Chapter 4

POV Liora 

Night settled over Kraithan like a held breath.

Mae and I sat on the floor of my apartment, backs against the cot, a half-empty pot of stew between us and torn bread scattered on a plate. The lantern burned low, throwing shadows across the walls. Outside, the city hummed—music from a tavern down the street, boots on stone, laughter rising and falling like waves.

It felt normal. Too normal.

Mae was talking with her mouth full, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread. “I’m just saying, if I do become immortal, I'll never work a night shift again. Ever. I will haunt the rich exclusively.”

I snorted. “You already do that.”

She grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”

Then it happened.

A scream tore through the night.

Not a drunk’s yell. Not laughter. Not a lover’s argument spilling into the street.

This was pain—pure, ripping, animal.

Mae froze. So did I.

Another scream followed. Closer. Then another, layered over it, deeper and broken short like someone choking on their own blood.

My stomach dropped.

“That’s not—” Mae started.

“I know,” I said, already on my feet.

We didn’t think. We didn’t plan. We grabbed our coats and ran—down the creaking stairs, past the startled neighbors spilling into the hallway, out into the street where lanterns swung wildly as people fled.

The air smelled wrong.

Copper. Wet stone. Fear.

At the far end of the street, the crowd parted in horror, and that’s when I saw them.

Wolves.

Huge. Massive. Fur slicked dark with blood, muscles ripping beneath skin as they lunged and snarled. One slammed into a stone wall hard enough to crack it, bones crunching audibly. Another tried to stand on a shattered leg, its howl cut short as a blur of motion tore its throat open.

The vampire moved too fast—inhuman, wrong. Pale and streaked with blood, eyes burning red in the lantern light. He was laughing. Actually laughing. Blood ran down his chin as he ripped into one of the wolves, fingers clawed deep into flesh.

Mae gagged beside me.

The wolves fought back—teeth snapping, claws tearing—but they were already losing. One collapsed with a wet thud, chest ripped open, ribs shattered outward. Another was dragged across the stones, leaving a smear so dark it almost looked black.

The sounds were unbearable.

Bones breaking. Flesh tearing. A scream that turned into a gurgle.

The city guard arrived too late. Silver flashed. Shouts rang out. The vampire shrieked as a blade pierced his side, blackened blood spraying across the cobblestones.

Then silence fell—heavy, choking.

The wolves lay still.

And slowly, horribly, their bodies changed.

Fur receded. Bones cracked and shifted. Massive forms shrank into fragile, broken human bodies—three of them. Naked. Bruised. Torn open. Young men by the look of them. One couldn’t have been older than twenty.

I felt something inside me twist.

The vampire lay a few feet away, impaled through the abdomen by silver, chest barely moving. His skin was gray, cracked, veins black and pulsing weakly beneath the surface. Every breath sounded like glass in his lungs.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

The guards were shouting orders, pushing people back, arguing about who had jurisdiction over what species. No one noticed us standing there. No one noticed the way my heart was pounding—not in fear, but in something sharp and focused.

Mae slowly turned to look at me.

Her green eyes were wide. Alive. Burning.

I looked back at her.

And for the first time since Rallen burned, I smiled.

Not a happy smile.

A knowing one.

Mae’s lips curved too, slow and dangerous.

“I think,” she said quietly, eyes locked on the barely-breathing vampire, “we just found an in.”

I didn’t look away.

“I think,” I agreed, “we did.”

And somewhere deep inside me, something old and hungry stirred—like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

We never should have done it.

I knew that as Mae and I dragged the vampire up the narrow stairwell, his weight heavy and wrong between us. Every step left a smear of dark blood across the wood, the scent of copper thick in the air. His breathing was shallow but steady—controlled, even now.

That alone terrified me.

By the time we got him inside my apartment, my arms were shaking. The building was silent, doors shut tight, everyone pretending they hadn’t seen anything. We hauled him onto the cot, the mattress groaning under his weight.

I locked the door. Then locked it again.

Mae shoved the table against it anyway.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Up close, he didn’t look weak.

He looked contained.

His ash colored hair was soaked with blood and sweat, curling slightly at the ends. His skin was pale—not sickly, but carved, sharp with definition. There were scars everywhere. Old ones. Blade marks, burns, deep gouges that had healed wrong. This wasn’t a fledgling vampire. This was someone who had survived centuries of violence.

One eye was swollen shut. The other cracked open briefly—gold, dulled but aware. Watching.

He wore shredded black leather, a long coat torn nearly in half. His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers calloused, knuckles thickened from repeated fights. Even unconscious, there was tension in him, like a coiled blade waiting to be drawn.

Mae exhaled slowly. “He’s… not small-time.”

“No,” I said quietly. “And not desperate. Desperate vampires don’t fight wolves head-on.”

I leaned closer, studying him. The silver wound in his abdomen smoked faintly, blackened blood seeping through the fabric. Still, his heart beat strong beneath my fingers. Slow. Steady. Controlled.

Nothing about him said weak.

“He wasn’t feeding,” I murmured. “That was a battle. Something went wrong.”

Mae swallowed. “And we brought him home.”

The vampire groaned, his jaw tightening. His body twitched—not in panic, but restraint. He was holding himself still.

I reached for the silver blade and pulled it free.

He screamed.

The sound ripped out of him, raw and furious, shaking the walls. His back arched, veins darkening beneath his skin as black blood spilled onto the mattress. I clamped a hand over his mouth instantly.

“Quiet,” I hissed. “You want the guards back here?”

For one terrifying second, his eye snapped open fully—burning, sharp, furious. Not fear. Not confusion.

Rage.

Then the silver’s poison dragged him back under, and he collapsed, breath shuddering.

Mae stared at me. “You didn’t hesitate.”

I looked down at my hands, slick with his blood.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

We worked quickly. Bandaging what we could. Removing silver fragments. Chaining his wrist to the iron bedframe—not because we thought it would hold him forever, but because it might slow him down long enough for us to survive.

When we finished, he looked less like a monster dragged from the street and more like a warlord temporarily caged.

Mae sat heavily in the chair, eyes never leaving him. “So,” she said softly, “what exactly did we bring into your apartment?”

I met her gaze.

“Someone important,” I said. “And someone dangerous enough that people will come looking.”

Mae’s mouth curved into a slow, uneasy smile.

“And that’s our opening.”

I looked back at the vampire, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”