I spot Blaise in the left corner of my eye, fighting like a storm unleashed, his scimitar glinting like liquid starlight.
He whirls between the onpyrs, slashing through sinew, leaving trails of severed limbs and rolling heads in his wake.
Several creatures lunge at him, mouths agape. He sidesteps effortlessly, reversing his grip on the scimitar, and slices through one’s neck in a shower of blood. The second onpyr attacks in ablinding rage, but is no match for Blaise’s fury. He drives his blade between the monster’s hollow eyes, carving downwards until it reaches his throat, twisting with force and severing the head.
No matter how many onpyrs fall under our blades, hundreds more appear like cockroaches, in a never-ending stream of madness.
“They are overpowering us!” Marhus shouts from my right side, soaked in onpyr blood . Thank Akaori it’s not his own!
“No!” I growl, beheading another filthy creature. “They might be relentless, mindless puppets with nothing but Morweena’s will coursing through their veins, but they are no match for us. We will prevail!” I shout as I swing my blades right and left, leaving a field of corpses all around.
My shadow self is unhinged, disintegrating, swirling, and reappearing all over the city, maiming and murdering hundreds of these empty-headed motherfuckers all at once. This Akaoriforsaken power has always been my greatest advantage in battle. No creature, dead or alive, can withstand the raw brutality of my unleashed shadows. I am Death, in all its frightening glory.
A vampire warrior screams from somewhere close by. His limp body is impaled through the torso, and he writhes under the merciless hold of a crazed onpyr that’s tearing his throat away. I recognize with horror his face. Aydan, one of Blaise’s trained spies.
He fights like hell, pulling his punches, even as his blood pours down his fighting leathers, pooling on the filthy cobblestones. Three more onpyrs jump on him, dragging him fast towards the city gates.
There’s no time to save him; he’s gone now—another puppet in Morweena’s never-ending army.
“Aim for the throats!” Blaise shouts from somewhere near. “Decapitate these shitheads! It’s the only way to end this!”
I spin and turn endlessly, beheading onpyrs left and right, drowning myself in sickening carnage. My shadow double rains down upon the creatures in crimson barbarity, mist daggers in hand, lips drawn in a feral, inhuman grin. He enjoys the savagery just a little bit too much. It’s not only about survival for my sentient shadows. They crave ruination—they thrive on it.
Finally, after hours upon hours of gruesome attacks, the tide starts turning slowly in our favor. Countless vampires have fallen, but twice as many onpyrs have been defeated. The toll is haunting, merciless. Decapitated heads line the streets, almost steaming in the frigid winter air. We can’t even decipher anymore who are friends from foes in the macabre display of mangled corpses at our feet.
We stand our ground, defending our last bastion before the Saunoque Mountains—blades bloody, hearts heavy. I swing my daggers relentlessly, each hit a rage-driven execution. We will not die today! I will not allow my kingdom to succumb to this scourge, this relentless madness.
The onpyrs keep coming in never-ending waves until dawn. The city of Dithrau survives, but barely—crumbling, wailing in ablaze agony, but fighting until its last breath.
As sunrise approaches, its ochre light creeping over the skyline, we push the last onpyrs into an early, well-deserved grave. My vampires, drained and covered in slimy grume, still stand.
Those creatures died by the thousands, but butchered or kidnapped hundreds of our own in return.
This battle might be over, but the war wages on.
Dithrau lives to see the light of another day. Wrahta still has a chance to overcome Morweena’s destruction, and I will never fall quietly into the dark.
The skies weep frozen tears, snowflakes covering the blood-filled canvas of the city’s streets. It’s a heartbreaking painting of victory and despair, of loss and relief.
“It’s over, brother,” Blaise whispers, clasping my shoulder in his gory-soaked grip.
“For now,” I say dejectedly. My shadow self returns to my side—my spitting image bathed in crimson, silent fortitude. It dissolves back into a swirling mist, tendrils creeping up my arms and redrawing intricate tattoos on my chest.
“Time to go home,” he offers, his voice subdued. This war has taken its toll even on Blaise, his easygoing attitude lost somewhere on the battlefield.
“Home…” I murmur, nodding. More than ever, home feels like a person, and not a place. Not my castle, not even my kingdom.
I square my shoulders with steely resolve. I shall return to Sangeries and tear down Aimee’s defenses one by one. Our fate might be gloomy and unclear, but I will not spend another Akaoridamn second without basking in her light. I will get the girl and save my kingdom.
My shadows hum in approval against my cold skin.
CHAPTER 21
Aimee
Nellajustinformedmethat Dithrau has successfully survived the siege, and not for the first time, either. The vampires have returned in the middle of the night, almost unharmed, their numbers thinned, but victorious.
I immediately throw myself into a run towards the King’s private chambers, eager to see them alive, unscathed. My feet slap noisily on the stone tiles, the hallway becoming a blur around me, my heart thumping in my chest like a caged, broken dove.
