The forest was frozen.
A body hit the ground hard, rolling several times before crashing against a tree trunk, bark splintering from the impact.
It was Damien who was slapped without a warning.
As the scene unfolded, everyone quieted down.
The silence was deafening.
Every person stood still.
Even Zahara's spear, which crackled with latent fire, had quieted.
All eyes turned toward the new presence—no, the presence—that now loomed over the forest like an ancient storm.
Valen Veyrannis.
The Vampire Emperor.
He stood tall at the edge of the clearing, a figure of impossible grace and horror, clad in layered crimson and obsidian robes that shimmered like a pool of blood under moonlight.
His eyes—glowing a deep garnet—burned through the shadows, piercing and predatory. His long white hair, untied and flowing like liquid silk, danced in the breeze.
Power clung to him like a shroud—not the intimidating kind but the kind that silenced the world.
