Chapter 25 The Devil's City
To the outside world, the Devil’s City was a place of myth and legend—a land where darkness reigned, where nothing thrived but death and shadows. Tales of terror whispered through the lands, painting pictures of a place cloaked in eternal night, where vampires ruled with iron fangs and talons of blood. But the truth was far more dangerous—and far more beautiful.
The Devil’s City was a marvel of dark enchantment, a kingdom of eternal twilight kissed by the silver glow of a crescent moon. Its towering blackstone buildings glistened like polished obsidian under the soft, ethereal glow that bathed the city in a perpetual soft, dreamlike hue.
The air was crisp, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming flowers that lined the streets, their petals a kaleidoscope of deep crimson, violet, and gold. Intricate lanterns hung from elegantly wrought iron posts, illuminating the cobbled streets with a warm, golden light that danced with an unnatural grace, casting moving shadows that seemed to flicker with life.
The city’s residents moved with a casual elegance, their footsteps soft, their movements fluid as they went about their nightly affairs.
Vampires, clad in finely tailored clothing that gleamed in the moonlight, exuded an innate allure, their beauty impossible to ignore. Each face seemed carved from marble, perfect in its symmetry, and their eyes—whether gleaming crimson, silver, or gold—held the weight of centuries.
There was an intoxicating power in their very presence, an allure that made it impossible to look away, as though they could command the very air around them.
Shops lined the streets, their windows displaying luxurious fabrics, intricate jewelry, and art that seemed to shimmer with life itself. The marketplace was alive with muted conversation and the soft rustle of silk and velvet as the city’s denizens moved from stall to stall. Even the simplest things—the gleam of a sword's blade, the glint of a gem in a ring, the soft glow of perfume bottles—carried a sense of elegance and power.
But despite the city's serene beauty, there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, a sense of control that permeated everything. The vampires moved with purpose, every glance sharp, every word deliberate, as if the peaceful facade hid something darker beneath.
And at the heart of it all was the Citadel, a magnificent fortress that rose above the city like a dark crown. It was a symbol of dominance, of power that none dared challenge. Inside its grand halls, the true ruler of this beautiful and deadly world sat.
Valen, Lord of the Eastern Clan Vampires.
Behind the heavy doors of his study, Valen was seated at his desk, his focus unwavering on the documents before him. The room around him was elegant in its simplicity—dark wood, rich tapestries, and the faint scent of leather and parchment filled the air. The dim lighting cast shadows across his sharp features, enhancing the undeniable beauty that had always marked him.
Valen was a masterpiece of vampire allure. His face, perfectly sculpted, held a quiet but overwhelming intensity. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips that, even in their neutral state, seemed to hold the promise of something dangerous. His raven-black hair fell in soft, controlled waves to his shoulders, framing his face in a way that made it impossible to ignore his piercing crimson eyes. Those eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, held centuries of knowledge, pain, and fury—yet beneath the coldness, there was something infinitely more dangerous: control. Complete and terrifying control.
His tall, lean frame was cloaked in a deep black coat that swept the floor, emphasizing his broad shoulders and the lethal grace in his movements. Even as he sat, there was an air of command that radiated from him, like a force that could bend anyone to his will without a word. His beauty, though breathtaking, was not warm; it was cold, like a polished blade, sharp and precise.
Valen's gaze flicked across the parchment, his thoughts somewhere far away, though no one could tell. His features gave nothing away—stoic and unreadable. The only sound in the room was the faint scratching of his pen, and the subtle creaking of the leather chair as he shifted.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Enter," he commanded, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of a thousand orders. He didn’t glance up, his attention still on the document in front of him.
Dorian, his second-in-command, stepped into the room, his presence a respectful shadow as he closed the door behind him. Dorian, like all of Valen's elite, was strikingly beautiful in his own right, but beside Valen, he seemed almost ordinary. There was no mistaking who ruled here.
"Master, I have news," Dorian said, his tone respectful but urgent.
"What now?" Valen’s voice was devoid of emotion, his eyes still fixed on the parchment. His patience was thin; news often brought complications, and complications wasted time.
"A healer wolf has been located," Dorian said.
That got his attention.
Valen’s hand froze mid-motion. Slowly, he placed the pen down, the faint click of it on the desk echoing louder than it should have in the quiet room. His crimson eyes lifted, locking onto Dorian with an intensity that could break stone.
"What did you just say?" His voice, though quiet, was razor-sharp, laced with the kind of danger that made even his most trusted followers hesitate.
Dorian stood a little straighter, though the unease in his gaze was clear. "The nurse we sent—our spy—has reported back. She discovered a werewolf in the region with healing abilities. A healer wolf."
For a moment, the silence in the room was suffocating. Valen stared at Dorian, his face unreadable, but the tension in the air was palpable. Slowly, Valen leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he considered the information.
"A healer wolf," he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and something darker. His mind spun with the implications. It couldn’t be true. He had eradicated them—every last one. They had been his first targets during the war. He had hunted them to extinction, ensuring there would be no one left to heal the werewolves in their war against his kind.
His gaze darkened, flickering with a fire that hadn’t burned so hot in centuries. He remembered the blood-soaked fields, the cries of dying werewolves, and the satisfaction he had felt when the last of the healer wolves had fallen. It had been a victory not just for him, but for his people—a symbol of his vengeance for the death of his mate, killed by those same creatures. He had seen to it that their kind would never threaten his again.
"No," Valen muttered under his breath, the memories making his jaw tighten. "It’s impossible."
But if this nurse had found something—anything—it needed to be investigated, and swiftly.
"I won’t believe it until it’s confirmed," Valen said, his voice cold as ice. "Send Maxwell. I want this checked by one of our own. Immediately."
Dorian bowed. "Yes, Master."
As Dorian turned and left the room, Valen leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning with a fury he hadn’t felt in years. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk, a methodical, controlled movement as his mind raced.
A healer wolf... alive.
The thought enraged him. But if it was true—if one had somehow survived—he would find her. And he would finish what he started all those years ago.