The wind had shifted.
Even without the aid of seers or the scrying bowls, Vlad felt it in the marrow of his ancient bones—a tremor in the unseen thread that bound fates together. It coiled tighter now, weaving toward one soul.
Rose.
She was changing.
Not just growing stronger—no, this was deeper. A cracking open. A blooming. And Vlad would not wait for others to notice. He would not let Phoenix fire or dragon arrogance claim what was meant for him.
He stood atop the cliffs above the Veilwood, where the mist clung to jagged stone and the stars bled cold light. Below, the spires of his keep pulsed like dark hearts, ancient and alive with the hunger of those who had forsaken light long ago.
She would be his.
Willing or not.
But not just for her power, tempting though it was. Power was
