The blood swirled, a crimson galaxy in the obsidian scrying basin. The Elder Voivode narrowed his eyes, dark as petrified wood. Moonlight, filtered through arched, leaded windows, caught the glint of the viscous liquid, reflecting the tension etched deep into his gaunt features. He had poured the essence of a dozen lesser Blood-Blooms into the basin, each offering a transient, flickering image of the fugitive, Milena Rostova. Each image, without fail, dissolved into static and shadow the moment it neared the Dolina Tsveta. “Useless,” he rasped, the word a dry leaf skittering across the stone floor. His voice, usually a silken tremor, held a raw edge of impatience. “The old wards around that accursed basin grow stronger with every passing lunar cycle. It repels even the deepest sight.” Before him, on bruised knees, knelt an initiate named Zharko. Sweat beaded on the boy's brow despite the chill in the chamber. He clutched a scroll, its parchment brittle with age, the script a faded, cryptic language only the Elder could truly decipher. He had failed to locate Milena beyond the whispers of the forest; his scrying had proved entirely hollow. “Master, the legends speak of an energy welling from the lowlands,” the initiate stammered, voice thin. “A primordial pulse, an ‘Echo in the Stone,’ they called it. It scrambles all known detection runes, all blood-magic.” The Elder pinned the speaker with a flat, cold stare. “Legends? You speak of legends when the celestial convergence is but a fortnight away? I require solutions, Blood-Speaker, not fireside tales!” He slammed a fist, bone-white and gnarled, onto the rim of the scrying basin. The blood within rippled violently, splashing a few crimson droplets onto the boy's cheek. The acolyte flinched, skin prickling under the master's scrutiny. “The ritual cannot be delayed,” the master continued, voice dropping to a low rasp. “My curse, the millennia-old blight of the Blood-Stain, grows more potent with each passing day. My connection to that valley is… entangled. I *must* break free.” He paused, his breath rattling in his chest like dry seeds. “And Milena Rostova, the last true Blood-Bloom of her line, carries the only key.” The initiate swallowed hard. “The forgotten craft in her blood, Elder? The one that can soothe the hollow?” “Calm it? No, boy. Control it,” the Elder corrected. “Her blood, combined with the power of the alignment, will not merely break my personal curse. It will subjugate the Dolina Tsveta itself. That soil is a nexus of power unseen since the Age of Ash. With its core under my dominion, the Conclave will reign supreme, unchallenged by any noble house, any rival conclave, for all eternity. And the plague it will unleash upon the lands… a mere cleansing. A culling of the weak before the new dawn.” The Elder leaned closer, his shadow engulfing Zharko. “But she evades us. That *thing* guarding the lowlands, the cursed giant, he shields her. And now, even my own blood-scryers fail to pierce the veil.” His gaze drifted to the red drop on the speaker's cheek, then to the clean flagstones. “An untidy failure.” The boy looked around, searching for an escape that did not exist. He knew the master's punishments. They were not swift. They were… illustrative. “Forgive me, Elder! I will redouble my efforts! I will –” “You will cease,” the Elder interrupted, his tone flat. He lifted two fingers. From the deep rafters overhead, a figure detached itself. It was not a man, nor wholly beast, but an assemblage of spliced tendon and pale hide, stitched together from discarded trials. Its form was hulking, disproportionate, with too many joints and a maw that stretched wider than a human head, bristling with needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes, a dull, sickly yellow, glowed with an unsettling intelligence and hunger. It moved with a sickening, liquid grace, its multi-jointed limbs clicking softly on the flagstones. A low growl rumbled from its chest, a sound like grinding stone. This was no mere hunter. This was a ‘Grave-Hound,’ a living weapon designed for one purpose: to track and destroy, its senses attuned to the faintest tremor of life-force, the most elusive scent of blood. The youth gasped, scrambling backward on hands and knees. The Grave-Hound swung its snout toward him, dull eyes fixing on the crimson smear on his jaw. The Elder watched dispassionately. “Your efforts are no longer required. But your blood still serves a purpose.” He tilted his chin. “A test, perhaps, for our tracker.” The Grave-Hound lunged. A brief cry broke off into a wet crunch against stone as the creature clamped its jaws shut. The Elder merely turned away, unperturbed by the gruesome efficiency. “The gorge may shield her,” the Elder murmured, addressing the beast, “but it cannot mask the resonance of her Blood-Bloom heart. Go, Grave-Hound. Find her. Bring her back alive. Unharmed.” The creature’s sickly yellow eyes fixed on the Elder, a flicker of comprehension. It lowered its head, a guttural sound in its throat, then turned, melting back into the shadows and slipping through a narrow seam in the stone. The Elder walked to a tall, polished obsidian mirror set into the wall, its surface reflecting his hollow, ruthless face. He regarded his reflection, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “The Bloom will come home, one way or another.”

Echoes in the Stone