Chapter 2

Killian hit the ground hard on the far side of the city wall, rolled, and came up running.

The field beyond was a patchwork of frost and black soil, the moonlight sharp enough to cut. The Wardens’ shouts were already spilling over the parapets, and their silver-tipped bolts hissed through the night air.

He veered toward the treeline, letting the forest swallow him.

His shoulder burned from the bolt lodged there, the silver working like slow poison in his veins. He kept running until the city’s glow was just a smear between the trees.

Then the forest floor dropped away.

He slid down a bank of wet clay and landed in a hollow cut deep into the earth. At its center, a narrow stairway spiraled down into blackness.

Killian hesitated. Any sane man would’ve turned back. But sanity hadn’t kept him alive this long.

He descended.

The air grew damp and cold as he went, the smell of moss giving way to the scent of old stone… and blood. Not fresh. Not rotting. Somewhere in between — the cloying, metallic perfume of vampires living beneath the surface.

The stair opened into a tunnel lit by green witchlight. Figures moved in the shadows, some with eyes that caught the glow like a cat’s, some with teeth bared in silent warning.

At the end of the tunnel sat a woman on a cracked marble throne.

Harlow.

Her hair was black as the stone around her, her skin pale enough to make the veins beneath it look like ink. She lounged with the lazy confidence of someone who could have him dead before he took his next breath.

“You’ve brought trouble to my door,” she said. Her voice was smooth but carried an edge that made it clear it wasn’t a question.

Killian straightened. “Trouble was already coming for me.”

Harlow’s eyes slid to the blood-smeared bolt jutting from his shoulder. “Wardens?”

“Yes.”

The crowd in the tunnel shifted at the word, some faces hardening, others flickering with fear. The Wardens were hunters even monsters feared.

Harlow rose slowly, coming down the steps to circle him. “You’re bleeding silver and still standing. That means you’re either very lucky… or very valuable.”

Killian didn’t answer.

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of ash on her clothes. “Tell me, stranger — what’s your name?”

“Killian.”

Her smile was slight. “And your bloodline?”

He almost lied. But the vial in his pocket seemed to burn against his coat

“Vael.”

A ripple moved through the gathered vampires — whispers sharp as knives. Harlow’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened.

“You’re either the unluckiest man I’ve ever met,” she said, “or the one I’ve been waiting for.”

Before Killian could ask what she meant, a voice called from deeper in the tunnel. “Harlow! Wardens at the outer gate!”

The room came alive. Weapons were drawn, doors slammed, shadows deepened. Harlow turned back to him, her voice dropping low.

“You’ve just bought yourself a choice, Killian Vael. Stand with us and live… or run, and hope the Wardens take their time.”

The thunder of boots and the scrape of metal echoed closer.

Killian’s hand found the vial in his pocket. The Wardens had his blood. Now they were about to find him.