Vampire hunters in league with the new-generation nobles—those fledgling monsters hungry for power and legitimacy.
The thought settled into Alistair's mind like rot beneath stone.
They had been waiting for him. Their timing couldn't be anymore perfect.
The ruins of the old chapel should have been silent, abandoned to ivy and ash, its bells long since fallen and swallowed by moss. Instead, the air had hummed with intention.
Sigils lay etched into broken flagstones, faintly glowing where moonlight brushed them—ancient warding circles, drawn not in chalk or blood, but carved deep enough to endure centuries. Silver-threaded nets had dropped from the rafters, soaked in consecrated oil that burned where it touched his skin.
Blades followed—short, efficient, humming with prayers older than the empire that once ruled this land.
They had known his name.
Worse—they had known he would be there.
