She wasted no time. She did not go beneath the hill to spend the night drafting plans for the next day and reassessing their forces — she entrusted all of that to Isma.

  As soon as the sun set and darkness covered the land, tubs of dark paint and a sticky mixture blended with leaves were brought forth.

  Valeria, Zoggo, and 78 selected goblins from the special unit were assigned to the mission.

  “This will not be an easy task. Not all of you will return. I thank you for your courage. Your bravery will never be forgotten,” she told them just before they set out.

  They used a makeshift pontoon bridge prepared earlier. Across the forty-meter river stretched a flimsy structure made of several old boats and barrels tied together with ropes, with crooked beams and planks laid across them, creaking and swaying with every step.

  The lessons of her youth had not been wasted.

  She erased her aura as best she could, as well as that of the wolves they rode in pairs — they simply lacked enough mounts. After the brutal fighting on the southern plains, there were even fewer of them left. In truth, this situation had been anticipated, and based on those plans they had chosen the forty fastest beasts.

  A hurried journey awaited them. They had to make haste.

  There was only one goal — to ride with all their strength straight to the ancient watch tower of Arym'Agai, more than fifty kilometers east of the statue of the God of the Sword and two kilometers above the White Stone River.

  From the west it was protected by a steep cliff more than fifty meters high, and from the other three directions by walls that remembered the oldest rulers of the goblins.

  Valeria rode with Zoggo — the God of the Spear, as he was called by some.

  Exhausted and battered after nearly a full day of struggle, he did not want to show it. The Queen before whom he had bowed could clearly feel in his aura that he was struggling to stay on the wolf.

  Seeing him clench his teeth in pain, she knew she would never forget his determination.

  “Faster! Run like the wind. Let the God of Darkness part the night before your eyes. Faster,” she urged the golden-eyed wolf as large as a warg.

  They pushed through the tall grasses. They deliberately added kilometers to their route in order to minimize the chance of being detected.

  A group of over forty wolves and twice as many riders would have been a threat significant enough that the enemy would surely not have allowed them to pass without a fight.

  Clouds completely covered the sky, and the tall grasses and dense trees combined with the storm were like a blessing from the God of Vampires.

  All she could do was remain alert for an aura resembling that of goblins, though being so exhausted and focused on not losing the path made it a difficult task.

  She had to rely on the incompetence of the enemy, who, consumed by the battle, might simply forget about such a detail.

  For who would undertake such a task?

  Who would be mad enough to hand command of an army to someone lower in rank and attempt the impossible themselves?

  In the world of green-skins and gray-skins, who valued strength above all else — such a thing was unthinkable.

  For the tribes here, too many years had passed since they had fought open battles with vampires and other all-powerful nations.

  They had forgotten that when fighting the chosen of the God of Darkness, one must remain vigilant…

  They rode with all their strength for hours. They had to arrive before dawn. Two of the beasts — the oldest and weakest — collapsed from exhaustion just before reaching their destination. Four riders, loyal to Zoggo and the Queen, continued on foot, madness burning in their hearts and eyes.

  Along the way Valeria dealt with three enemy scouts. The poor creatures did not even notice what killed them. They saw only an unnatural fog approaching, felt a powerful aura, and tasted the cold steel that separated their heads from the rest of their bodies. Each time Valeria did it the same way, never once giving them the chance to sound a horn.

  When they reached the place, the wolves staggered on their legs, some looking as if they might cough up their lungs. The hobgoblins and goblins, battered from the long ride and still feeling the previous day’s battle and sleepless night in their bones and muscles, stood speechless:

  Before them stood not fifty meters but nearly a hundred meters of sheer, natural wall — in places even sloping slightly toward them. At the top, only a few torches smoldered. The old watchtower looked abandoned…

  But the truth was completely different:

  Inside, Valeria could feel thousands of auras — some restless and full of life, others crushed.

  “Our battle begins now!” said the long-haired woman.

  Each of them grunted, nodded, or simply began to climb.

