I watched, frozen in awe and terror, as my mother transformed before my eyes. Gone was the dying woman I'd met in the chamber. In her place stood a being of terrifying power—wings spread wide, fangs bared, her crimson eyes blazing with centuries of pent-up rage.
"Mother," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the commotion.
The vampire king—the monster who had haunted both our nightmares—writhed at her feet like a worm impaled on a hook. His blood formed crimson rivers on the stone floor as she methodically stripped him of every drop of power he'd stolen from her.
I should have felt satisfaction. Vindication. Relief.
Instead, all I felt was hollow.
For months, I'd been fueled by my hatred of vampires, by the burning desire to avenge the mother I'd never known. And now, watching her exact her revenge with such brutal efficiency, I realized how small I truly was in comparison. How weak.