The strike came at dusk.
Seraphina led the spearhead herself, a dozen nephilim warriors moving like falling stars through the veil between realms. Their pocket dimension — a sanctuary carved from reality itself during the desperate escape from the Great Flood — had kept them hidden for millennia. Now its gates opened, spilling celestial fire into the mortal world.
They hit one of Cain's secondary strongholds on the outskirts of the city: an old warehouse complex converted into a hub for his bloodline's operations. The nephilim descended without warning. Light lances pierced concrete. Wings of pure radiance tore through steel. Vampires burned where they stood. Werewolves caught mid-shift howled as holy fire seared their flesh.
Torin, one of the younger nephilim, drove his spear through a fleeing vampire elder. "For the old order!" he shouted, voice shaking with adrenaline and something deeper.
