The last bat glided through the streets of Lumere—not even a whiff of her or a glimpse.
Azael's concern deepened; he shifted restlessly on his throne.
The minion he'd sent out for the boy, Israel, had yet to return.
Elana hadn't been with the child.
He'd watched the boy all day, waiting—hoping—to see her. But only Naina appeared, and briefly.
The boy looked sad. That alone unsettled him.
He needed answers.
The minion appeared before him, trembling as its body solidified. For once, Azael took no pleasure in its fear.
"Speak, fool," he growled.
"H-He said she's…dead. My lord."
Azael's breath stilled."Where? How?" His voice cracked as his hands gripped the carved arms of his throne.
"She was sentenced to death—because of her injuries." The minion's gaze fell in dread.
Making Azael wonder if the storm inside him showed on his face. He swallowed hard.
No body—hope lingered. If she were truly dead he would see her corpse himself.
Why would they care for the broken body of a blind slave?
His minions' forms limited what they could know. Trisha wasn't an option at the moment.
"Look at me," he commanded.
The creature hesitated, then met his gaze. Its pupils quivered. These were the souls of those foolish enough to challenge him—now degraded versions of what they once were.
They did not serve him out of loyalty or fear of his wrath, but because they feared what awaited beyond him.
Hell was worse. To them, serving Azael was salvation compared to true damnation.
"Take my message to Eira," Azael said coldly, "I require her presence."
The minion bowed, dissolving into the shadows.
Azael stared at his trembling hands—an echo of the storm Elana stirred inside him.
Fear gnawed at him, but he would find her—dead or alive.
**
Elana felt a small measure of relief, though a sting from her wounds lingered as the water washed over her skin.
She hoped Cara stayed close as she reached for the towel, brushing it to confirm it was still there.
Just before she grabbed it, a knock came. "Elana, you okay in there?"
"I'll be right out," she said, wrapping the rough towel around herself.
Cara took her hands as she stepped out, helping her dress. Cara was kind—never condescending, gentle.
"You have will, Elana," she said quietly, the scent of antiseptic and soap clung to the drier corner of the bathroom.
Elana hesitated, not sure if it was a compliment.
"You won't even let me do much for you," Cara said, admiration in her tone. "There's still hope in you where most would have given up.
If you escape this hell with us, you'll be free."
"Do you…think it'll be okay? To live a normal life outside the kingdom?" Elana's voice wavered.
"Yes, Elana," Cara replied softly. "Far better than this. A pretty flower like you would find love easily too."
A faint smile curved Elana's lips, the thought of Wisteria coming to mind. "I..have someone I'd like to find when I get out."
Cara chuckled, "Ooh, look at you blushing. Is it a boy?"
Elana's face warmed. "H-He's a lord," she murmured.
"Well, I'll be damned," Cara said. " You've got taste too. Do you know his family name?"
"Azael," she whispered, "I never asked for more."
Cara squeezed her hands. "A clue's better than none."
They stepped out together; the soldier, waiting outside the bathroom, grunted and guided the way.
Cara's warm hand steadied hers, protective and grounding as they made their careful way back through the prison corridors.
Hope glimmered faintly in Elana's heart. Maybe, just maybe, she could still live a normal life—flawed, fragile, but hers.
The war was nearly over. No more invading soldiers.
Finding him might not be so impossible after all.
**
Azael's gaze drifted over Eira's form—her modern perfume sharp with the artificial tang of wisteria.
Her stance, defiant, seductive, familiar.
Leather shorts and a crimson top barely concealing the pale curves of her breasts.
Wavy brown hair framed her face, lips painted black, crimson-tinted eyes bright with mischief.
Stubborn Eira. Once she had offered her humanity for eternity by his side—and he had granted it, but not for love.
He didn't feel that way toward her. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
"You've been well, Eira," he said, keeping his voice smooth. "Not a day over twenty-seven."
Her smoky voice, low and raspy, carried across the room. "You summoned me."
"When you're in my presence. You meet my eyes," he said.
She turned slowly, irritation flickering in her gaze—amusing him.
"I need your spies to get information for me."
That piqued her interest, "Since when does Azael ask for help?"
"Since I'm asking you."
Eira's lips curved faintly, upturned eyes glinting with curiosity. "What do I get in return?"
He knew what she wanted before she spoke.
Their eyes locked with a charged intensity, lust creeping into her gaze as she bit her lower lip.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Your blood," she murmured, stepping closer.
"And I want it from the source."
Of course. Her old hunger—for him, and for what ran through him.
She delighted in feeding on him as they explored their bodies. Intriguing while it lasted.
Eira's eyes drank in his vulnerability. He prayed she wouldn't overthink it.
He sighed. "A room full of gold instead?"
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "My bad, I should have asked to fuck you instead," she said, knuckles clenched. "Do I disgust you that much?"
"Why my blood then?" he asked, weary.
"I missed the one part of you you couldn't control around me," she said, her eyes burning into his.
He leaned back on his throne, frustration giving way to resignation. "Then come. Drink."
In an instant, she was on him, straddling his lap, the scent of synthetic wisteria filling his nostrils—less gentle than the nostalgic scent of lavender.
Her bare thighs pressed against him as she leaned in, fangs aiming for his neck.
His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting as her bite electrified his veins, her hunger pressing him to the edge, drawing a low, restrained gasp from his throat.
Her body pressed closer, relentless against his.
Then his hand caught hers, eyes opening in a silent warning.
Eira froze, retracting her fangs; the mark faded instantly.
She looked down, shame softening her features. "What do you want of me, Master?"
Azael lifted her chin gently. "Information on a blind human girl. Ginger hair. Name—Elana."
Eira stepped back, eyes narrowing. "A girl?"
"I've paid what you asked."
"I've been begging for your blood for years," she hissed. "And now you give it away for her? Who is she?"
"She's a slave," he said simply,
"And I expect your report before noon tomorrow. I won't ask twice."
Her anger flared, but she knew better than to test him. In a shimmer of smoke, she vanished.
Azael's gaze lingered on the space she left behind—his pulse steadied, his thoughts lingering on Elana's uncertain fate.
**
The hardwood doors of the palace study opened as King Victor strode in, finding Syrus waiting.
"The rival soldiers are almost done retreating," he said as he settled behind the massive table. "We move immediately. I want my soldiers still primed and hungry for victory."
Syrus studied him, noting the subtle arrogance in the king's posture.
A pawn that believed itself a king.
"Patience, my king," Syrus replied. " A little observation is key. Unleashing the knowledge of magic lands too soon will invite real chaos. Let the uproar settle first."
The king exhaled sharply, "Indeed, we don't need any distractions."
"We shouldn't underestimate the power in those lands before entering battle," Syrus said, his thin smile curling.
"When do we move then?" Victor asked, his hunger for conquest barely contained.
"When it's safe. Almost safe." Syrus said. "For now, we wait."
He watched the king carefully, noting the flicker of fear, quickly masked by authority.
The king needn't worry—he was after bigger fish.
Like the immense power that came from the ancient vampire he'd spotted on those lands.