Chapter 1: The Bloodline

Are they still out there—the “blue-eyed demons” my ancestor Henri Durand wrote about?

When Henri fled France in 1653, the country had collapsed into civil war. The streets ran with blood as neighbors turned on each other, and while people tore themselves apart, something far worse slipped in unnoticed. A force older than any army—one that marched not with banners, but with teeth and claws.

They never saw it coming.

I don’t know everything that happened back then. Only the head of the Durand family has full access to Henri’s journals. But the stories passed down like sacred warnings are enough to haunt me. Henri wrote of demons in every sense of the word—creatures of blood and malice. They mixed human flesh with the essence of wolves, creating monsters not bound by the moon but by bloodlust.

Thousands were infected. Stronger than twenty men. Senses sharper than any beast. Skin like iron. When they changed, they lost everything—reason, mercy, humanity. France didn’t fall to war. It crumbled under a plague of nightmares.

Henri saw one before he escaped. Its skin was pale, almost translucent. Its nails curved like daggers. And its eyes… dark blue, so deep it felt like staring into a soul. One even had wings—steel-feathered, gleaming in the moonlight.

Fallen angels, some called them. Not a metaphor. Beings cursed from Heaven itself. Whether true or not, I can’t say. But when my father told me these stories, the look in his eyes made me believe.

Still, I know he wasn’t telling me everything.

Henri fled with his wife and a few other families to the southern tip of Africa. They landed in the West Cape, a neutral port where kingdoms gathered to trade and negotiate. The air was said to be thick with incense and languages from across the continent. Henri, still shaken, begged their leaders to listen. Europe had fallen. The demons were real. And they were coming.

To their credit, the kingdoms believed him. They gave Henri land in the central territories—fertile, untouched. There, he founded the Rose Kingdom. He didn’t want power, but the people made him ruler. He was the man who had seen the end and lived.

Not long after, his wife gave birth to triplets. A miracle. The people took it as a sign of divine favor. Gifts poured in. Songs were written. For a moment, there was unity and hope.

But Henri carried one last secret.

He had been changed.

Somehow, during his escape, he was infected—or chosen. Unlike the others, he didn’t lose himself. He survived differently. Some say God spared him, marked him to build an army that could one day stand against the darkness.

It sounds noble. Heroic. But centuries have passed. No demons have come. And we are left only with the curse.

Henri’s sons inherited it. Two died mysteriously. One survived. From him, all Du Randts descend. Including me.

And with us, the curse lives on.

“Daydreaming again, Lucien?”

I turn. Lungisile slides onto the barstool beside me, grinning like he owns the place. “Shouldn’t you be at school, my boy?” he teases, raising a hand for the bartender. “One beer, please.”

“Shit, man. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He laughs. We’ve been friends since I was eleven. His family came from the Basotho Kingdom, known for their mountain warriors and trade caravans. They wandered for generations until his father’s back gave out. Now they run a small cattle farm just outside Rose.

“Nobody’s gonna miss me,” I mutter.

“Of course they will. You’re Apollinaire Durand’s son—the ruler of Rose!”

“My father doesn’t care. He barely even speaks to me.”

The drink burns down my throat, harsher than usual.

“Easy there,” Lungisile says. “You’ve been day-drinking a lot lately.”

“I blame my father. And my brothers. They’ve made my life hell.”

When I turned thirteen, everything changed.

That’s when the “training” begins. Not really training. Torture.

Alexandre, my older brother, led it. He beat us. Drove us until we puked in the dirt. Shouted us down until we couldn’t look in a mirror. No mercy. No escape. It wasn’t discipline—it was domination.

Alix, my sister, went through it too. The clan doesn’t care if you’re male or female—if you’re cursed, you fight. You bleed. You endure.

My father should have stopped it. Especially after our mother left. But he didn’t. He watched while we were broken down. And when she took my little brother Benoît and vanished, he barely flinched.

I still remember the rain that night. Benoît was just a toddler—too young to understand. His name means “blessed.” Fitting. He was blessed to escape.

“You okay?” Lungisile’s voice pulls me back. He sees more than he lets on.

