Zane stepped forward.
Slow. Calm. Every stride silent, like the ground itself recognized who he was now.
He stopped a few feet from the leaders—Fowler, Greta, Vladimir, Boris, Vulpina—bloodied, bruised, drained from hours of war.
And then—he bowed.
Not low. Not humble.
Just enough.
A gesture of respect. Nothing more.
A few months ago, he was a spoiled brat. Rich. Loud. Entitled.
But then—Lucifer found him.
Tore him apart.
Put him back together.
Now here he stood. A soldier. A leader. A flame of the Origin.
Zane straightened.
"We, the Fifteen, will take it from here," he said, voice steady. He glanced across the ruined battlefield, then toward Greta—still kneeling with Remu in her arms.
"You've done enough. Rest now. Mourn your dead."
The leaders looked at him in silence.
Vladimir studied the boy—no, the young man—in front of him. There was power rolling off him in waves. The kind only vampire elders should've had. And yet…
