any constellation she knew.Darius readied his blade. “This place has been scrubbed from memory. No birds. No insects. No sound. Just…”He stopped.Ahead of them stood a stone arch, cracked down the middle.Etched into its face: “We who were forgotten remember her name.”They stepped through.And the temperature dropped.In the clearing beyond the arch was an ancient temple, overgrown but intact, its roof covered in vines that curled like fingers. At its center was a circular platform with seven empty chairs.Just like the Hollow Tree.Zariah’s sigils lit up the moment she crossed the threshold.But this time… they bled.Gold turned red. Her markings wept blood.And from the shadows of the temple, a voice emerged.<blockquote>“You should not have come.”</blockquote>It was her voice again. But wrong. Hollow. Echoing like a broken song.Zariah stepped into the center of the circle. “I know who you are.”A figure stepped into the moonlight.Tall. Masked. Wrapped in layers of woven hair and old names.Not a man. Not a god. A vessel.<blockquote>“Then speak my name.”</blockquote>Zariah’s voice was steady.<blockquote>“You are Kuthuluwe. The Forgotten Tongue. The God of Unmaking.</blockquote><blockquote> But I am Zariah Baptiste. And I name you enemy.”</blockquote>The ground cracked.The moon flickered.The wind screamed with ancient syllables.But Zariah didn’t flinch.She stood tall in the center of a place meant to erase her.And she remembered.

Book Two: The Shadow Reborn

ProudMommy0321

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Ceria Mcgrone

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