The taste of her power still lingered on the wind.
Vlad stood at the highest tower of his war-torn keep, gazing down at the legions gathering in the valley below. His crimson cloak rippled in the cold night air, trimmed in the skin of a fallen saint. Dark clouds churned above like a curse held barely at bay, and the land beneath his command had begun to rot—soil blackened, rivers stilled, trees twisted into spires of bone.
It pleased him.
Death was a crown he wore well.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. There it was again—her. Her presence flared and faded like fire caught in a storm. Rose. His mate. His equal. His prey. She was fire and fury and something far too beautiful to be left untamed.
He would fix that soon enough.
“She's rattled,” he muttered, half to himself. “Still g
