The first scream came from the ashes.

Zariah Baptiste stood in the Hall of Firelight, eyes locked on the flame that danced atop the old ceremonial basin. The other elders had long since left, but she stayed behind. The flame—lit weeks ago during the name remembrance ritual—had refused to go out.

Now it flickered unnaturally.

It spoke.

Not with words. With images.

A child. Alone. Running barefoot through a jungle thick with red fog. Behind them, something followed—massive, shifting, invisible. Not a god. Not a vampire. Something else.

Zariah gripped the edge of the basin. “Another bloodline?”

Sanaa entered quietly behind her, a solemn look in her eyes. “No. Not a bloodline.”

Zariah turned. “Then what?”

Sanaa stepped closer. “A survivor.”