The room was soaked in shadows and scarlet silk, deep inside the ruins of an old monastery-turned-vampire palace. The air was heavy with the scent of wine, blood, and incense. The fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting a dance of gold across the tangled limbs on the massive bed.
Fenric Grayclaw lay back, half-draped in black sheets, the tattoos across his chest glistening with sweat. His breath was slow, deep—the kind that came not from exhaustion but savage contentment.
Seraphina straddled him, her silver-white hair cascading down like falling moonlight. Her skin was porcelain, but her eyes—those eyes burned like razors, half-lidded with pleasure and secrets.
"You've been quiet," she murmured, trailing her fingernails down his ribs. "That usually means you're thinking about war."
Fenric smirked. "Ramiel's back from Heaven"
Seraphina leaned forward, pressing her lips against his throat—just near the pulse. Her voice was silk wrapped in steel. "Are you worried?"
"I'm never worried," Fenric said. "But I am… amused."
She bit gently, playful, then whispered, "So what now?"
"I face him, if I must," he said. "God, Djinn, martyr—whatever title he wears, I'll carve it off his chest if he stands in our way."
He sat up, one hand sliding into her hair, gripping it with tender violence. His fangs showed just slightly. "By nightfall, I hand the girl to Zariel. Then we see what war really looks like."
Seraphina smiled like a knife. "You always did get aroused by power plays."
He grinned. "Then let's not waste it."
They kissed again—brutal, consuming. Their shadows melted together in the flickering light as the night curled tighter around Vladimir's Castle… and the clock began to turn against Ramiel.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Depth-Forge breathed like a living lung — slow, groaning exhales of steam and blood-laced salt. The walls, curved like the inside of a serpent's belly, oozed molten coral and black ichor. Chains swung overhead, with rehearsed motion. The sea above weighed heavy, pressing down like a curse.
Zariel stood at the altar — shirtless, skin like obsidian rippling with molten veins. The sea had no light here, and yet he glowed, unnatural, defiant. He had recieved Thal'Zaron's ultimatum to leave the sea or face resistance. He had to wrap things up.
"Let the ocean weep," he whispered.
Behind him, thousands of drowned souls, chained by neck and wrist, knelt before the forge's maw. Their eyes were hollow — the last spark of identity stripped clean by suffering. These were the traitors, the oath-breakers, the heretics of old Djinnkind — those who once sold their secrets to demons in exchange for power. The Shurahims.
And now they would be used again.
He raised a blade and turned to the altar.
"Ramiel," Zariel growled through clenched teeth. "You still walk in sunlight... You still breathe as though the past forgot you. I will teach you that history never sleeps."
The blade plunged into the altar. A shockwave of cursed flame and ocean frost burst from the core, instantly incinerating the line of drowned souls. Their bodies did not turn to ash — they calcified. Cracked. Then moved.
Bones twisted, interlocked, sharpened. Arms became bladed bows. Skulls reformed into helmets that hissed seawater. An entire battalion — shaped from betrayal itself — rose in perfect silence.
The Bone Legion had awakened.
Zariel descended the steps like a king baptizing himself in sacrilege. He walked among them, smiling.
"The Shurahims have risen" Zariel muttered.
One of the bone-soldiers twitched to life, eyes glowing like cursed pearls.
Zariel spread his hands, fire dancing up his arms. "Find him. Bleed his allies. And when the time comes… bring me his body."
He stood still a moment, watching the legion file out fromthe sea, rising through darkness like a nightmare blooming in silence.
Then he whispered to the forge itself.
"And when he falls… I'll stand over him… and remind him who the last Djinn really is."