Lucien Mason stood at the edge of the cliff, his crimson cloak dancing wildly in the wind like liquid fire given form. Below, the ruined city of Ravaryn burned—a sea of red and gold flames crackling with supernatural intensity as screams echoed from its broken streets. The siege had lasted only an hour, yet it felt like watching millennia of civilization collapse in fast-forward. This wasn't conquest—it was apocalypse given flesh.
His army didn't conquer—they devoured. Thousands of vampiric thralls moved through the streets like a plague of locusts, leaving nothing but ash and bone in their wake. The city's defenders hadn't stood a chance. How could mortal steel cut down beings that fed on death itself?
