Awakening in a bed draped with heavy velvet and smelling of sandalwood was disorienting enough; realizing your heartbeat was now beating at one-third of its normal human rate was another matter entirely.

Victor sat up, blinking in the warm amber glow of antique candelabras. Across the chamber, seated beside a roaring fireplace, was Scathach—the matriarch whose silver eyes had haunted his dreams all night. She held a goblet filled with dark nectar, regarding him with an appraisal that made his pulse jump.

“You survived the resurgence,” she noted quietly, setting the crystal down. “Most mortals whose blood awakens without decades of preparatory meditation burst into ash within minutes.”

“Who are you?” Victor managed, his voice deeper than he remembered, tinged with a resonance that vibrated in the room. “And what did you do to me?”

“We unlocked the gate your ancestors locked three centuries ago,” she replied, stepping toward him with effortless grace. “Outside these gates, twelve noble covens seek your head to preserve their monopoly on the crown. Here, you are under the protection of Clan Scarlet. But protection comes at a price, my lord. Tomorrow, your training begins.”