Enter her world-If you dare.
In a court ruled by lust, betrayal, and ancient blood rites, silence is not peace—it’s prophecy. Elara’s Silence is a gothic fever dream of power, seduction, and vengeance, where a fallen vampiress awakens beneath the weight of a forgotten legacy. Bound by prophecy, betrayed by love, and reborn in shadows, Elara doesn’t seek redemption—she seeks reckoning. This isn’t your typical fantasy. This is myth rewritten in blood, prophecy stitched in flesh, and desire sharp enough to wound.
Step closer, but beware:
Once you enter Elara’s world,
it doesn’t let you go.
Read the excerpt:
The Thirsting Moon
Thornebridge Hollow bled when it rained.
Not from the sky—but from the well at its center, an ancient basin carved from duskstone and veined with centuries of offerings. The water had turned red long ago. Some said it was the blood of forgotten saints. Others whispered it was a wound left behind by a vampire god that could never fully close.
Whatever the truth, the villagers drank only rain, burned sage near their thresholds, and prayed to any shadow that listened.
Now they whispered a different name.
Elara.
She arrived just after moonrise.
Wrapped in black velvet slick with ash-oil, she moved like smoke across the mud-streaked road, trailed by Kaeliah and three barefoot humans from the servant cult—the Bloodflower Devouts—bodies marked in scar tissue and linen, inked with her sigil. Their eyes were glazed with hunger and awe.
The villagers fell to their knees.
Not by command.
But because something in them remembered.
The last time a prophet came to Thornebridge, the well had boiled. Crops flowered and then bled. The dead had sung in their graves.
Now Elara passed again.
Her presence did not ripple the air—it devoured it. The glyphs along her spine flared faintly beneath her silks. Her scent—rose ash, blood-oil, memory—clung to the stones.
One old midwife whispered, “I saw her once… in Cindervale. Long ago. A boy helped her…”
But she couldn’t finish.
Because Elara had stopped.
She turned her head slightly. Not fully. Just enough for the glyphs on her collarbone to shimmer as if stirred by thought.
Kaeliah stepped forward. “They’ve reinforced the wards,” she murmured. “Court glyphs. Houses Thorn and Mavros are watching.”
Elara’s lips curled. “Then let them.”
The Devouts lit incense soaked in marrow-oil. Silver smoke licked the sky. Elara dropped her cloak, revealing a silk ritual slip so thin it clung to every curve, as if afraid to let her go. Her thighs shimmered with new glyphs, inked just the night before. Her skin glowed with prophecy and sweat.
Kaeliah stepped closer, voice tight. “You’re burning hotter.”
“I’m remembering faster.”
Elara dipped her fingers into the red ink—her own blood, thickened with whisper-root and ash resin—and touched the chapel wall.
It flared.
Her breath slowed.
The square held still.
And then—she painted.
This time, the mural was a tree.
Twisted. Massive. Split by a bolt of crimson lightning. Its roots fed on bones. At its base, a woman dangled in silver vines, her eyes covered, her womb glowing with flame. Wolves circled the branches—howling with mouths but no tongues.
Kaeliah watched silently, fists clenched.
Elara’s hips swayed with each stroke of the brush. Her movements were trance-born. Her lips parted in unspoken prophecy. Glyphs on her arms pulsed with her heartbeat—faster, harder. Her silks clung like second skin, damp with effort and the heat that rose from her body like sacred steam.
The wall began to bleed.
Villagers collapsed. One man screamed and clawed at his temples. Another began convulsing, mouth spilling forgotten Psalms. A midwife ripped her blouse and wept into the dirt.
Kaeliah stepped forward. “Elara—enough. You’re pulling from the Deep Vein.”
“I was born further,” Elara whispered, voice echoing with something not hers.
Elara Winterborne
Damien Winterborne
