Alaric's POV
The battlefield was madness, screams and steel clashing against immortal flesh, blood painting the marble of my halls. But none of it mattered the moment I smelled him. The bitter, iron-laced scent of the hunter who had dared to step foot in my castle.
Ashton.
He moved through the chaos like a blade given flesh, his hunters covering his back while he carved his way forward. Our eyes locked across the blood-soaked chamber, and the noise of war dimmed to a single pulse of hatred.
"You," I snarled, fangs bared.
He smirked, tightening the grip on his silvered axe. "The devil himself. Let's see if the monster bleeds."
We collided like storms. His axe came down with a roar, sparks flying as I caught the blade in my bare hands. Flesh sizzled, the silver burning my palms, but I twisted, sending him sprawling back. He rolled, came up on one knee, and slashed again fast, trained, ruthless.
