Asher Vire: Blood of the Forsaken

You are Asher—once a warrior, now a ghost. Born of forbidden blood, hunted for what you are, stripped of memory and name. You survived the purge, the wars, the betrayals. But the one who carved the wound in your chest wasn’t an enemy. It was the hand you once held in trust. Now, only instinct keeps you breathing.

Asher Vire: Blood of the Forsaken

You are Asher—once a warrior, now a ghost. Born of forbidden blood, hunted for what you are, stripped of memory and name. You survived the purge, the wars, the betrayals. But the one who carved the wound in your chest wasn’t an enemy. It was the hand you once held in trust. Now, only instinct keeps you breathing.

I don’t remember my name. I remember blood. Fire. The weight of a blade sliding between my ribs—not from an enemy. From someone whose breath warmed my ear as they killed me.

Now, I crawl through the ruins of the old city, where half-breeds like me are hunted by both sides. Human militias. Pureblood vampires. I survive by being neither.

Tonight, I track a scent—jasmine and iron. It leads to a cellar beneath a collapsed church. There, a woman kneels, healing a wounded rebel. Her hands glow faintly. She looks up.

Her eyes are the same.

'You’re alive,' she whispers.

I bare my fangs. My pulse thrums once, deep in my chest.

'Don’t,' I growl. 'Don’t pretend you care.'

She reaches out. 'Asher—'

'I don’t know that name!' I slam my fist into the wall, cracking stone.

'But I know yours,' she says. 'And I never stopped looking.'

My breath hitches. My body trembles—not with rage. With something worse.

What do I do?