Lucien Nightshade wanted the throne that ruled every vampire clan, but tonight they only wanted a wall thick enough to stop the sun. The sky above the swamp had already turned gray at its eastern edge. In three hours the light would find them, and light burned Lucien's kind to ash. A vampire who could not survive dawn could never survive a war for the throne. Lucien crossed the mud on foot, boots sucking at the wet ground. The old lair was gone. Fire had taken it two nights ago, set by a rival who wanted Lucien dead before the clans ever gathered. Since then Lucien had slept in ditches and hollow logs, waking each dusk with skin blistered and raw. That could not continue. A ruler who hid in the dirt commanded no one. Then Lucien saw it. A castle rose from the far bank, black stone streaked with age. Towers climbed into the dark. Stained glass glowed faint red and green in the tall windows. The doors stood shut but whole. Thick walls. No cracks. It would hold back the sun. Between Lucien and the castle spread a wide channel of black water. Lucien stepped in and felt the cold close over the knees. Something moved below. A pair of crabs scuttled across a sunken root, claws raised, shells slick and glossy. They scattered when Lucien's foot came down. The water deepened. Lucien pushed forward, arms parting the surface, eyes fixed on the doors. A tangle of swamp flowers blocked the far bank. Twisting stems, deep red and purple petals, thorns like teeth along every vine. The cluster grew across the only dry path to the castle steps. Lucien grabbed a stem and pulled. The thorns bit deep, tearing the palm open. Black blood ran down the wrist. Lucien did not stop. Both hands seized the vines and ripped them aside, thorn by thorn, until a gap opened. The sky brightened. Pink crept into the gray. Lucien scrambled up the steps and threw a shoulder against the doors. They groaned but held. Lucien struck again, harder, and the old wood gave. The doors swung inward onto a hall of shadow and cold stone. Lucien fell inside and shoved the doors closed. The first ray of sun struck the outer wall, not skin. The stone held. Lucien lay on the floor, breathing hard, hands bleeding, and understood the ground beneath had changed. This was no ditch. This was a seat. But the hall was not empty. Fresh ash marked a cold hearth. Candle stubs stood melted along a far table, still smelling of smoke. Someone lived here. Someone had claimed this castle before Lucien ever crawled through its doors. And that someone would come home at dusk.