Saber had never wanted to destroy anything in all his life—to kill anyone—more than he wanted to kill this haughty being in front of him. There was no way he was going to agree to such absurdity. He knew who he was, and the entire house of Jadon could be damned. Bring on the sun…again. Bring on the Valley of Death and Shadows. He was Saber Mikhael Alexiares, firstborn son to Damien Alexiares, brother to Diablo and Dane, and soldier in the house of Jaegar. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever change that. And these light vampires, these scourges of nature who strutted around as if they were entitled to all the favors the gods had bestowed upon them, they could weave all the fanciful tales they wanted trying to convince him otherwise. He knew better.
Saber Alexiares was the devil’s son, and that’s who he intended to remain.
“You may as well kill me now,” he snarled. “I’d rather descend into the pit of hell to live as a slave to demons than ascend to this mockery of manhood you call the house of Jadon. I don’t believe you. Not one word. And given half a chance—any chance—I will kill the first of your kind that I can: man, woman, or child. It makes no difference to me.”
Napolean looked off into the distance before slowly turning back to regard the Dark One. He nodded slowly and then smiled ever so faintly. Smiled. “Perhaps,” he said coolly. “Perhaps. But the hour of your death—or the content of your life—will be up to me, not you.” With that, he reached out and grabbed Saber’s forearm. When Saber tried to wrench it away, his entire body froze, paralyzed; and he was suddenly seized by indescribable pain, racked with an agonizing sense of nothingness, the utter absence of personal power.
As the infamous king of the house of Jadon slowly released his fangs and bent his head to Saber’s wrist, everything in Saber’s soul rebelled. No! This could not be happening. This simply could not be real.
Two lethal canines sank deep into Saber’s wrist, Napolean’s jaw locking down with such force that the radius bone beneath it split in two, while the unyielding king drank Saber’s blood.
The room spun in maddening circles.
The pain brought him up short.
The power that swirled around him crashed against him in violent waves of nausea, yet he sat there, helpless, locked in the compulsion of the greatest being to ever walk the earth, as the king took his due from what he believed to be one of his subjects.
When at last the king withdrew his fangs, licked his taut lips, and released Saber’s arm, a scourge like fire burning through a grass field coursed through Saber’s veins.
“I carry the blood of every child born into the house of Jadon in my veins,” Napolean explained. “And you are no exception.” He leaned forward then, and his piercing eyes flashed with an intensity Saber had never seen before: a clear and unmistakable warning. “Know this, Sabino Dzuna. The sun cannot kill you. Its rays cannot scorch you, but should you harm one hair on the head of one of my subjects, I will destroy you one cell, one strand of DNA, at a time; you will pray for mercy, but none will be forthcoming. You believe you know what pain and suffering are, but you do not. Pray you do not have to find out.” With that, the ancient king rose, nodded his head as if they had just been talking about the weather, and strode to the edge of the cell, without ever looking back.