Titans legacy, p.1
Titan's Legacy, page 1
Titan’s Legacy
By G.S. D’Moore
Copyright © 2026 by G.S. D’Moore
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission, contact gsdmore@outlook.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
If you like Haremlit Readers, monster girls, harem lit, or want to check out something by the other Dukes of Harem then check out the linked Facebook groups for other good reads.
Cover art by Mykel Ferguson
ISBN 13: 978-1-971031-01-9
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Ominous dark clouds obscured the setting sun as they moved quickly across the sky and plunged the world into premature darkness. A powerful eastward gale blew across the Sound and Seattle. There, citizens, human and supernatural, hunkered down for the evening. A brave few might face the storm for a cup of the city’s renowned coffee, but not even the caffeine-addicted were ready for the downpour to come.
The wind blew onward into the state and southward across the peak of Mount Saint Helens. It was still shattered and off kilter from giving birth to the dragon Bob sixty-four years ago, but the snow adorning its peak swirled and scattered under the gusts. From there, it continued its trek inland. It made trees sway dangerously, cracked branches, and sent them careening down into power lines. Thousands groaned as their power unexpectedly went out. Augmented Reality interfaces blinked out. People who a second ago were playing MMOs with others across the globe found themselves cut off from the audio, visual, and physical sensations brought to life by the next-gen glamour-powered gaming equipment. Courtesy of Venetian Worldwide Industries. The select few hardcore gamers who had backup generators just for this purpose were able to log back on before their party delved the next dungeon.
On a more low-tech note, forest critters sensed the disturbance in the air and went to ground. Owls sheltered in trees, snakes curled under roots, and squirrels disappeared into nests buried in the trunks of the giant Redwoods. While the video-game aficionados might be using literal magic to entertain themselves this evening, the animals felt the natural magic of the world stirring around them. The storm was a part of it, but there was much more in store.
The gusts continued across the Pacific Northwest until it arrived at a compound at the end of a long drive in a secluded section of forest. Even though summer was changing to fall, the heaters embedded under the driveway kicked in to prevent any frost from clinging to the stones. After an incident with a god of winter, the owners invested heavily in heating equipment.
The drive sloped up and around to end in the center of the compound of three buildings. The largest was a home that would go for millions if anyone ever put it up for sale. Next, there was a barn. It looked like it underwent renovations decades ago, and it was already in need of a fresh coat of paint, among other things. Finally, there was a stone chapel that had seen better days, and those days predated colonial America. That begged the question, who exactly built the chapel, and who did they worship?
The line of spaces at the end of the drive were normally empty, but tonight there was a fifteen-person van parked along with several high-end sedans. The men sitting in the back of a truck parked across the street, which was masquerading as a utility vehicle prepositioned there to deal with storm damage, made a careful note of all the license plates before the vehicles entered the compound. They ran it through every database available to them, but they were all rentals. Beyond that, they only had a hit on the van. It was rented to someone with diplomatic credentials that prohibited them from looking further. Still, the surveillance team listened and tried to learn anything they could about the impromptu gathering.
The lights were off in the house before the gusts began to knock down branches as the storm came in off the Pacific and began to rage far to the north. No one could make out the lightning flashing in the distance, the magic swirling through the ether, or hear the loud claps like a forge god striking his arcane anvil. Even if the storm was enough to put nature’s fury on display, the wards built into the walls, trees, buildings, ruins, and the land itself muted and dissipated everything. To those within the protective boundaries of the estate, the only thing they had to worry about was the light shower descending from the heavens. Although, as anyone from Washington State or Oregon knew, that light shower could become a tempest at the drop of a hat.
As nature beat its fists against the creations of man, a new sensation filled the compound. Anticipation leaked into the air itself and created the charge of energy that always preceded something momentous. The tapestry of fate was being woven here tonight. Would it fray mankind or bind it closer together?
For several seconds that question remained unanswered until the door to the main house slowly opened into darkness. At the center of that void, like a singularity birthed at the core of a black hole, a flicker of light appeared. The light grew and grew until it formed a shape, but it wasn’t natural fire. Fire burned orange or red while this one blazed a brilliant blue-white that glowed with some inner catalyst, and it took the shape of a cross. The cross grew larger and larger as it bobbed forward until a man emerged with the ethereal flame blazing on the end of a golden staff. Despite the fire, it didn’t scorch the precious metal or even the man holding it. In fact, the moment he hit the damp, cold air, he shivered.
He glared at the flames for failing to warm him before giving himself a shake and continuing forward. He wore a midnight black cassock with a red sash tied around his waist, a red biretta on his head, and gleaming gold buttons down his front. The square cap with four peaks and a tuft on top wasn’t usually seen outside Vatican City when the world media covered the election of a new Pope to be the Holy Father of people on Earth. Although, nowadays, there was far less fanfare when the Catholic Church chose a new leader. Who needed someone to speak for God when a titan lived among them?
