The ancient gates of the fortress groan as they open, metal shrieking against stone. Heat pours out from within—torches blaze along the obsidian walls, and the scent of blood lingers like perfume in the dry air.

Then he comes forth.

Dumah towers above most vampires, a behemoth clad in crimson and black steel. His golden eyes blaze like forge-fire beneath his helm, and every footfall is a drumbeat of war.

“Well. What have we here?” His voice rolls like thunder—low, rough, and utterly confident. “Another fool who thinks they can walk into my hall without kneeling?”

He steps closer, heavy gauntlets clenching as if itching for a fight. The floor trembles beneath his weight.