The clang of steel echoed across the Bloodmoon training grounds, sharp against the cold morning air. Young warriors moved in rhythmic drills, sweat beading on their brows, swords flashing under the sun.
Cyrus stood at the edge of the sparring circle, arms crossed, his gaze focused but distant. His sharp green eyes followed Eryx’s movements—fluid, brutal, disciplined—as he barked commands at the trainees, correcting footwork, demanding more speed, more force.
But Cyrus wasn't really watching.
The pressure in his chest—tight and gnawing, was till there. Like something trapped just behind his ribs, clawing to be let out. His jaw clenched unconsciously. He shifted his stance, ignoring it, pushing it down.
He tried to focus on the rhythm of the training. On Eryx’s voice. On anything but the aching void tugging at him from deep inside.
Then it hit.
A searing explosion of agony ripped through him like lightning cracking down his spine.
Cyrus's eyes widened, his breath stolen before he could cry out.
And then—
He screamed.
The sword he was holding clattered to the ground. His knees buckled. His entire body convulsed as if struck by an invisible force, and he collapsed, writhing in the dirt.
“Cyrus!” Eryx was the first to reach him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “What’s happening?”
Cyrus screamed again, louder this time. The sound was raw, inhuman. His hands dug into the dirt as his back arched unnaturally. Every nerve in his body felt like it was being torn open. Blood ran from his nose, and his eyes were wild with panic and pain.
“Get help!” someone shouted.
“Fetch the Alpha!”
“NOW!”
Dozens of warriors gathered in a ring, frozen in stunned silence as Cyrus twisted and writhed on the ground, still screaming—his voice carrying across the forested hills.
Only Eryx stayed by his side, gripping his arms, shaking him.
“Cyrus, look at me!”
But Cyrus couldn’t hear him.
His heart and soul were somewhere else.
With him.
With Raphael.
And he was dying.
—
The sound of the wind howling through the shattered windows of Raphael’s chambers is the only thing that fills the silence.
Azrael is still pinned to the wall by the shadowy hands, her limbs trembling. Her golden eyes are wide, unblinking, staring at the empty window where her brother had just fallen. Her chest heaves with shallow, panicked breaths. Her body is frozen, but her mind races with images she cannot bear to remember.
The shadows binding her slowly loosen. She falls to her knees with a choked sob. Her fingers shaking as they land in a puddle of blood. Raphael’s blood.
She can't breathe.
Her hands tremble against the cold floor as she drags herself toward the broken edge of the window. The air outside is cold, biting her skin, and she leans out despite it. Her eyes search frantically for a glimpse of him—anything—but it’s too far. The cliffside is unforgiving, jagged, and steep. The sheer drop leads to the valley below where the sun now reigns.
She presses a hand against her mouth to suppress the scream clawing up her throat.
Behind her, Valerion stands silent, unmoving. A tear of blood slips down his cheek, but his face is hard and unforgiving. Not a single sign of remorse.
“Get up.” He says, his voice devoid of emotion.
Azrael doesn’t move. Her voice is hoarse. “You killed him.”
Valerion’s jaw clenches. “He was already dead the moment he allowed himself to be claimed by one of them.”
She slowly turns to look at her father.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Azrael whispers.
Valerion’s eyes flicker crimson. **“I AM YOUR KING!”** His voice echoes.
**“NO!”** Azrael growls, rising to her feet, her hands balled into fists. **“YOU’RE A MONSTER!”**
He doesn’t answer.
Azrael storms past him without another word. Her boots crush the mirror shards on the floor. She pushes past the wreckage, her fists clenched so tight that her nails dig crescent moons into her palms.
Then she runs.
She doesn’t stop to think. Her body moves before her mind can catch up. She bursts into the corridor, and the walls feel like they’re caving in. Her breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts.
She runs even faster.
Down the hall. Down the grand staircase. Past noble onlookers frozen mid-step. Past handmaidens who stumble out of the way, eyes wide in shock. One of them calls after her—Azrael doesn’t hear what they say. She barrels into a guard; he stammers something, and she shoves him aside without pause.
Her shoulder hits a column. She keeps going.
Past the black stone corridors. Past the blood-red banners fluttering in the cold breeze. She descends another staircase, her vision blurring with tears.
She has to get to him. There might still be time.
She throws open the castle’s front doors. A burst of sunlight blinds her, and she recoils instantly, arm raised to shield her face.
She can’t go any farther.
But just ahead—at the base of the stairs—she sees a figure about to step into a black and golden carriage.
“Eva!” Azrael shouts, her voice breaking.
The half-vampire pauses with her hand on the carriage handle. She turns, the sunlight falling gracefully on her pale skin and platinum-blonde hair, her icy blue eyes narrowing with surprise.
She stares up at Azrael, stunned. “Azrael?”
Azrael steps just to the edge of the shadow cast by the towering stone arch above the doors. The sunlight is a wall she cannot pass through. Her skin already tingles from the indirect contact.
Eva walks toward her slowly, her boots silent against the stone. She stops just at the edge of the light and looks up at Azrael, her brow furrowed.
Azrael’s breath hitches as the tears spill over. Her voice trembles. “Raphael…”
Eva’s expression tightens.
Azrael throws herself into Eva’s arms, her fingers clutching her with desperate strength. “You have to help me save him! You have to! He’s running out of time!”