The vampire stronghold’s throne room was a cavern of eternal night, its obsidian walls pulsing with malice, swallowing the feeble crimson glow of torches that flickered like the last breaths of the damned. The vampire lord, lounged on his throne of twisted bone and black velvet, his face veiled in darkness, save for red eyes that burned with predatory glee. The air reeked of blood and decay, a testament to his dominion over death. Before him knelt the only surviving spy from the Crescent Moon Ball ambush—a lithe vampire boy, his pale skin scarred, dark hair matted with ichor. He bowed, trembling, offering a bloodstained scroll with a deference born of fear.
“The bait was taken. The priestess of the Goddess rises again, and as you foresaw, she’s bound to the prince. Her hybrid scent clings
