After returning from a dangerous mission that left his friend and partner, the werewolf: Emilia, in a coma, Anargrin is sent on another mission: to hunt down a rogue vampire. A rogue vampire with no consistent modus operandi and who is exceedingly g...
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The magically enhanced super-assassin, Anargrin and his team are the elite of the elite, black operations sent on the most dangerous of assignments to undermine the authoritarian theocratic regimes of the continent of Angara. Anargrin believes the past should be remembered, never obsessed over. Still, when he and his band of misfits are sent to investigate a Hunter Coven that stopped all communication soon, evidence indicates Anargrin's enemy's involvement. An enemy that is responsible directly and indirectly for much of Anargrin's traumatic past, evidence that reveals a conspiracy hidden within the slave trade.
A conspiracy that threatens to engulf the entire continent in blood.
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Year: 2500 AHV (After Holy Victory)
Age: The Late Industra Era
Country: The Kingdom of Camaria
Anargrin blinked as the cave was taken over by the calming, almost-dainty streams of midafternoon light filtered through the leaves and branches above. The stink of abundant pollen eclipsed the horrific stench of burned meat and fat. The crackling of flames was now the sweet singing of birds and the almost-constant chirping of the damnable cicadas. That cursed cave was only about fifteen kilometers northwest from here, but it was lifetimes ago. He wished he could forget, but the memory was just as clear as it was decades ago.
Anger, raw and powerful, sprouted through him. It caused him to clench his teeth and his fists. Did Kalthasin do that on purpose? Did he kill her like that because of the—he forced it inside, into hiding, as the sound of engines filtered through his enhanced ears. He doubted any of his companions would've heard it yet, as they wouldn't be able to see him in the underbrush like he could see them.
So it was soon to begin. He'd done this countless times now: kidnapping children.
For two weeks, they planned for this, set up for this. No less time for preparation would have sufficed, and in fact, Raleas would have preferred more time—much more time.
Raleas shook away the lamentation as she knelt among the underbrush, her sniper rifle's scope to her eye as she watched the truck bounce down the slick mud road, about half a kilometer away. The truck that contained the children was in the middle of a convoy of three others and five utes, all filled with soldiers. The groaning and grating of the engines was easily heard, even from here.
