Syrus struggled to catch his breath as he lay injured in front of his lair.
His magic could no longer carry him—he had barely survived getting through the forest at night.
He pushed himself up from the cobblestones and rested his back against the wall, clutching his wounded arm as he lifted his gaze to the morning sky, now dark with rain clouds over Lumere.
"Do you need help, good sir?" A young man asked, followed closely by two others.
The city was quiet and mostly empty—its people had fled, afraid of what a second war might bring.
"Yes…please help me," Syrus answered weakly before two of the boys—definitely teens—lifted him to his feet. He groaned.
"Where to, sir?" another asked.
Syrus inhaled sharply.
It would be best if they took him to a medic but the war was not over.
He wanted—needed—to be a part of it and he had to make sure Victor died. If he didn't, things would not end well for Syrus.
"I live here. Upstairs," he said hoarsely as the boys supported him to the door.
The third one lingered behind as they climbed the stairs.
Syrus had been wrong to underestimate the Ancient—wrong to think proximity would give him control if he infiltrated the lair and studied the incantations close up.
He hadn't even gotten the chance before the Ancient appeared.
Once inside his home, Syrus resisted the urge to crawl directly to his sorcery room.
"Thank you," he said tightly as the boys left. He shut the door and locked it.
Then he crawled toward the room where he exploited his magic, determination surging.
If proximity would not give the Ancient's power to him, then he would be persistent with distance.
The Ancient had marked his face. The king would definitely punish his failure.
Victor had no heir—meaning the people would elect a new king.
Syrus had to ensure Victor died first, even if he didn't gain the Ancient's power as a result; it would buy him some time.
He climbed into the chair in his study, leaning on the table for support as he hissed at the pain in his arm and broken rib. He muttered a spell, gasping as the mist fed him visions of the forest.
It was chaos.
Blood stained the forest floor and the lycans were everywhere now—still capturing or killing Lumere's soldiers.
Syrus pushed his medium toward the Ancient's castle.
He wanted no survivors—especially the king—and the stronger he pushed, the more convinced he became that the Ancient would kneel.
**
Elana hummed softly along with the birds' chirping melodies outside her window, the scent of morning air teasing her senses.
Today she woke up hopeful, and birds—especially ones that sang this early—felt like a good omen. A sign of freedom.
Her mind drifted to Miss Rona, her teacher—a patient lady who taught her how to care for herself, her hair, and her cleanliness.
Elana had been eager to learn, desperate to prove her usefulness beyond her disability.
She was grateful the Gringers considered her independence enough to hire a teacher.
Mrs Gringer had treated her kindly, almost like a daughter.
But everything changed when Naina was born.
Elana had clung to those memories of belonging for so long that she'd forgotten her true place—as their slave.
A flutter of wings and a knock at the door broke her thoughts. She quickly checked herself.
"Come in."
A soft creak followed.
"Thought you were still asleep," Cara said with amusement. "You always manage to be up before I am."
Elana smiled at her voice. "Good Morning, Cara."
"Hello, flower," Cara replied. "Sorry to disturb you."
"Oh, that's fine," Elana said as she reached for the side table, for her yarn and knitting pin. "I was about heading out too."
"Um," Cara began, as Elana's hands tightened around the yarn, "Caesar came around. He'd like to talk to you, if that's okay."
Elana's breath hitched. It was definitely about the escape.
But she summoned her courage. She didn't want Cara to doubt her resolve to leave with them.
Elana nodded and released the yarn. "Yes, it is ok."
Cara took her hand gently, leading her out of the room and through the sitting room.
The scent of fried chicken already told Elana where Zelda was, even before she spoke.
"Goodmorning Zelda,"
"Good morning, sugar," Zelda chimed from the kitchen as Cara guided Elana out the back door and further away from the cottage.
The morning breeze blew softly through her hair, carrying hints of tobacco and Cara's familiar scent.
"Hello, Elana," Caesar's voice greeted—gruff with a playful undertone.
"Goodmorning, Caesar," Elana replied with a small smile, hoping she didn't look as nervous as she felt.
"Cara told me you made up your mind."
Elana nodded, suddenly aware of Zane's absence. "What about Zane?"
"Oh, he's not exactly given the same liberty to visit as much as I am," Caesar answered. "But since you've already decided. I need to tell you what we are doing to escape unnoticed."
"When?" Elana asked, gripping Cara's hand tighter.
"Before dawn. Tomorrow."
"I'm curious how we're getting past the guards," Cara said.
"Leave that part to me. If we are going to outsmart two vampire kings, better we do it while they sleep. Then it's only humans we deal with."
"What about Zelda and Eldric?" Elana asked, her heart missing their company already.
"Like I said—Leave it to me. And Elana?"
"Hm?" Elana replied.
"Tell no one we meet until we leave the city that you're blind."
Elana swallowed nervously, "O-okay."
Cara's hand slipped from hers.
"My love, please do as I told you," Caesar said—Elana knew he was speaking to Cara. "We can't afford to let anything slip."
Cara scoffed playfully, "Gee, you're saying it like it's my first time with these things."
"I trust you," Caesar said.
Elana smiled faintly.
She hoped Cara was truly happy—she sounded like she was.
But Elana's hand trembled where she held them together, fear pulsing through her veins at the thought of Azael.
She hoped the escape would be smooth.
If not…she didn't know what would happen if Azael found out—or worse, if he trailed her.
**
Azael gasped awake—he had passed out in the incense room.
His body, naked and slick with wisteria oil.
Three or four minions hovered nearby, eyes darting—nervous but relieved.
He scoffed at their false devotion.
And swallowed as he sat up, elbows on his knees.
"The soldiers?"
"The wolves attacked, my lord," one replied.
"They've been attacking humans since the day before."
Azael clenched his jaw and rose, striding past the minions, into his chambers, stopping at the window the sorcerer had fled from, not bothering to hide his frustration.
The soldiers were allied with the sorcerer who invaded his lair.
They would burn for it including the wolves that dared trespass.
The wisteria would be enough but he could not ignore what his mercy had cost him.
Humans had cost him again.
He observed the sky. Morning, yet the clouds had not recovered from the day before.
A minion draped a different robe over him as he sent his bats to scout his territory.
They flew—feeding him fragments of wolves sniffing through his lands like bloody rats, and human soldiers hiding like moles.
His irritation grew.
"Guard the castle till I return," Azael said. "Or consider yourselves visitors of hell next."
Then he took off into the forest.
The pests moping around his lands would be removed and the King of Lumere had better be back in his kingdom or death by Fen's lycans would be a kinder fate for him.