The cavernous catacombs echoed with dripping water that struck ancient stone like a metronome for forgotten prayers. Firelight flickered against carved walls, illuminating symbols etched centuries before, their meaning blurred by time yet worshipped as if still bleeding power. The air hung thick with incense and iron, smoke and blood clinging to lungs and making mortals tremble.

Beneath the bright, careless city above existed this place—untouched by modernity. No screens, no wires, no hum of technology. Only candles, shadows, and rituals ruled here. Hooded figures moved silently, heads bowed, clutching relics polished by centuries of devotion. The forgotten city lived as it always had: in worship, in sacrifice, in secrecy.

At the heart stood the great hall with its vaulted ceiling veined with cracks. Obsidian altars gleamed beneath candles, red-stained and holy. Rows of kneeling followers filled the chamber, awaiting their goddess—not woman, not vampire, but divine presence.

Ximena moved through silence as if it belonged to her. Her robes whispered along stone, trailing like shadows that dared not leave her. Every step deliberate, each motion weighted with centuries. Tonight the air thrummed differently—thicker, heavier—as destiny seeped into walls, announcing something long-awaited approaching.

Her mind drifted to prophecies read a thousand times—scrolls in forgotten languages, blood-stained ink foretelling an outsider who would stumble into her sanctum not by choice, but by fate. For centuries she prepared, carving her cult from bone and flame into an empire worthy of receiving destiny's gift. Her power was vast but incomplete. A vessel awaited.

Beneath control, hunger flickered. What would he be? What would he taste like? The thought unsettled her—not in cruelty but in its proximity to longing. As incense curled and chanting began, that serpent of desire awakened inside her ribs.

Her eyes swept the chamber, drinking in followers whose blind loyalty painted the air. They would die for her without question, yet none mattered. Tonight, their purpose was singular: to deliver what prophecy promised. She lifted her chin, golden-red eyes blazing, and settled upon the obsidian throne carved with lotus petals.

The chanting deepened as hooded figures entered, carrying a dazed stranger between them. The cult parted like water before them as they approached their goddess. From her throne, Ximena sat poised—serene yet burning—as her gaze fixed on the figure fate had finally delivered.