The breath of the cathedral shifted.
A deep, exhaling silence.
As the whisper from the coffin bled into the chamber, the red-tinted light dimmed—as if the stained glass flinched from what had been unearthed. The flame in the iron sconces flickered low, shadows stretching like claws across the marble floor, reaching for the dais.
The Vampire Lord did not move.
He watched.
The shadow that emerged was not merely absence of light—it was hunger made form, a void that drank the very warmth from the room. It rose with deliberate grace, unfurling into the shape of something once-human. A silhouette sculpted of despair and old fire. Fanged. Horned. Cloaked in tendrils of memory and rage.
Its eyes opened—two hollow stars, black suns burning inward.
The steward stumbled backward, choked by the
