The ruins still steamed from the tense battle still reeked, scorched from blood and sweat, when Varyselle landed in the blackened courtyard. Her boots crunched over shattered stone. Smoke curled up from fissures in the earth, and the scent in the air stopped her breath.
Burned leather. Silver blood. And something fouler.
Vladmir's scent. Faint. Fading.
She didn't whisper his name. Just unsheathed her claws and stepped into the silence.
A soft clap echoed behind her.
"Well. The infamous Varyselle."
She turned, eyes narrowing. Fenric Grayclaw strolled out from the shadow of a fractured spire, dressed in a silk coat that didn't carry a single wrinkle. Behind him came Seraphine, tall, silent, barefoot, her skin pale as ash and her eyes soulless.
"You're a little late," Fenric said. "The King's already in pieces."
Varyselle moved before he finished the sentence. A blur of white hair and vengeance, she struck high, talons flashing toward his throat.
He caught her mid-air.
The impact rang like a thunderclap.
"You think I didn't expect you?" he whispered, twisting her wrist. She hissed and backflipped away, landing hard. Seraphine's blade sang through the air and slashed a clean line across her ribs.
Blood bloomed across her coat.
Fenric's laughter cut through it. "Careful. That was a family heirloom."
She came again—low this time, spinning under his guard, claws finding flesh. He staggered. Not much, but enough to make Seraphine snarl.
"You bleed," Varyselle spat, wiping her mouth. "That's enough for me."
"No," Fenric replied, fixing his cuffs. "It really isn't."
They came at her together.
Blades met fang, speed met desperation. The courtyard lit up with silver sparks and blood arcs. Varyselle fought like a desprately, like someone with nothing left to lose. But Fenric was older. Smarter. Crueler. And Seraphine didn't fight to win—she fought to wear her down.
They broke her with finesse.
One final strike—Fenric's elbow to her throat, Seraphine's blade to her thigh—and she dropped to her knees, breathing with fury.
Fenric crouched beside her.
"You don't kneel well," he said. "But it suits you."
He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face. She bared her fangs. He smiled wider.
"No need to act. I won't touch you, not in the way you're thinking." His voice dropped, sickly soft. "That would be sacrilege. After all, you're his, aren't you? Ramiel's little flame. I just wonder—did he ever beg for you? Or did you beg for him?"
Varyselle didn't speak. Her glare said enough.
Fenric leaned closer. "You're beautiful when you hate me."
Seraphine muttered a confusing phrase. A chain, black and rune-burned, slithered through the dust and snapped tight around Varyselle's wrists. Another wrapped her throat.
She didn't bother screaming. These were some of the ancient vampires, Fenric has been alive since Lucifer's rebellion when he was turned.
"She'll bait him," Seraphine said. "Like a charm."
"He'll come," Fenric agreed. "And when he does... I want him to see her broken."
They dragged her into the dark, into a cell lined with living iron. Her strength began to drain the moment the door closed.
There was no hope of escape.
And the words Fenric left her with, whispered behind the locked gate—
"Let's see how long your pride holds up when.... you meet him"