The emperor panted, his breath ragged but defiant. His body was a wreck—shredded and broken by Thorin's relentless assault—yet he barely felt a thing. Dark blood dripped from his mouth as he sneered at the two fallen warriors before him. He believed them both dead. He was only half right.
Roderick, the vampire, hadn't survived the draining—his strength no match for the emperor's consuming force. Thorin, on the other hand, was a werewolf. Hardy. Stubborn. Capable of losing rivers of blood and still clinging to life.
"That's the price of defying me," Emperor Kaan growled, as though every triumph, every act of devastation, had been his doing alone. He didn't mention Thessara—the true source of his victories, the one who had hollowed him out so pain could no longer reach him.
