I left Drennar in his room, the door clicking shut behind me with a soft finality that echoed in the stillness. Nysera had already slipped back to her own quarters, her footsteps fading into the corridors of the inn. Rest was an elusive specter—always hovering just beyond my grasp, a ghostly presence that taunted me with its intangibility. Sleep refused to claim me, leaving my mind to churn like a storm-tossed sea, waves of thought crashing against the shores of my sanity. It was a stranger, an unfamiliar wraith that lingered at the edges of my consciousness, mocking my attempts to summon it.

  With no refuge in slumber, I wandered out into the crooked streets of Vaelthane Hollow, my hands clasped tightly behind my back as if to anchor myself against the tide of my own restless musings. The night was cool and damp, the cobblestones beneath my boots glistening with a sheen of dew that caught the faint, flickering light of the lanterns. Those lanterns burned low, their flames reduced to mere embers, twitching and dancing as though they, too, sensed the unease that slithered through the air like a living thing. The town was a maze of shadows and secrets, its narrow alleys twisting like the veins of some ancient, slumbering beast. Each step I took reverberated faintly, a solitary sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

  Velguira doesn’t meddle in wars. Not unless something in them interests her. That thought gnawed at me, a persistent thorn in the fabric of my mind. She isn’t just a vampire—not some common creature of the night driven by hunger or petty ambition. Like myself, she is one of Velsangui’s original chosen, a being forged in the crucible of the goddess’s dark will. But where I had buried my power, entombing it deep within me like a relic best forgotten, she had refined hers. She had taken that raw, primal gift and honed it, sharpened it into something precise and deadly—an assassin’s blade, silent and razor-edged, capable of cutting through flesh and fate alike. I could still feel the weight of my own dormant strength, a slumbering beast I refused to rouse. Velguira, though—she wielded hers with a mastery that bordered on artistry, a lethal elegance that left no room for doubt.

  Then the air changed.

  It was subtle at first, a shift so faint it might have been imagination. But no—it grew heavier, more oppressive, as though the very atmosphere had thickened into something tangible. It pressed against my chest, a crushing weight that made each breath a labor. The sensation was suffocating, like gravity itself had warped, bending toward a single, unseen point in a silent proclamation of her arrival. Reality itself seemed to twist, bowing before her presence. The hum of the city—the distant clatter of a cart, the murmur of voices, the rustle of leaves—all of it vanished. Not even the wind dared to whisper. Vaelthane Hollow had stopped breathing, its pulse stilled by the fear of her wrathful fury, a force so potent it silenced the world.

  Then it hit me.

  The realization crashed into me like a levitation slamming into a ship’s hull, a violent jolt that sent my senses reeling. My knees buckled beneath me, threatening to give way entirely. My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, ragged gasp that refused to fully form. Every hair on my body stood on end, electrified by the primal instinct that screamed through my veins. My stomach twisted, turning to ice as dread coiled around my spine like a serpent. She was here. Velguira. Her presence was a storm made flesh, an undeniable force that reshaped the night around her.

  I turned—slowly, deliberately, like prey that already knows it’s been spotted, aware that every movement is watched, judged, and measured. My eyes found her as she stepped forward, emerging from the shadows with the grace of inevitability. Each motion was slow, deliberate, as if time itself parted to make way for her, bending to her will as easily as the air bent to her presence. Her beauty was a weapon in its own right, a force capable of unmaking alliances and reducing kings to stammering fools. Long black hair spilled over her shoulders like ink cascading from a quill, framing a face that seemed carved from marble and shadow—flawless, cold, and eternal. Her eyes, golden and glinting like molten coins, cut into me with an intensity that went beyond mere sight. They didn’t just see—they knew, peeling back every mask I’d ever worn, every lie I’d ever told myself, until I stood bare before her gaze.

  She moved like a viper coiled before the strike—fluid, precise, and utterly unpredictable. And I had seen what that beauty could do. I’d watched borders burn for the promise hidden behind her smile, entire kingdoms reduced to ash and ruin at the mere whisper of her favor. She was a force of nature, a tempest cloaked in elegance, and I was a fool to think I could stand against her unscathed.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Well, well. The favored child graces us with her presence,” I said, my voice emerging smooth and polished, like glass tempered by fire. But inside, I was anything but steady. Inside, I was a rabbit staring down a wolf, trembling in the shadow of its jaws, knowing the inevitable devouring was only moments away.

