Prologue

POV Liora 

The wind was wrong that night.

It scraped along the ground instead of drifting, cold and restless, tugging at the shutters like it wanted inside. Clouds smothered the moon, leaving the village wrapped in a gray half-dark that smelled of damp earth and old smoke. The air pressed heavy against my skin, thick enough to taste.

Our village was small, tucked between the hills and the forest, built of low stone houses with sloped roofs and crooked chimneys. By day it was warm—children running barefoot, women laughing near the well, my father’s voice carrying as he worked.

By night, it should have been quiet.

I woke to Mara curled against my side, her dark curls tickling my chin. She was five, all knees and elbows and warmth, her thumb tucked into her mouth. Beyond her, Elin and Lysa slept tangled together, their hair a mess of braids and loose strands. Elin’s was lighter, sun-brown; Lysa’s almost black, like mine.

The screaming tore through the village like a blade.

Not one scream. Dozens.

High and shrill. Deep and broken. The sound of voices tearing themselves apart.

My father was already moving. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair going gray at the temples though he wasn’t old. His beard was half-grown, his face lined from work and sun. He grabbed the knife from the table—the same one he used to cut bread—and held it like it might save us.

“Stay here,” he said. His eyes found mine. Dark. Steady. Afraid. “All of you.”

My mother pulled us close. She smelled like flour and soap, her hair pinned back in its usual neat coil, already coming loose. She was smaller than my father, soft where he was solid, but I had never known anyone stronger.

The house shook.

Something struck the wall next door. Wood splintered. A scream cut off so suddenly it felt like my heart stopped with it.

Orange light flickered across the room.

The door burst inward.

A pale shape crossed the threshold—too fast, too smooth—and my father stepped forward without thinking.

He died before he could speak.

Blood sprayed the wall behind him, dark and wet, his body hitting the floor with a sound I will never forget. His eyes were open. His mouth was slightly parted, like he had been about to say my name.

My mother screamed.

She shoved us behind her, arms spread wide, her face twisted with terror and fury. A hand closed around her throat—white, elegant, impossibly strong. She clawed at it, her nails breaking, her feet leaving the floor.

Her neck snapped.

The sound was soft. Final.

She collapsed beside my father, her hair spilling loose, her eyes staring at nothing.

I couldn’t breathe.

Someone laughed.

Not loud. Not wild.

Amused.

I grabbed Mara’s hand and ran.

Outside, the village was burning.

The baker’s house—where old Mara used to sneak us sweet crusts—collapsed in a shower of sparks. The smell of bread had been replaced by smoke and blood and something sharp, metallic.

People ran past me. Faces I knew. Faces I loved.

Jonas, the miller’s son, his blond hair soaked red as he clutched his stomach. Tera, who had sung at my sister’s naming day, screaming as she was dragged backward by her hair.

The wind carried the sound everywhere, scattering it so it felt like the hills themselves were screaming.

The rain never came.

I stumbled, fell hard into the mud. My skirt soaked through instantly—warm, sticky, not all mine. I scrambled up, sobbing now, chest burning, lungs tearing.

I saw my sisters near the well.

Lysa stood in front of Elin, arms shaking as she tried to shield her. Lysa was tall for her age, her dark hair falling loose from its braid, her face streaked with ash and tears. Elin clutched her waist, her lighter hair plastered to her cheeks, screaming my name over and over.

Mara was ripped from my grip.

She reached for me, her small face crumpling, her curls bouncing as she struggled.

A blade flashed.

Lysa fell first, her body crumpling sideways, eyes wide in shock.

Elin screamed once more—sharp, broken—before she followed.

Mara’s hand was still reaching for me when she went still.

I don’t remember screaming. I remember my throat burning afterward.

I crawled—blind, shaking—into the pile of bodies near the edge of the square. I pressed myself beneath them, the weight crushing the air from my lungs, blood slicking my skin, the smell overwhelming.

I didn’t move.

I watched through lashes clotted with tears and ash.

That was when I saw him.

He stood near the well, firelight reflecting off dark armor, his posture straight, his hands folded behind his back. Tall. Broad. Still. His black hair was pulled back neatly, untouched by smoke. His face was calm—handsome in a cold, distant way.

His eyes were pale blue.

They moved over the village like he was counting losses, not lives.

Someone spoke to him. A vampire, armored like the others.

He listened.

Then nodded once.

“Burn the rest,” he said.

His voice was even. Controlled.

“No survivors.”

The words slid into my bones and stayed there.

The screams faded slowly.

One by one.

Until there was nothing but the crackle of fire, the groan of collapsing stone, and the wind dragging smoke across the ruins of everything I had been.

I stayed until dawn.

Until the rain finally fell—soft, useless, washing blood into the dirt.

I stayed alive.

Alone.

Remembering every face.