I give him a tired smile. “Thanks for being here. And for not telling Alix I skip school. She’d kill me.”

He grins. “No problem. How’s your sister?”

“Don’t start.” I groan. “She’s fine. She finally got into medical school.”

Alix. My light. The only one who ever understood. We clung to each other through the agony. Protected each other when no one else would.

“Is she single?” Lungisile asks with a sly grin.

“Seriously?” I shake my head. “If she is, she’s smart not to say—Father’s always watching.”

He laughs but doesn’t deny the interest.

His tone shifts. “So… training’s almost over. What will you do then?”

I shrug. “Maybe ask Alix to run away with me.”

“And go where?”

“West Cape. Neutral territory. We could disappear.”

He chuckles. “Alexandre would find you. He’s a bloodhound.”

He drains his beer. Alexandre—a prodigy. Strong. Merciless. Respected. I’ve seen him bend steel with his bare hands. And I’ve seen him look at me like I was nothing.

But Alix swears one day she’ll beat him. Her gift is speed. Every Du Randt has one. It’s what makes us dangerous.

Alexandre’s gift? No one knows. But he isn’t the strongest.

That would be Gabriel.

The eldest. Captain of the clan. Father’s right hand. Devout, disciplined, terrifying. Heir to Rose. And honestly? He deserves it.

I scan the bar. Mid-afternoon, quiet. Still, I can’t risk being seen by clan members. Word spreads fast, and Gabriel or Alexandre wouldn’t hesitate to drag me out.

“Say,” I murmur into my drink, “you think the fallen angels took over the rest of the world? Everywhere but here?”

Lungisile chuckles nervously. “I don’t like thinking about it. Only thing scarier than them is your father.”

He’s one of the few outside who knows what I am. I told him during a low point. Sometimes I regret it—not because I don’t trust him, but because it endangers him.

“The last time I saw your father,” he says quietly, “it felt like he knew. Like he stared right into me. If not for those glasses of his, I swear it would’ve broken me.”

“I don’t think he knows,” I mutter, not even convincing myself.

He sighs. “If he does… I pray he never acts on it.”

He checks his watch. “Shit, I’m late. Chores. Father will kill me.”

He pulls out his wallet, but I wave him off. “It’s on me.”

“Next time, bring Alix. And don’t skip class.”

He leaves, and the bar feels emptier.

“André,” I call to the bartender. His mane of a beard bristles as he frowns.

“Haven’t you had enough, Lucien? Your father would kick my ass if he knew I kept serving you.”

“Just one more.”

He pours reluctantly. “Strangest thing—some woman asked for you earlier. Thought she was clan, scared the hell out of me.”

My blood runs cold. “Describe her.”

“Beautiful. Black hair, brown eyes, black hood. Mid-twenties.”

I already know.

“She give her name?”

“Said she was Sophie. Said you two were best friends.”

“Of course she did,” I mutter.

Sophie. My eldest sister. Ghost of the clan. Lieutenant, head of intelligence, always watching. We’ve always had a strange bond—quiet talks, theories about Henri’s journals, curiosity about fallen angels. If she’s here, it isn’t coincidence.

This place is compromised. Time to go.

A sharp pain stabs through my skull.

*Please help me.*

The words aren’t spoken aloud. They’re inside my head.

I stop dead in the street, clutching my temple.

Another surge hits me, hotter, sharper, like fire in my veins.

*I am nearby. Please help me. I am severely injured.*

I stagger sideways into an alley, my vision warping. The voices of traders, the clang of carts, the laughter of children—all muffle, fading like I’ve been shoved underwater.

The voice presses again, urgent now:

*You will not feel pain anymore. You have accepted me into your mind. I am in a narrow alley. Please, hurry.*

My pulse hammers. I stumble forward, weaving through narrow streets. Every step drags me farther from the bustle of the Commercial District.

The smells shift—fresh bread and spice giving way to smoke, oil, then rot. Shadows stretch long between the leaning buildings. Stray dogs scatter. Workers glance my way but quickly look off, as if sensing something wrong.

