It was near midnight when the alarm rose. Flames licked across the moor, spreading fast toward the village.
Servants rushed to rouse Nathaniel, but he was already astride his horse, racing toward the blaze. Eleanor followed, her gown torn by the wind, her heart hammering.
At the edge of the flames stood Lucien, torch in hand, his face lit with fury.
"Do you see?" he cried. "This is the fate of Ashford! Death will claim all unless she yields!"
He raised the dagger, pressing its cold edge to his palm, drawing a thin line of blood. The altar drank it eagerly, the chamber trembling as though the stones themselves.
Nathaniel leapt from his horse, tackling him, the torch scattering sparks. The two men grappled, fists and fury colliding beneath the burning sky.
Eleanor screamed, rushing forward, but the heat drove her back. Villagers arrived, forming a line to beat down the fire.