In one hand he held the golden staff and in the other an old book. Old was an understatement. This text was ancient. Older than any Egyptian papyrus scroll or grimoire bound in animal hide. It was so old it should have disintegrated at the man’s touch, but it did not. The symbol etched into its bindings scoffed at the concept of time, and so the book remained. If one looked carefully enough, the droplets falling from the sky simply ceased to be before hitting its cover.
With his tokens of office in hand, the man stepped into the elements and marched across the compound. He gave the darkness all around him a disgruntled expression, like it was ruining the ambiance, but that didn’t stop him as he continued on with the cross held high. Below in the surveillance van, the agents didn’t so much as register a blip. It looked like business as usual in the compound. It very much was not.
As he walked, he began to chant in a language long lost from the tongues of man as he angled his path toward the chapel. From the darkness of the main house, more people followed as a procession formed. One . . . two . . . ten . . . twelve acolytes followed the holy man with the burning cross into the rain. Unlike the cross-wielder, these people were covered from head to foot in dark robes tied with a simple rope belt. Their faces were hidden in shadow, and they kept their heads bowed as they continued to chant in the lost language. After them emerged a final group. There were five of them. One was hooded like the rest, but their hands were bound in bright silver manacles, and their feet in dark shackles.
If there were a Fae or werewolf nearby, they would instantly know those metals. Her wrists were chained in silverbane. It was toxic to shifters of all kinds, while the dark metal was cold iron . . . the bane of all Fae. Since the individual was still up and moving, that meant they were neither. Neither material was cheap, so it was ceremonial, but those metals and their properties meant something.
Whatever their purpose, the person shuffled forward. Their bare feet squished into the damp earth, and mud splattered the bottom of their black robe. “Is this really . . .?”
“The initiated will not speak,” a harsh voice snapped from one of the four figures surrounding the so-called initiate.
They stood tall and strong with their faces proudly shown to the world. All four faces were notable in nations around the world. Some were heroes and others were villains, depending on who you asked. But that was how things went in a world so consumed with differences. One man’s terrorist was another man’s freedom fighter.
Despite the chastising tone, the two men and two women seemed part defender, part jailor as they chanted along with the rest of the procession across the compound. The man with the cross and the hooded acolytes entered the church through a dilapidated doorway. The wooden doors hung from rusted hook s, and moss covered the inscription above the door, but no one seemed to care about the state of disrepair as they entered and lined the walkway leading toward the altar. There, the holy man stuck the symbol of his faith into a waiting stand, turned to face the procession, and bowed his head in prayer.
The final five stopped before the entrance, and one of the women stepped forth. She stepped in front of the shackled individual and placed her hands on her shoulders. Flickers of the fire illuminated her face. She was beyond middle-aged and well on her way to being old, but it wasn’t the wrinkled complexion of someone’s nanna. Her face had lines, but they were hard ones born of a lifetime of experience, and her eyes were full of life. There was joy, sadness, caution, and excitement etched into those brown irises. Her short dark hair had the cut of a fighter. It left little to block her vision or for an enemy to use to yank her off balance. As for her outfit, it couldn’t be more different from the full-coverage robes.
Athletic pants clung to her hips, and a sports bra highlighted a modest chest. To put it bluntly, she was ripped, but as surprising as it was to see a chiseled grandma, that was the last thing people focused on when they saw her. If they lived long enough to recount the tale.
A six-pack you could do laundry on and muscles that belonged on a competitive stage were nothing compared to her scarred and heavily tattooed flesh. Sometimes, the tattoos hid the scars. Other times, they were the scars.
Two half sleeves covered both arms from the shoulders to the elbows and contained creatures that were considered myths until sixty years ago. Her biceps and triceps contained the fanged grins of vampires, the otherworldly beauty of the species of Fae, and peeking over her shoulder . . . the raw power and might of a dragonspawn. If she rolled up her sleeves at a ComiCon convention everyone would assume she was a fantasy fan girl. The beyond-athletic physique disabused anyone of that notion. Fantasy fan girls didn’t spend their lives in gyms and dojos training for combat and battling some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet. That was what her tattoos represented. They weren’t a homage to the magical. They were a kill count. These weren’t ink to express herself. It was her version of a trophy room. Instead of mounting heads on a wall, she imprinted them on her flesh for all to see. A reputation was sometimes deadlier than a blade, gun, or spell, and this woman had a reputation and some to spare.
But that wasn’t all of it. Not even close. In several places what looked like chicken scratch was tattooed onto her flesh. But not with ink. Whatever etched those marks into her radiated a metallic gleam and looked more three-dimensional than two. In fact, the more a person looked at them, the more their head hurt. If someone looked at them long enough, the woman wouldn’t even need to throw a punch to scramble their brains.
