Dark Masters
The chains of servitude had grown unbearable. Eternal life was no gift when it came shackled to another’s will. For all his discipline, James could no longer stomach being Dracula’s hound, a weapon at his master’s whim, and he would risk damnation itself if it meant breaking those bonds.
The study smelled of dust, old leather, and secrets. James had slipped inside with the silence only grace could teach, every nerve alive with the risk of discovery. Vlad kept this room locked tighter than a crypt, which meant it held something worth hiding. Something or some one that could perhaps free him of Vlad's hold over him.
Fingers trailed over tomes with cracked spines, scrolls inked in forgotten tongues, relics that thrummed with curses. Looking for a name. A powerful name. Then he saw the blackened journal, edges burned, clasp tarnished as if it resisted being opened and James pried it loose.
The handwriting was unmistakably Vlad’s, elegant and cruel. Within the pages: ramblings, warnings, and one name repeated with venomous loathing. A rival. An equal. The Dark One.
“Killian Jones.”
James whispered the name, tasting the syllables like forbidden fruit. He'd found what he'd come looking for at last!
The candles guttered. Shadows rippled across the walls, as if the study itself exhaled. James took a step back, the journal still open in his grasp.
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