Chapter 9 Buried Alive

The burning would not stop.

Jameson slowly opened his eyes, but everything in front of him stayed blurred. The crimson moon hung above the mountain like a sea of blood, and dozens of unfamiliar faces stared back at him from every direction. Some looked terrified. Others looked as though they had just seen a ghost walk out of the ground.

He tried to lift his arm, and a sharp pain shot through his body, forcing a gasp out of him.

"What happened?" His voice came out as little more than a whisper.

No one answered him.

The priests surrounding the altar had already backed away several steps, their earlier confidence completely gone. One of them stared at Jameson as though he were looking at something that shouldn't exist in this world at all.

"The awakening has begun," the priest finally said.

His words sent another ripple of unease through the nobles gathered around the plaza. Jameson heard them, but they meant nothing to him. Awakening? He had only come to this mountain to die. Nothing about waking up made any sense.

The eldest member of the High Council stepped toward the altar, his crimson robes catching in the cold mountain wind. "Don't let him move," he ordered, the command aimed at everyone present. Yet no one moved to obey right away. The bloodline suppression still hung over the mountain like a fog, and every pureblood vampire there could feel it pressing against their veins, an invisible hand holding them back.

The elder's eyes hardened. "What are you waiting for?"

Before anyone could answer him, the Blood Altar trembled violently. A deep crack echoed beneath the stone platform, and every head in the plaza turned toward it at once. Another crack followed, stretching from the center of the ritual circle out to its edge. The crimson runes carved into the ancient stone flickered wildly, like a flame caught in the wind.

"The altar is becoming unstable," one priest shouted, and several others rushed back toward the platform. They knelt around the glowing runes and began chanting in the old language again, their voices carrying real urgency this time. The symbols beneath Jameson's feet brightened for a brief moment, then dimmed just as fast. The chanting wasn't working.

"It isn't responding," another priest cried out. "It has never rejected us before."

The eldest Council member stepped onto the altar himself. "Continue," he said flatly, and the priests obeyed. Fresh blood was poured into the carved channels from crystal vessels prepared for exactly this purpose. Normally the altar drank every drop without hesitation. This time the blood simply sat on the surface, untouched, before slowly flowing away from the runes entirely.

The priests stared at it in disbelief. "It refuses our offering."

A heavy silence dropped over the mountain. The Blood Altar had accepted sacrifices for centuries without fail. It had never once refused blood before tonight.

Lord Magnus slowly backed away from the platform and turned toward the nobles gathered behind him. "Clear the plaza."

"My lord?" Adrian asked, confused.

"The mountain is no longer safe."

His words proved true almost immediately. A violent tremor shook the entire summit, and several of the stone pillars surrounding the altar split apart with a sound like thunder. Fragments of ancient rock crashed down onto the plaza below. Every noble house abandoned whatever plans they'd had of attacking Jameson. Blood Guards rushed forward, not to fight anymore, but to shield their families from the falling debris. Servants scattered toward the mountain paths, and priests kept chanting desperately, hoping against hope to regain control of the altar. Nothing worked.

Another explosion tore through the ground beneath the mountain, stronger than the last one. The altar lurched hard beneath their feet. Jameson struggled just to stay standing as another wave of heat rolled through his body, blurring his vision all over again. Somewhere underneath it all, he could hear his own heartbeat, slow and heavy, almost ancient in its rhythm, as if each beat were answering another heartbeat buried deep below the mountain. As if something hidden in the earth were calling him home.

The eldest Council member finally understood what was happening, and his expression shifted from anger to something closer to fear. "Everyone off the altar!"

The warning came too late. The entire platform split apart in one violent motion, and a massive crack opened directly beneath Jameson's feet. The ancient stone gave way without warning. Jameson reached out for something solid to hold onto, but there was nothing left to grab. He fell, and darkness swallowed him whole. Huge slabs of stone crashed down after him, and the opening above him narrowed as centuries of old masonry collapsed into the abyss behind him. Priests and Blood Guards barely made it clear before the entire altar vanished beneath an avalanche of rock.

Dust rose into the night sky. The mountain kept trembling for several long moments before silence finally settled back over the summit. Where the Blood Altar had once stood, only broken stone remained. The ritual platform that had survived countless Blood Moons was simply gone, and there was no trace of Jameson anywhere in the wreckage.

One of the younger nobles swallowed hard. "Is he dead?"

No one answered him. Lord Magnus stared at the ruins without a word, and around him, members of the noble houses slowly gathered, each wearing the same uncertain expression. The eldest member of the High Council walked to the very edge of the collapse and looked down into the darkness. There was nothing to see. Only broken stone.

One of the other elders exhaled slowly. "The mountain buried him. The First Blood has returned to the earth."

Several nobles visibly relaxed at that. If Jameson had died beneath the collapse, then maybe this nightmare had ended before it truly began.

The eldest elder said nothing. His eyes never left the darkness beneath the ruins. Finally he spoke again. "Search every tunnel beneath this mountain."

Another elder turned to him, surprised. "You believe he survived?"

"I believe the Blood Altar did not awaken the First Progenitor's blood just to bury it alive."

Far below the ruined mountain, past the reach of moonlight and human memory, Jameson's body struck cold stone. Pain shot through him, but he was alive. For several moments he lay completely still, and then he slowly pushed himself upright. The darkness around him was absolute at first. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was standing inside an enormous underground chamber. Ancient pillars rose up and disappeared into the shadows above him, and the walls around him were covered in faded carvings unlike anything he'd ever seen back at Blackstone Manor.

At the far end of the chamber stood a colossal stone throne. Dark stains covered its surface, and even after countless centuries, they still looked exactly like dried blood.

Jameson stared at the throne, unable to look away from it.

Then the same ancient voice echoed through the silent chamber, soft and calm and endlessly patient.

"Welcome home."