CHAPTER 1

THANE

Blood and shadow, but the sun feels good on my wings.

The irony isn't lost on me—the only vrakken who can waltz  in daylight, leading a raid to gather slaves for the very people who call me abomination behind closed doors. Sometimes to my face.

"Spread formation," I command, voice cutting through the afternoon air as we crest the hill overlooking the human settlement. "Remember—breathing slaves fetch better coin than corpses."

The dozen vrakken behind me shift uncomfortably on their mounts, sun glamour shimmering around them like heat waves. Even with magical protection, daylight makes them sluggish, vulnerable. But that's precisely why the Council sends me out when they need work done above ground.

The abomination doing what he does best.

Vex, Lord Razik's nephew, pulls his hood lower despite the glamour. "How long will this take, Daywalker?"

The slur rolls off his tongue with practiced disdain. I've heard it so many times it's lost its sting. Almost.

"As long as it takes," I reply, scanning the settlement below. Two exits from the main cluster of buildings—one road leading north toward the trade routes, another winding south through the forest. Three guard posts visible, though humans rarely pose much threat. "Quality over speed, little puppy."

I catch the way his jaw tightens at my pet name for him. Good. Let him simmer.

The settlement sprawls in the valley like a wound—maybe three hundred souls scraping out a living from stubborn soil and desperate hope. Perfect for our purposes. Large enough to provide good stock, small enough that no one will miss them for weeks.

"Sir," calls Drex from my left flank. Unlike the others, he doesn't flinch when addressing me directly. Probably because he's missing half his wing and knows what it's like to be damaged goods. "Movement patterns suggest they're expecting trade wagons. Guards are positioned for merchant protection, not raid defense."

"Excellent." I gesture toward the western approach. "Kael, take your squad through the tree line. Drive them toward the center. Vex, eastern approach—cut off escape routes but leave the southern road open. I want them running scared, not making last stands."

"What about you?" Vex asks.

"I'll take the direct approach." I test my blade's edge against my thumb, watching crimson well up on pale skin. "Someone needs to make the opening statement."

The vrakken behind me won't meet my eyes, even when receiving orders. Fifty years as Shadow Broker for the Council, and they still look through me like I'm a particularly unpleasant stain on their boots. My own kind, and I'm more alien to them than the humans we're about to harvest.

At least the humans scream honestly when they fear me.

I urge my mount forward, wings spreading to catch the wind currents. The familiar weight of authority settles around me—out here, commanding raids, I almost feel like I belong somewhere.

Almost.

The attack begins with brutal efficiency.

Kael's squad drives panic through the settlement's heart like wildfire. Humans scatter in predictable patterns—parents grabbing children, the young helping the old, everyone seeking shelter that won't protect them.

I descend into the chaos like a falling star.

My first target is a man trying to bar his door against the inevitable. One kick sends him sprawling, and I'm inside before he can recover. His wife screams, clutching two small children behind her.

"Shh," I murmur, letting my voice carry the hypnotic undertone that makes humans compliant. "This will be easier if you don't fight."

The man struggles to his feet, fury overriding fear. "Take me. Leave my family alone."

"Noble." I circle him slowly, noting the callused hands of a blacksmith, the way he moves to shield his family. "But nobility doesn't determine market value."

His wife will fetch good coin—young enough to breed, skilled enough for household work. The children... one's too young, but the boy might work the mines in a few years. Quick calculations run through my mind as I catalog human flesh like livestock.

This is what I am. This is what I do. And I'm exceptionally good at it.

"Please," the woman whispers. "We have coin saved. Take it all."

"Coin?" I laugh, and the sound makes her flinch. "You misunderstand. You are the payment."

I gesture, and glamour wraps around the family like silk chains. They'll walk to the collection point willingly now, dreaming pleasant dreams while their world ends. Efficient. Clean. Profitable.

House by house, family by family, I work through the settlement with mechanical precision. The other vrakken handle the perimeter, but the real selection work falls to me. I'm the one who determines who lives in chains and who dies in the dirt.

A farmer too old for labor—throat cut, blood feeding the earth. A pregnant woman who might complicate transport—added to the breeding stock, extra value. Children young enough to forget their parents' faces—perfect for training.

