The night bled crimson across the ruins of the old monastery. Moonlight pooled between fractured stones and toppled spires, catching on the remnants of faded sigils once carved to bless the dead. Now they hummed faintly with something older—darker.
Amara moved like smoke through the rubble, every motion languid, deliberate. The silver hem of her gown brushed against dust and ash, and the scent of ancient blood clung to her like perfume. Two guards from her court stood at the edge of the clearing—silent, motionless. They knew better than to breathe too loud when their queen was hunting.
A voice, soft as candle flame, curled through the ruins.
> “You carry yourself as if this place were yours, vampire.”
Amara’s smile sharpened. “All the world belongs to those strong enough to claim it
