Snow fell softly around them.

  Kaelen lay half-buried in it, breath fogging weakly, body aching in places he didn’t remember breaking. His weapons were scattered nearby—obsidian katana lodged in ice, daggers half-hidden beneath crimson-stained snow.

  Kaze stood over him.

  Hands clasped behind his back.

  Smiling.

  “Well,” the man said lightly, crimson eyes gleaming beneath silver hair, “you lasted longer than I expected.”

  Kaelen forced himself upright, blood dripping from his lip. “Who… are you?”

  The smile softened.

  Kaze knelt, meeting his gaze at eye level.

  “My name,” he said, “is Kaze Valethryn.”

  The name hit Kaelen like a pressure wave.

  “…Vampire King,” Kaelen whispered, the words coming from instinct rather than memory.

  Kaze chuckled. “Ah. So the blood remembers.”

  He stood again, the snow around his boots never quite touching him.

  “I suppose I owe you the truth,” Kaze continued. “Especially after knocking you into the dirt.”

  Kaelen clenched his fists. “You called me your grandson.”

  “I did.”

  “That would make you—”

  “Your mother’s father,” Kaze said simply. “Lyra Valethryn. My daughter.”

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  Silence stretched.

  Kaelen’s chest tightened.

  “She’s… dead,” Kaelen said.

  Kaze’s smile vanished.

  For the first time, something ancient and sharp surfaced beneath his calm.

  “Yes,” Kaze said quietly. “I know.”

  He looked toward the horizon, eyes unfocused.

  “She called me,” he continued. “The day the bomb went off.”

  Kaelen’s head snapped up.

  “She told me there was danger. That something felt wrong. She didn’t explain everything—Lyra never did. She only said she loved me… and asked me to watch over her boys if she couldn’t.”

  Kaze’s jaw tightened.

  “I was already on my way when it happened,” he said. “But bonds like ours… they don’t wait for messages.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest.

  “I felt her die.”

  The words were calm.

  The weight behind them was not.

  “I arrived shortly after the funeral,” Kaze said. “Too late to save her. Too early to forget.”

  Kaelen swallowed hard.

  “Why didn’t you come to us?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell Orion? Tell me?”

  Kaze looked back at him.

  “Because grief makes liars of kings,” he said. “And because I needed to understand the world she left you in.”

  He gestured vaguely.

  “So I watched.”

  Kaelen’s eyes widened. “Watched?”

  “I listened,” Kaze said. “To rumors. To whispers. To blood.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “I learned that Orion became Warlord. That he exiled you—not out of hatred, but necessity. That you left stripped of title, not will.”

  Kaze stepped closer.

  “And then,” he said softly, “I followed you.”

  Kaelen’s breath caught.

  “I needed to know whether my grandson had broken… or whether he was clawing his way back from the grave.”

  He smiled again—not mocking now, but proud.

  “Turns out,” Kaze said, “you chose the harder path.”

  Kaelen looked down at his shaking hands.

  “I didn’t give up,” he said. “But I didn’t know if I was still… anything.”

  Kaze crouched and placed two fingers beneath Kaelen’s chin, lifting his gaze gently.

  “You are Lyra’s son,” he said. “And a Volkov besides. Giving up was never in your blood.”

  Kaelen searched his face. “Then why attack me?”

  Kaze laughed—a rich, genuine sound.

  “Because words lie,” he said. “Blood does not.”

  He stood, extending a hand.

  “And now that I’ve seen enough,” Kaze said, “we can finally begin.”

  Kaelen hesitated—then took it.

  As Kaze pulled him to his feet, the snow around them stilled.

  The air felt… expectant.

  “Rest,” Kaze said. “Heal.”

  Kaelen steadied himself. “What happens next?”

  Kaze’s crimson eyes gleamed.

  “Next?” he said. “I teach my grandson what it means to survive as both monster and man.”

  He turned, cloak fluttering.

  “And then,” Kaze added over his shoulder, “we decide what kind of king you might one day become.”