She lifted her chin and inhaled, letting that miasma of divine blood scorch her throat. It was intoxicating, a visceral summons that clawed at her mind. Whoever the male spilling that sacred nectar was, there would be no redemption for him that night. Antonia slid her tongue over her lips, tasting a flavor she had yet to touch. It was her last night as a Retriever, and perhaps she could have ignored the call. But she didn’t. Her body thrummed with electric urgency, as if coursed by a primordial current.

She had to find him.She had to uncover who was defying the ancient laws.

And the male would die.

There was no mercy for those who broke the Pact. No appeals, only blade and ash. Antonia surged forward, a shadow among shadows, with the ferocity of a beast on the hunt and the grace of darkness dancing at the edges of twilight. The alleys swallowed her and let her go with the same indifference with which Rome had always embraced its monsters. A few hundred meters—and there it was: the wet, obscene sound of flesh being torn, a guttural grunt, the muffled agony of a victim already too far from salvation.

When she reached him, she drew the Nam-Us, the ritual dagger, its blade black as sin and sharp as the memory of pain. Its etched surface caught the flickering light of a dying neon sign, reflecting shards of madness and a promise of death. She knew well the sensation of driving it into flesh, the tremor of bones splintering under steady pressure until the hilt kissed the wound. It would be swift. Final.

But just as the strike was about to fall, something stopped her. An instinct, a whisper in the darkness of her soul. The figure crouched before her was not what she expected.

Antonia lowered the blade, muscles taut as strings on the verge of snapping. Before her knelt a girl, her neck bloodied—not a victim. Not anymore. She was feeding on the vampire who had attacked her, tearing into his flesh with the desperate fury of someone who refuses to die. Blood streamed from the gash in her throat, a vermilion rivulet pulsing as if still alive. The scent that had drawn Antonia emanated from there: that impure nectar, divine and corrupted.

Her gaze dropped to the mangled body at her feet. A young dingir, fresh from the Conservarium. What a miserable end. No honor. No glory. Just torn flesh and spilled blood on cold asphalt.

«Stay back.»Antonia’s voice was a hiss, leaving no room for defiance.

She bared her sharp canines, her mind dissecting every detail, every variable of that cursed night.

Retrievers cleaned up the mess left behind by males too weak to control their instincts. But this time was different—the victim had already finished the job. That could mean only one thing… the girl was pregnant.

Only this could have saved her from the lethal bite of a dingir. Antonia knew it better than anyone—the Conservarium had enforced the laws of reproduction for centuries.

Every transgression was punished by death. Antonia had hoped for a quiet final night, but fate had never granted her peace. She cursed under her breath, a guttural sound lost among the shadows of the alleys.

She knew what needed to be done.

Kneeling, she drove the Nam-Us into the male’s chest. The ritual blade sank into flesh with a wet, dull sound. From the point of impact, the body dissolved into a burst of blue flame, leaving behind only dust and charred metallic fragments.

That’s when the girl stirred, as if waking from a nightmare. Her green eyes glowed like spectral beacons, wide on a face smeared with blood. Antonia looked away, suffocating memories steeped in death and terror, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted indifference.

She could smell humans nearby. There was no time to lose. Stepping closer, she tore a scrap of fabric from the girl’s dress and wiped it across her face.

«Your child will be fine,» she lied, her voice void of warmth.

But the truth was cruel—they would both die. After infection, immediate care was crucial, and time had already run out. Perhaps she could have taken the girl to the Conservarium, handed her over to the matrons, but dragging her there in this condition would mean risking her own life.

The alternative was simple. Swift. Final.

Antonia gripped the dagger, rising to her feet. The girl began to cry, a fragile sound that fractured in the dense air, thick with despair.

She was already dead. Antonia knew it. She herself was a living epitaph, a witness to too many shattered fates.

How many times had she wished someone had been merciful enough to slit her throat too, sparing her this false survival? But no one had. No one had shown her that kindness.

«Help me, please. Help my child.»

«Be quiet,» Antonia growled, her voice low, rasping with the frost of indifference.

She wanted to sink her teeth in, to drain the last drop of life from her. She couldn’t bear that fragile presence, that warm breath, that plea. Everything about the girl seemed designed to remind her of the monster she had become.

Kill her, screamed her mind, a command buried beneath layers of hate and memory.

Antonia swallowed, feeling her teeth press against her gums, a familiar ache that pulsed—a faint echo of her true nature.

She’s already dead, Antonia. You know it. Just a matter of minutes. Feed on her, then make her disappear.

The voice in her head was a thin blade, honed by time and survival.

«Help me,» the girl whimpered, her lips sticky with blood, mucus, and tears—a viscous mixture of raw human despair.

Antonia lowered her eyelids, clenching her jaw until she heard the faint crackle of bone. She didn’t want to be like the filth she’d just turned to dust. That girl, unlike her, hadn’t chosen her fate. She deserved a chance.

She sheathed the Nam-Us, ignoring the visceral pull of an easy meal.

«Come with me,» she hissed, extending a gloved hand smeared with dust and blood.

The young woman hesitated, trembling. Antonia couldn’t blame her—she knew exactly what the girl was seeing. The absolute black of her eyes, the ashen, ageless skin, the stark cruelty carved into every line of her face. All that remained of her humanity were her fiery red hair and the illusion of a body—slender, sinuous like a woman’s, but strong and merciless, just as she was: a monster.

«It’s the only way to save your child,» Antonia whispered, her voice tinged with something that might have been compassion, if she were still capable of feeling it.

A hollow expression settled on the girl’s face, her gaze lost beyond the horizon of awareness. Maybe it was already too late. No—it was too late. Antonia was about to withdraw her hand, ready to accept the inevitable, when the girl grasped it.

Good.

The countdown had begun.And time was not on their side.