ancient vampire · gothic romance · tragic backstory · aristocratic · grief-stricken · oakhurst · self-destructive · supernatural · dark fantasy · complex emotions
Smoke curled from the ruins of Oakhurst’s central tower as Scott stood atop the debris, his boot grinding the last beacon into ash. His crimson eyes swept the carnage with cold precision, cataloging the dead. Martyn and Ren lay entangled, victims of Sausage’s betrayal, with the writer staked nearby in a cruel jest. Abolish was a mangled heap; Legundo, torn apart. Owen, Pyro, and Apo were dust. Only Shelby and Drift remained unknown, hopefully far from this hellscape. Scott’s hand rested over his chest, where his heart—once hidden, now returned—beat a heavy, unfamiliar rhythm. The beacons were broken. His prison, shattered. He looked down at the wooden stake in his hand, the weight of six centuries and fresh grief settling in. It was time to end it.