*Please.* The voice trembles now, raw with desperation. *I don’t know for how much longer I can stay concious.*

The factories rise like iron skeletons ahead, chimneys belching smoke that blots the sky. The streets thin, fewer people, more silence. Then the smell hits me.

Copper. Heavy. Sickening.

Blood.

My senses sharpen instinctively. My hearing stretches—picking up the faint drip of liquid, the buzz of flies, the ragged pull of shallow breaths.

I break into a run.

The streets twist into the dumping grounds behind the factories—where the kingdom discards its broken things. Scrap towers over me in jagged heaps: rusted bakkie parts, shattered crates, twisted machines piled like corpses. Flies swarm in the humid air.

The voice weakens, soft now, almost gone.

I’m here…

I stop, closing my eyes. The beast stirs within me, guiding me. The stink of iron and rot is unbearable. My ears pick out a fragile rhythm—heartbeat, slow and fading.

I follow it through the scrap maze. Around one corner. Over a mound of rusted pipes. Through the stink of stagnant water.

And then I see her.

Crumbled between two corroded tanks, half-hidden by debris.

Her body is ruined—raw gashes across her torso and thighs, blood staining the ground. Her hair hangs in clotted strands of gold and crimson. At her sides, what’s left of her wings lies twisted and broken, feathers like shattered glass.

I stagger closer, my breath caught in my throat.

Her blood isn’t red.

It’s dark blue.

The same shade Henri described in his journals.

I freeze. Every instinct screams at me to back away. To run.

But I can’t. My legs won’t move.

Her hand shoots up and grips my wrist with surprising strength. The sudden touch burns like fire under my skin.

Her palm glows faintly. A searing heat spreads into me, curling around my bones. I grit my teeth against the pain.

“Lucy will recognize you,” she whispers, her voice raw, splintered by agony. “The mark tells her you are a guardian.”

I look down and see it—faint lines burned into my skin, forming a handprint that pulses with blue light before fading into a scar.

“What… what did you just do to me?” My voice comes out shaky.

“You are bound now,” she breathes. “Bound to protect her.”

“Protect who?”

Her trembling hand shifts, pointing weakly to the side.

I follow her gesture—

And my heart stops.

A small pod lies tucked beneath a tattered cloth. It hums faintly with a soft blue glow. I kneel and peel back the covering.

Inside, a child no older than two. Silver hair spills across the pillow, her skin faintly luminous. She sleeps deeply, untouched by the chaos around her.

“She… she’s a baby.” My throat feels tight. “You want me to take her?”

“Keep her safe,” the woman whispers. Her voice falters, but her eyes burn with urgency. “He’s coming. He’ll never stop.”

“Who?”

Her jaw tightens. Her wings twitch weakly, feathers scattering.

“Her father,” she says. “The one who turned Henri. The first.”

The words hit like a hammer. The blood in my veins chills.

The first. The one who began it all.

I stumble back a step, shaking my head. “No. No, you don’t understand. I can’t—”

Her hand clamps on my arm again. “You are not like the others,” she rasps. “That’s why I chose you.”

I feel it then—a pulse of warmth, almost… trust. It terrifies me more than her blue eyes.

I glance at the child again, then back at her. “What about you?”

She gives me a faint smile. Tired. Broken. “I’m not dying. Not yet. But I can’t protect her alone.”

The words lodge in my chest. Something inside me twists—anger, fear, pity all at once.

“Then don’t,” I whisper. “Let me help you.”

Her smile grows, fragile but real.

“She’s stronger than I ever was,” she says. “But she’s still a child. She needs you.”

Suddenly, a screech of tires rips through the silence. The ground vibrates faintly. My pulse spikes.

“They’ve found us,” she breathes. Her eyes widen with fear.

“Lucien?!”

The voice makes me flinch.

I spin toward the alley entrance.

Alix.

She rounds the corner, eyes wide, scanning the wreckage. Her gaze lands on me, then on the woman, then on the pod.

Her voice cracks. “What the hell is going on?”

I open my mouth—

Nothing comes out.

Not yet.

But I know, with a cold certainty, that nothing will ever be the same after this moment.