The mare was straining, the sound of her hooves and the rattling Brougham deafening on the open road. They had successfully navigated the outskirts of "Rosewood Lane, leaving behind the stunned curiosity of their neighbours. Now, they were on the long, exposed thoroughfare leading out of Atheria's jurisdiction, aiming toward the distant, neutral coastline and the sanctuary of Grayhaven.
The dust plume billowing behind their carriage was the only thing Mr. Finch seemed to see. He was perched on the edge of the seat, his face pressed to the rear window, the locked strongbox digging painfully into his knees.
"We are too visible! Too slow!" he kept muttering, his hand constantly flying to his pocket watch, as if time itself were the enemy. "He will know the moment we passed the city boundary. He sees everything."
Ezra said nothing, conserving her breath, the corset making every inhalation a minor effort. She felt the difference between the relative safety of the populated suburbs and the exposed emptiness of the main road. The air here was drier, the shadows longer, and the feeling of being hunted—of being observed—was a cold, unpleasant truth.
Clara, squeezed between them, had dissolved into silent tears, clutching her small handbag. "Where are we going, Ezra? Is it the Duke? Why is Papa so frightened?"
"It is not the Duke, Clara," Ezra whispered, her gaze sweeping the surrounding terrain. To the east lay rolling, uninhabited plains; to the west, dense, ancient woodland—a perfect place for an ambush. "It is something much older than dukes."
Suddenly, the driver let out a high, panicked shout and yanked hard on the reins.
The Brougham groaned to a stop.
Ahead, where the road narrowed near a cluster of jagged, blackened rocks—a formation known locally as the Devil's Teeth—a barricade had been thrown up. It was comprised of felled tree trunks and stones, impossible for the carriage to pass. But worse than the barricade were the men who stood before it.
Four figures, mounted on powerful, jet-black horses, had emerged from the woods. They were clad in practical, dark leather and wore no recognizable livery. They carried no rifles; their weapons were long, curved scimitars that caught the morning light with chilling efficiency. These were not common highwaymen; their movements were too coordinated, their posture too controlled. They moved with the cold precision of those who serve a powerful, non-human master.
"Valerian's riders," Ezra breathed, a cold knot forming in her stomach. The Prime Nexus had not wasted a moment.
Mr. Finch fumbled with the strongbox, desperately trying to unlatch the door. "Stop! We are a solicitor's family! We have funds! Let us pass!"
One of the riders—the tallest, whose face was pale and unnervingly placid—drew his scimitar and pointed it directly at the small carriage.
"Our Master requires the Creatrix Regium," the rider announced, his voice carrying clearly despite the distance, possessing the thin, resonant quality of a bell struck beneath water. "The Abomination requires his destined vessel. Step out, Miss Finch. You are claimed."
Ezra immediately reached beneath her skirts for the hidden revolver. This was not a negotiation. It was the moment her true, lesser Vampire nature would be tested against the terrifying power of The Prime Nexus's immediate, deadly will.