The jagged, frost-bitten peaks of the Northern Wastes stood like the serrated teeth of a titan. Here, where the wind screamed through narrow canyons with the voices of the damned, sat the ancestral seat of the Syntr Clan. It was a fortress of black glass and ancient bone, a place that had never known the warmth of the sun.
Inside the Great Hall, the air suddenly grew heavy, vibrating with a low, mournful frequency. A massive crystalline chandelier, holding candles that burned with a cold blue flame, shattered into a thousand shards.
Count Zion stood at the arched window, his pale fingers gripping the sill. He didn't need a messenger. He felt the snap in the psychic ether—the sudden, violent silencing of a bloodline.
"Derial," Zion whispered. His voice was like silk sliding over a razor's edge, cultured and terrifyingly calm.
Behind him, a dozen lesser vampires—pure-bloods and true vampire of the lower houses—dropped to their knees. They could feel the temperature in the room plummeting. Zion was a creature that lived for five centuries, a master of the forbidden sanguinary arts who viewed the feral "scavengers" of the woods as nothing more than vermin. To touch a member of the Syntr Clan was to invite a slow, meticulous extinction.
Zion turned, his eyes not red, but a deep, swirling crimson that leaked a faint mist. He was dressed in regal black velvet that seemed to drink the light, and his presence was an ocean of dark intent.
"My brother was arrogant," Zion said, his words echoing off the black glass walls. "He was a fledgling who played at war. But he was Syntr blood. Who dares touch a noble blood? Who possesses the strength to erase a Pure-blood from the loom of the night?"
He closed his eyes, reaching out across the miles. He searched for the echo of the killer. He expected to find a rival clan or a high-ranking Hunter. Instead, he found something that made his cold, dead heart shudder. He felt a signature that was ancient—older than the clan, older than the mountains—yet it was wrapped in a blinding, agonizing purity that burned his senses.
"An abomination," Zion hissed, a cruel smile touching his thin lips. "A king of shadows wearing a crown of light. I will not just kill him. I will drain every drop of that contradictory blood and see what makes him blinding."
Miles to the south, the Blackroot Forest had given way to a rocky, desolate moor. Gwaine and Kignar had made camp in the lee of a collapsed watchtower. The fire was small, a flickering orange spark in the vast, oppressive dark.
Gwaine sat perfectly still, his back against a jagged stone. Suddenly, he stiffened. A cold, oily sensation crawled up his spine, a spiritual "chill" that had nothing to do with the night air. It felt like a needle of ice being driven into his mind.
"We are being hunted," Gwaine said, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the campfire flicker.
Kignar, who had been sharpening a silver dagger, stopped mid-stroke. He didn't ask how Gwaine knew. He had learned to trust the instincts of the creature across from him. "The wolves again? Or more of those 'hybrids'?"
"No," Gwaine said, turning his head.
In the firelight, his eyes were no longer shifting between the red of the First Vampire and the blue of the Angel. The truce had deepened. The colors had bled into one another, creating a haunting, luminous violet. They looked like twin amethysts burning with an inner, celestial fire.
"Something worse," Gwaine continued. "A Pure-blood. The brother of the one I slew. I can feel his hunger—it's not a hunger for meat, Kignar. It's a hunger for vengeance. He is a master of the blood, and he is coming with the weight of five hundred years of darkness."
Kignar stood up, the leather of his armor creaking. He didn't show fear, only the grim resolve of a man who had made his peace with death long ago. He began tightening the straps on his greaves, checking the vials of holy water at his belt.
"Then we fight," Kignar said, his voice hard. "Hunters don't like being the prey, were the one who's going to hunt. If this Pure-blood is as powerful as you say, we can't let him catch us in the open. We need a place where his magic is restricted. A place of old power."
Gwaine looked toward the North, his violet eyes piercing the gloom. He could see the Pure-bloods presence on the horizon of his mind—a dark, oily smudge that was rapidly approaching.
"The ruins of the Silver Cathedral," Kignar suggested. "It was built on a ley line of the Light. Even though it is fallen, the stone remembers the prayers. It will dampen his blood magic, and it will force him to face you in your terms."
Gwaine nodded, sheathing his sword. "Then move. We have six hours of darkness left. We have to make it to the cathedral by dawn, or we will die on the road."
As they extinguished the fire and vanished into the shadows of the moon, Gwaine felt the violet energy in his veins surging. The internal war was becoming a symphony—a dark, beautiful composition of power. Zion was coming for a monster, but he would find something far more terrifying: a man who had rediscovered his soul, and a being who was tired of being caged.
The hunt was on, but for the first time in an eternity, Gwaine wasn't sure who was the predator and who was the prey.