Each decision comes easily. Each life catalogued with cold efficiency. Nothing special about it—any vrakken sees humans as livestock. What makes me valuable to the Council isn't my perspective on human cattle, it's my ability to conduct these raids while the sun burns overhead.

The horn blast cuts through my spiraling thoughts—three sharp notes that mean enemy contact. I drop the child I was evaluating and sprint toward the sound, wings carrying me over burning buildings.

Dark elves. A full war party, maybe twenty strong, cutting through my squad like they're harvesting wheat. Steel rings against steel in the settlement's center, and I can already see three of my vrakken down.

But dark elves don't raid human settlements. They have their own slave networks, their own hunting grounds. What are they doing here?

"Form defensive positions!" I roar, diving toward the melee. "Protect the cargo!"

My blade takes a dark elf between the shoulder blades before he can finish the wounded vrakken at his feet. Purple blood sprays across the dusty ground as I roll, coming up in a defensive crouch.

"Well, well," drawls a familiar voice. "The famous daywalker."

I turn to face Captain Theron of House Kythara—a sadistic bastard who's made a career of hunting my kind. His pale violet eyes glitter with malicious amusement as he circles me.

"Theron." I mirror his movement, keeping my blade between us. "What brings you so far from your comfortable strongholds?"

"Business." His smile reveals teeth filed to points. "Though I wasn't expecting to find Razik's pet monster playing in the sunshine."

"Disappointed?"

"Delighted. Killing you will make this whole expedition worthwhile."

We engage in a flurry of steel and fury. Theron's good—maybe the best blade I've faced in decades—but he's used to fighting vrakken weakened by sun glamour. I move at full strength, wings giving me aerial advantage even in close quarters.

His blade opens a line across my ribs. Mine takes his left ear and a good chunk of scalp.

Around us, the battle rages. My vrakken are holding their own now that the initial surprise has passed, but barely. We're outnumbered, and dark elves don't tire like vrakken do in daylight.

That's when the scent hits me.

Lightning trapped in amber. Storms given form. Something that makes every nerve in my body sing with recognition.

I've never smelled anything like it. I've never wanted to smell anything like it.

Theron lunges for my throat, and I barely deflect the strike. "Distracted, monster?"

"Curious," I correct, following that impossible scent toward the abandoned buildings on the settlement's edge.

My opponent follows, blade work forcing me toward whatever calls to my blood like a siren song. Smart of him—use my distraction against me.

But the closer we get to the source of that scent, the stronger I become. My vision sharpens. My reflexes quicken. Whatever's producing that smell... it's making me more than I was.

"What the bleeding depths?" Theron breathes, noticing the change.

I take advantage of his confusion to open his throat.

Dark elf blood tastes like ash and old copper, but underneath it I catch traces of that storm-scent. As if he's been exposed to the source recently.

The building ahead squats like a tumor against the hillside—older than the rest of the settlement, built from fitted stone instead of rough timber. Two exits visible: front door and what looks like a cellar entrance around back. Windows boarded up, but I can hear sounds from inside.

Wet sounds. Methodical. The clinical precision of torture.

I approach the front entrance, every instinct screaming warnings. This feels like a trap, but that scent pulls me forward like a chain around my throat.

Through a gap in the boarded windows, I glimpse the scene inside.

Extraction equipment. Medical grade, designed for prolonged blood drainage. A dark elf in surgeon's robes working over a figure strapped to a metal table. Tubes and needles and collection vials arranged with obsessive care.

They're harvesting someone. Someone whose blood smells like salvation.

The bound figure thrashes against restraints, and I catch sight of olive skin, dark hair matted with sweat and blood. Human, but the scent pouring off her makes my fangs itch with unprecedented hunger.

The surgeon adjusts his equipment, and the woman's scream cuts through stone walls like a blade.

I should walk away. This isn't my concern. One human more or less means nothing in the greater game.

But that scent...

And the way she's fighting, even strapped to a torture table. Even bleeding and broken, she hasn't given up.

Why save another human? I've killed hundreds today without a second thought. What makes this one different?

Maybe it's the defiance in her struggles. Maybe it's the storm-song of her blood calling to something deep in my chest. Maybe I'm just tired of being the monster everyone expects me to be.

I count the exits one more time—force of habit that's been keeping me alive this long.

Then I kick in the door.