  She smiled—slow, deliberate, and amused, her lips curling with a predator’s satisfaction. “Corven, darling. So good to see you again. How long has it been?” Her voice was silk layered over broken glass, smooth and beautiful, yet laced with a menace so subtle it could be mistaken for charm. Beneath that elegance, though, was a leash barely holding back the danger she embodied.

  She stepped closer, closing the distance until the air between us thinned to a blade’s edge, sharp and perilous. “You keep destroying my playthings,” she murmured, her tone almost wistful, as though lamenting a minor inconvenience. “It’s frustrating to watch my toys break in your hands.” A single finger traced down my chest, light as a whisper, cold as the soil of a freshly dug grave. It wasn’t a caress—it was a reminder, a promise of what she could do if I pushed her too far.

  I shivered, the reaction involuntary, a chill latching onto my spine and refusing to let go. “Why are you helping Zolphan?” I asked, forcing my voice to hold steady, though it wavered at the edges like a flame in the wind.

  She laughed—soft and bright, like a fae lullaby spun from starlight and malice. That sound didn’t belong here, in the shadowed streets of Vaelthane Hollow. That’s what made it worse—its dissonance, its mockery of the tension that gripped me. “He’s helping me,” she corrected, her tone light, as though explaining something painfully obvious.

  She began to circle me, her movements slow and graceful, a vulture adorned with a crown, savoring the kill before the feast began. “He’s giving me an opponent worthy of my power,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of certainty. “And in return, I’m letting him create his perfect Drydalis soldier.” She stopped in front of me, her eyes locking with mine. There was no hatred there, only purpose—a cold, unyielding intent that chilled me more than any threat could.

  A smile curled across her lips, sharp and knowing. Then she turned away, her cloak whispering against the cobblestones like smoke trailing over stone. “Don’t get in my way again,” she said over her shoulder, her voice teasing, almost playful. “Or it might cost that dear little goblin of yours her life.”

  I took a single step forward, my resolve hardening. “The only one taking out that gremlin is me,” I shot back, my tone firm despite the tremor in my chest.

  She paused, her silhouette framed by the mist. Then she laughed—soft and cruel, like silver bells tolling at a funeral. “If you survive the night, that is.” And with that, she vanished, melting into the mist as though she’d never been real at all, leaving behind a silence so profound it was deafening.

  That’s when the blades came out.

  Figures emerged from the alleys, stepping into the dim light like specters summoned by her departure. Cloaked. Masked. Eyes gleaming with intent. Nox Arcanus. Half a dozen, maybe more—I stopped counting after the third, my focus narrowing to survival. And me? I was alone.

  Instinct took over. I slit my wrist with a swift, practiced motion, the sting of the cut drowned by adrenaline. Blood welled, dark and shimmering, and I shaped it into daggers, the crimson hardening into lethal edges as I braced for the inevitable rush of blades.

  “ZOOM ZOOM ZOOM! I AM BRINGING DOOM!”

  The all-too-familiar, chaotic voice shattered the tension like a war horn forged from glitter and lunacy. Even as I write this down, I still can’t believe what I saw. Nysera didn’t ride in on a beast—no, that would be far too logical, too grounded in the realm of sanity.

  She came flying through the night… on a rug. A Velsangui-be-damned rug. It streaked across the sky, a tattered, threadbare thing that defied all reason, propelled by some mad magic I couldn’t begin to comprehend. She zipped overhead, cackling wildly, her voice a crescendo of glee as she hurled what could only be described as glitter bombs—each one pulsing with illusion magic. The sky erupted in a symphony of color: pink, blue, orange, green—shades so vivid and unnatural I’m not convinced they exist in the waking world.

  Then the screaming started.

  One Nox Arcanus agent spun in place, shrieking, “MY BONES ARE RUBBER!” as he flailed helplessly. Another dropped his sword, clawing at his legs and wailing, “SNAKES! THEY’RE IN MY PANTS!” A third turned on his own comrade, bellowing about a demon prince made of eyes, his blade slashing wildly as he cut them down in a frenzy of delusion. Amid the chaos, I moved—silent, precise, a shadow among the madness.

  One by one, I struck down the few still clinging to sanity. A slash of the throat. A dagger through the chest. Quick. Clean. Efficient. I sank my fangs into the last one, draining them dry, the coppery tang of their blood grounding me as the world spun into absurdity around me. The glitter swirled like a storm of nonsensical magic, a tempest of color and confusion—but when it cleared, only I stood.

  Me… and the lingering echo of madness in the air.

  I thought over the centuries I’d seen it all—wars, betrayals, the rise and fall of empires. Until now. Seriously. Where in Velsangui’s name did she find a flying rug?