The night air was thick with the scent of rain and damp earth. The distant hooting of owls echoed through the camp, but inside the tent, it was eerily silent—except for the sound of two men breathing.
Cyrus lay still on his cot, his eyes fixed on the ceiling of his tent. His mind should have been occupied with battle strategies or the looming tension between their factions, but all he could think about was the man lying beside him—Raphael, the vampire prince.
Raphael’s back was to him, bare skin illuminated by the flickering lantern. His silver-white hair, slightly disheveled, fell over the pillow. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breath told Cyrus he was awake, though he remained unmoving.
Cyrus turned onto his side, facing him. He hesitated, his fingers twitching as he hovered his hand over Raphael’s exposed back. A dangerous temptation clawed at his insides, and before he could stop himself, he let his palm rest against the cool, pale skin. Raphael didn't flinch. Didn't move.
He was letting him.
The realization sent a sharp thrill through Cyrus, but also an unease he couldn't quite name. He shifted closer, wrapping his arm around Raphael’s torso. He felt the taut muscles beneath his fingers, the steady thrum of an unyielding heart. Cyrus had never been drawn to someone this way before. Not to a man. Not to a vampire. Not to the enemy.
Resting his head against Raphael’s back, he inhaled slowly, taking in his scent. It was subtle, laced with something undeniably intoxicating—an aroma that sent a shiver through his entire body.
He had barely registered the deep pull inside him before it struck.
A sudden jolt, like lightning tearing through his veins, exploded within him. His body tensed, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened in horror.
No.
Cyrus lurched back as though burned, his entire being recoiling from the realization. In his panic, he shoved Raphael forward, nearly knocking him off the cot.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Raphael snarled, whirling around, his golden eyes flashing with irritation.
Cyrus barely heard him. His mind was still spiraling, his chest heaving as he tried to grasp the impossible truth.
"Cyrus!" Raphael's voice was sharp now, his annoyance shifting to concern. "What is it?"
Cyrus swallowed hard, his pulse hammering against his skull. His mouth felt dry as he forced himself to utter the one word that would change everything.
"Mate."
Meanwhile, deep within the darkened halls of Castle Blackthorne, shadows slithered along the stone walls, whispering secrets to the night. Valerion moved with silent purpose, his long cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a great predator.
His first stop was Raphael’s chambers. The heavy doors swung open with a wave of his hand, the shadows bending to his will as they slithered across the room, searching every corner. The bed was undisturbed, sheets still in perfect order. There was no trace of his son.
Not here.
His gaze darkened, and with a flick of his fingers, the door slammed shut behind him. He turned and strode down the corridor, the torches flickering as he passed, as if shrinking away from his presence. His next destination was Azrael’s chambers. If Raphael was not in his quarters, then perhaps she—
The doors to Azrael’s chamber groaned as he pushed them open. The room was empty. His golden-eyed daughter, the one who should have been in these very walls, was nowhere to be found. His fingers twitched, shadows curling around them like living tendrils. He was beginning to lose patience.
Valerion stepped into the chamber, his gaze sweeping the room. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, a familiar trace of Azrael’s presence, but it was fading. Too long had passed since she had been here last. His jaw tightened as his gaze locked onto her bed—untouched, just like Raphael’s. His irritation grew sharper. Where were they?
Turning on his heel, Valerion strode through the halls, his steps purposeful, his presence sending a chill through every servant he passed. They flattened themselves against the walls, eyes averted, knowing better than to draw his attention. But he was already focused elsewhere.
The war room. The last place either of them would normally be at this hour. He pushed open the heavy iron doors, his gaze sweeping across the large table in the center of the chamber. Maps and battle strategies were scattered across it, untouched. The scent of old parchment and candle wax filled the space, but there was no sign of his children.
A deep exhale escaped him, controlled but edged with displeasure. He turned sharply and exited, moving with renewed urgency.
The throne room was next. It was a vast, imposing space—dark marble floors gleamed under the flickering sconces, and the throne, his throne, loomed at the end of the hall like a shadowed monolith. He entered, his eyes scanning the chamber. Silence greeted him.
They were not here.
His patience was thinning.
Valerion turned once more, his steps taking him through the castle’s corridors like a relentless force of nature. He reached the training grounds next, stepping into the cold night air. The moon cast long shadows over the stone courtyard. The scent of steel and sweat lingered, but the grounds were empty. Not even the usual late-night sparring sessions were taking place. A cold certainty settled over him.
Azrael and Raphael were gone.
Valerion’s expression darkened. He would not tolerate disobedience. His children would not leave this castle without his knowledge. And yet, they had.
He reentered the castle, his path leading him to the servant’s quarters. Two of Azrael’s maids passed by, their heads bowed, trying to slip away unnoticed. They failed.
“You.”
His voice was quiet, yet it cut through the air like a blade. The two servants froze instantly, terror evident in the way their shoulders stiffened.
“I sent for my children.” Valerion’s gaze was steady, piercing. “I was told they are nowhere to be found. Where is Azrael?”
The servants kept their heads bowed, their hands trembling. “We—we do not know, Your Majesty,” one of them stammered.
“Is that so?” Valerion tilted his head slightly. “I hope, for your sake that you are not lying to me.”
They remained silent. The weight of his presence crushed the air between them. His gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he turned slightly, as if he were about to leave. Then, without warning, a blade of pure shadow materialized in his hand.
In a single, fluid motion, he slashed through the air. The first servant’s head separated cleanly from her body, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. Blood splattered across the other maid’s face, and she let out a strangled gasp, her body trembling violently.
Valerion turned his cold, piercing gaze onto her. “Now tell me,” he said in a voice that was dangerously low, “where is Azrael?”
The servant opened her mouth, but before a single word could escape, a new voice cut through the air.
“Uncle.”
Valerion turned slowly, his eyes locking onto the figure standing at the end of the hall.
Eva.
She stepped forward, her expression unreadable. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her poise unnervingly calm given the blood pooling at her feet.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”