In the light radiating from the church, the mysterious material glowed the same blue-white as the burning cross. Coincidence? The off-putting symbology adorned her fingers, the back of her hands, and was worked into both of her forearms before progressing to more unusual places. A garrote of it encircled her neck like a collar or noose. When she looked down at the initiate and blinked away the rain starting to drip from her short hair, more were carved into her eyelids. As she raised her arms to place them on the person’s bowed head, it highlighted the All Seeing Eye encircling her navel, while the coupe degras was three concentric rings that dominated her back. Even more adorned her anatomy covered by her athletic wear, but that was not something she’d be showing to their guests. Every woman needed her secrets.
“Do you enter these holy grounds of your own accord, without reservation, or purpose of evasion?” Her voice was raspy, like she smoked a pack a day, or maybe some of that chicken scratch was carved into her throat.
“I do.” In contrast, the reply from the shackled initiate was pleasant, feminine, but no less steadfast than the living legend standing in front of her.
“Do you seek power not for yourself, but in the service of mankind?” The interrogation continued.
“I do.”
“Do you give yourself to the service of those who require it? Family. God. And the masses who do not even know they need protection?”
“I do.”
“Thrice asked. Thrice affirmed,” the three others closed in around the initiate, grabbed her robes, and ripped them from her body.
Cold water rained down on her naked form. She was definitely a she, but she didn’t shiver. She didn’t shrink at her sudden nudity. She stood strong, and that got her a small smile and nod of approval from the older woman. If being buck-naked in front of other people made her freeze up, she was in the wrong line of work.
“With your oaths, we break these manacles made from the bane of our interlopers. We free you from their influence so you may serve,” she reached out, grasped the cold iron binding her wrists, and crushed it with a loud crunch.
“We break these shackles made from the fallen of mankind, bested by their animal natures, so you may walk the righteous path,” she kneeled down and did the same with the silverbane binding her ankles.
The older woman stood back up and paused. She looked into the light brown eyes of the younger woman. She was slightly taller, but most people were. The old woman’s legend was ten feet tall, not her. But legend or initiate, she saw the same burning fire and passion for the cause. Even if the cause had nothing to do with all the dogmatic bullshit about to be shoved down their throat. She opened her mouth to tell the initiate that, but a loud ahem echoed from behind her.
The legend ground her teeth and shut her eyes as she stepped aside so the man could address the initiate. “You may enter when called and receive your blessings,” she said instead.
“Who wishes to enter?” the man at the altar called.
Unlike the rasp of the legend, his voice was nasally, like he spent most of his time with his nose shoved up other people’s asses. That was the impression she got when the man and his people arrived at the compound full of demands and lacking any semblance of respect. It was not the attitude she expected from allies. However, as much as it grated on her nerves every time he spoke, she took a deep breath and focused on something else. All they needed to do was get through the next couple of hours. Visions of her taking the flaming cross and shoving it up his ass helped soothe her famous temper.
“I wish to enter and serve,” the initiate answered and stepped forward to the edge of the threshold.
“Who enters with you? Who can attest to your worthiness?” the man responded.
“I attest to her worthiness,” the legend took her place beside the initiate and placed her hand on her shoulder. “I am Monica Van Helsing, sister of the Order, and I have trained her in the holy ways and accepted her oaths of fealty to the cause. I seek that she be recognized by the Ordo Flammae Sacrae and granted the same title as I.”
The man said nothing for several seconds as he gazed upon the naked young woman. Monica Van Helsing . . . the world called her the Wicked Witch. To the United Nations Worldwide Response Division charged with policing the supernaturals of the world, she was their Most Wanted. To the people she truly cared about, she was the matriarch of the Van Helsing Family. But in the moment, she was the woman who bit her tongue as she watched the holy man’s eyes focus on certain aspects of the initiate’s anatomy. It took every ounce of her self-control perfected over her seventy years of monster fighting and killing not to remove his head from his shoulders and send it back to his boss with his eyes stuffed into his mouth. If it were any day other than today, and any man other than him, a lecherous gaze directed at her protégé would mean instant death. Unfortunately, beggars couldn’t be choosers for more reasons than one.
“I recognize you, Monica Van Helsing, Sister of Ordo Flammae Sacrae. Bring forth your offering,” the man nodded.
“Donum,” the first rank of acolytes chanted as Van Helsing led the young woman toward them. They paused as the pair produced a pair of thin knives, bowed to the women, and dragged the blades across their open palms. They didn’t so much as wince as they rotated and handed the bloodied blades to the next rank.
“Donum,” the next rank stated as they repeated the motion.
Down the central aisle the two women marched and stopped at each rank until all twelve acolytes bled on the blades. Finally, as they stood before the holy man, the blades were passed to him. With a click, they connected to form a singular, thick blade that the man turned to place on the altar before turning back to the women.
