Deep in the festering heart of the black market, inside a crumbling warehouse that reeked of rust and despair, fifty hired killers huddled around flickering lanterns. Knives, crossbows, and poisoned vials gleamed on the tables before them. Their leader—the scarred, one-eyed brute Vera had paid the night before—unrolled a crude map of the capital's shopping district.
"Tomorrow the girl leaves the palace with only one guard and a maid," he growled. "We strike in the lingerie shop. Quick and quiet. No survivors."
The men nodded, eager for the gold.
Then the air turned ice-cold. Thick black smoke billowed from nowhere, swallowing the lanterns' light. Screams erupted before anyone could draw a weapon.
Two necks cracked together with wet, sickening force as Lucian materialized, slamming the heads of the nearest assassins into pulp. Blood and bone sprayed across the table.
The room froze in horror.
"Planning an attack on my bride?" Lucian's voice cut through the darkness like a blade, calm and amused.
The one-eyed leader recovered first. "Attack!" he bellowed, rallying his men.
Laughter rumbled low in Lucian's chest. "You think numbers matter?"
Lazarus appeared beside him in a blur, claws extended. In one savage swipe, he disemboweled the leader from throat to groin. Guts spilled steaming onto the floor. The remaining killers scrambled for the exits, panic overtaking greed.
Lucian raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
Every door and window slammed shut with a thunderous click, sealed by invisible force.
"I don't wish to soil my hands with the blood of vermin," he said almost gently.
He snapped again.
Fifty bodies exploded simultaneously into chunks of meat and bone. Blood painted the walls in grotesque patterns. The warehouse fell silent except for the drip of gore hitting the floor.
Moments later, Lucian stood beneath steaming water in his private bath, washing the carnage from his skin. Clean once more, he slipped into bed beside Hazel. She murmured in her sleep, rolling instinctively toward him, resting her head on his bare chest. A rare, genuine smile touched his lips. He wrapped an arm around her and held her close until dawn.
──
The next morning, after a quiet breakfast, Hazel set out with Lazarus and two maids to choose her wedding shoes. The capital's finest cobbler presented pair after pair of delicate, jewel-encrusted heels until Hazel selected a graceful ivory pair embroidered with silver roses.
As they prepared to leave, one of the maids—eyes bright with mischief—leaned close. "My lady, a bride needs something special for her wedding night. There is a boutique just across the lane that sells the most exquisite nightwear. Lord Primus would be most… appreciative."
Hazel blushed but allowed herself to be persuaded. Lazarus, ever proper, remained outside the discreet shop with the second maid.
Inside, the air smelled of lavender and silk. The shopkeeper led Hazel and the first maid to a private fitting room draped in velvet. As Hazel admired a gossamer negligee, the maid stepped behind her and pressed a cloth soaked in sedative over her mouth, whispering an incantation under her breath.
Hazel's eyes widened, then fluttered shut. She crumpled into the maid's arms.
Lazarus paced outside, unease gnawing at him. When too many minutes passed, he stormed into the boutique. The shopkeeper stammered excuses, but the fitting room was empty. A back door stood ajar.
Hazel was gone.
Lazarus tore through the streets, searching for any trace—scent, footprint, magic residue—but found nothing. Dread coiled in his gut. He vanished in a swirl of shadow, reappearing in the palace council chamber where Lucian sat with his advisors.
"My lord—" Lazarus dropped to one knee, voice breaking. "Lady Hazel has been taken."
The room fell deathly silent.
Lucian rose slowly, crimson eyes turning pitch black. Without a word, he dissolved into smoke.
──
Hazel awoke to cold stone against her back and the bite of iron chains around her wrists and ankles. She lay on an ancient altar in the center of a cavern lit by torches. Hooded figures encircled her, faces hidden, voices rising in a low, guttural chant that vibrated through the rock.
Terror flooded her. She struggled, chains clanking, but could not break free.
One hooded man stepped forward, raising a curved dagger. "The blood of the slayer line," he intoned.
The blade sliced her forearm. Pain seared, and Hazel screamed.
A bolt of pure white lightning erupted from her body, striking the wizard in the chest. He convulsed once and collapsed, dead, smoke rising from his charred robes.
The chanting faltered. Shock rippled through the circle.
Another wizard advanced, but an invisible barrier repelled him. Hazel screamed again—raw, terrified—and the cavern trembled violently. Rocks cracked. Dust rained from the ceiling. The hooded figures clutched their ears as the sound pierced like shards of glass.
Black smoke exploded in the center of the chamber.
Lucian and Lazarus materialized.
Tobias and Morwen, concealed among the wizards, exchanged a glance and slipped silently into a side tunnel before they could be seen.
The remaining wizards hurled spells—flames, shadow blades, binding curses—but the magic slid harmlessly off Lucian like water off glass. He moved faster than sight, fangs sinking into throats, claws severing heads from bodies. Blood sprayed across the altar. In moments, every hooded figure lay dead or dying.
Only Hazel remained, trembling uncontrollably, eyes glowing with uncontrolled power. Light radiated from her skin like sunlight, searing the air.
Lucian approached slowly. The light burned his flesh where it touched, raising blisters and smoke, but he did not stop.
"My little rabbit," he whispered, voice steady despite the pain. "You are safe now."
He reached through the blazing aura and pulled her into his arms.
The light flickered, then dimmed as Hazel collapsed against him, exhausted and sobbing. Her powers—unleashed after years of binding—finally ebbed.
Lucian wrapped her tightly in his cloak and vanished with her in a whirlwind of shadow, leaving Lazarus to clean the carnage.
Back in the palace, he laid her gently on the bed and covered her with soft blankets. Her breathing evened into sleep, the cut on her arm already healing with unnatural speed.
He stepped into the corridor.
Lazarus knelt there, head bowed. "Forgive me, my lord. My failure is unforgivable. Take my life."
Lucian's voice was cold steel. "You will be punished, Lazarus. But not with death." His eyes narrowed. "For now—bring me Vera."
He strode past the kneeling vampire without another glance, fury simmering beneath regal calm.
The traitors inside his walls had finally shown their faces.
And Lucian Primus showed mercy to no one who threatened his bride.