The creature’s jagged claws pulled free with a sickening, wet sound—a tearing of flesh, a grinding against bone—and Eva’s body slid down the tree like a rag doll, leaving a long smear of blood in her wake.
She collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud, her limbs splayed unnaturally, a pool of blood spilling rapidly beneath her.
Above her, the monster spread its monstrous, leathery bat-like wings, the membranes torn and slick with blood. With one mighty flap, it launched itself into the air. A violent shockwave exploded outward, rippling through the grove and shaking the ancient trees. Leaves tore free and spiraled into the air, the sacred fog of the Grove shattered, revealing the full scope of destruction.
And then—it was gone.
Vanished into the night sky like a ghost birthed from the abyss.
Silence reigned for one breathless, suspended moment.
Then—
“EVA!”
Lilith’s scream broke through the haze.
She ran, faster than any witch had ever seen her move, her long white robes tearing on thorns, her feet bare and bloodied from sprinting across the jagged forest floor. She threw herself down beside her daughter, hands trembling, face stained with tears.
“Eva! No, no, no—look at me, look at me, my love!” she cried, clutching her daughter to her chest.
Eva’s body was slick and soaked—her blood everywhere, saturating the forest floor, coating Lilith’s arms, even staining her hair. Her eyes fluttered half-lidded, pupils unfocused, lips parted with soft, gasping breaths.
“M—mother…” Eva whispered, voice barely a thread.
“I’m here, I’m right here,” Lilith said, pressing her forehead to Eva’s, her voice breaking. “You’re going to be fine, do you hear me? You’re strong. You’re stronger than anyone—”
Lilith looked down.
And froze.
The wound… It hadn’t even begun to heal.
The gaping hole in Eva’s abdomen pulsed with sluggish, weakening heartbeats. Her ribs were shattered and visible. Her organs—Lilith could see them, pulsing weakly under torn muscle and flesh. Blood was still pouring out, pooling around them in grotesque puddles. And Eva’s breathing—it was getting shallower.
This wasn’t just a wound.
It was killing her.
“Why isn’t she healing?” Lilith’s voice was strangled now. “She should be healing!”
Lilith had seen her daughter take worse. She’d seen her regenerate from broken limbs, punctured lungs, torn muscle—but this…
Something was wrong.
Horribly wrong.
She shook her head violently, gripping Eva tighter as if sheer will could repair the damage. “No. No no no. This isn’t happening. You’re a vampire, you’re half-Highborn, your blood should’ve already started the process—”
“Why isn’t she healing?!”
The other witches had finally gathered—dozens of them, some covered in soot and blood, others weeping in shock. One knelt beside Lilith, hands glowing with healing runes.
“She’s not responding to healing magic,” the witch said breathlessly. “It’s like her essence is rejecting it—something has tainted her blood.”
“Tainted?!” Lilith roared. “By what?!”
The witch flinched, tears spilling from her eyes. “I—I don’t know! It’s like her regenerative core is shut down—as if something corrupted her from the inside…”
Lilith’s body began to tremble. Not from fear. Not from panic.
From rage.
“Then get help!” she thundered, turning to the others. “ALL of you! I don’t care what coven, what forest, what realm—bring me a healer who can fix her!”
The witches scattered like frightened birds, racing in every direction.
Lilith stayed.
She stroked Eva’s blood-matted hair, her lips trembling. “You stay with me, Eva. You do not get to leave me, do you understand?”
Eva’s lips moved, blood bubbling at the corners.
“I was… brave… right?”
Lilith shattered.
“You are everything,” she whispered, clutching her child tighter than she ever had. “You are everything good I ever had.”
Meanwhile…
The rumble of carriage wheels echoed through the desolate, mist-laced path that led to Blackthorne Castle. Its towering silhouette loomed in the distance like a sleeping beast made of obsidian and shadow. The drawbridge lowered with a groan, and the gatekeepers offered silent bows as the carriage passed.
It slowed as it entered the inner courtyard.
The door swung open.
Azrael stepped down without waiting for assistance, her long black cloak swirling around her ankles, her expression was cold and unreadable. Her golden eyes shimmered with calculation, exhaustion, and something darker—something unsettled.
She had said nothing the entire journey back.
Not a word.
Even now, as she crossed the threshold of the castle, she was a silent storm—each step an unspoken declaration of power and war. Servants pressed themselves against the walls, casting wary glances but knowing better than to speak.
She walked the long corridor of midnight marble and flickering candelabras, her boots echoing like whispers of violence. Her fingers twitched as she passed by familiar doors, her mind playing back visions of the horrific things her father did to Raphael.
And then—
She reached her chambers.
The carved blackwood doors loomed tall before her. She paused, hand resting on the iron handle.
The air shifted.
She opened the door.
And stopped.
There—seated in the tall, ornate chair by the fireplace—sat Valerion.
His snow-white hair was slicked back, immaculate as ever, his pale skin reflecting the fire’s low glow like polished moonlight. He wore a tailored black tunic lined in crimson thread, and his fingers were entwined, resting under his chin as he watched her with cold, unreadable eyes.
“Daughter.”
His voice was low and deliberate, like silk stretched over steel.
Azrael didn’t speak. She didn’t move.
She simply stared.
Valerion rose from the chair slowly, placing his hands behind his back.
“You’ve returned.”
That was all he said.
No welcome. No warmth.
Just the echo of something ancient and calculating.
The air between them was thick—dense with unspoken words, unshed blood, and tension forged in flames.
Azrael closed the door behind her.