  The path to the top seemed like an eternity. The rock was slippery and the stones treacherous. One of the hobgoblins, placing his foot on what seemed like a stable stone, slipped and fell from more than twenty meters, miraculously landing in bushes and surviving.

  Some used spikes on their boots, others hooks made of poor steel. Valeria, however, as a vampiress — and at night — weighing a third less than a human of her height and build and possessing far greater strength than a large brute, even without using her aura, pressed forward.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  She had some practice in it. In her youth she used to climb the walls, towers, and bastions of her father fortress. That was before the day when, as a child, she fell from a tree and he scolded her so harshly that he drove such risky ideas from her mind for good.

  Climbing was like riding a mount — one never forgot how.

  When she was already nearly at the top, the rest had barely reached a third of the way. Only Zoggo, his hands trembling and fighting himself not to fall, managed to keep some semblance of her pace.

  “If you could see me now, Artax, you’d think I’ve gone mad,” she muttered to herself, already hearing a murmur coming from above.

  For a fraction of a second, a dozen scenes flashed before her eyes — how he had saved her during a fight with human adventurers, how she had teased him on the road to the stronghold of Hakku and on the way to the Wild Dungeon, how she had once sat consumed by her darkest thoughts, ready to give up, and he, as if nothing had happened, staged a little performance and set her on a new path in life: to create a kingdom powerful enough to reclaim what was rightfully hers, to punish those who had betrayed her and the mighty House Nocturne.

  She drove the hook in and clenched her hand. The effort was beginning to weigh on her, but she had no intention of slowing down. Any goblin could spot her and raise the alarm, and then dozens of arrows and stones would fall upon her and all the rest…

  She would not accept death in this place. Not after everything she had endured and everything she had decided. Though the one who had given her new meaning in life was not here, she had never accepted the idea that he could betray her. The days passed, and she fought not only for herself but also for him — for her friend, the first true one she had ever had, who had never rejected her or judged her from above.

  He had not looked at her as a failure, as a patricide, as the accursed one.

  The wind blew so fiercely that several goblins stopped where they were, trying simply not to fall, not to scream. They had no strength left to continue climbing. Out of the group of eighty, perhaps twenty still had enough strength to reach the end.

  A few seconds before entering the tower, the vampiress remembered the first time she had ever climbed — the wall of her father’s castle. She had thought she would fall, that it was the end for her. Bored and angry, perhaps she had only been seeking attention. After the years had passed she had forgotten most of it; only emotions and vague images remained.

  She had been less than ten years old then, and as a vampiress she had looked no older than a human girl of seven. Back then she felt as if she might one day rule the entire world. In the distance she saw the plains of burial mounds, ghost-shrubs with leaves as gray as a soul, rising high and filling her with awe through their mystery. The tall dark towers and the walls of the mighty castle raised upon the highest point of the city as old as the world, filled her with a sense of power — she had believed then that it would be that way forever.

  She knew little then that barely a day after her father’s death, at the very hour when the loyal should have supported her — surrounded her with care and kind words — their vile souls and greedy, hyena-like hearts full of disgust would reveal themselves.

  The clatter of armor and the pounding of heavy boots of hundreds of ghouls and vampires who had entered her chambers in daylight to bind her in chains — those sounds she would never erase from her memory. Then came the trial, which could only be described as a heap of lies and accusations. Jealous of power. Hungry for the throne. A vial of poison planted as evidence and false testimony from servants were enough. Her disgusting uncle Varyx bared his fangs while the sludge of lies poured over his niece.

  Her explanations were useless. False hopes meant nothing.

  And when into the vast chamber of the king of the Misty Isles entered the death-pale demon lord Fug Caligo, with long hair and a false smile, all hope in the vampire race faded… His servants carried in a basket the charred head of the mightiest of the three Blood Generals — Damon Whitebone — the one who had honored the law and proclaimed her Queen of the Vampires for a single day after her father’s death.

  If the other two had been in the capital then…

  Perhaps that cursed demon would not have been able to defeat all three of them?

  Then came the black days. Months locked in a lonely tower, a sentence of exile, and assassins sent after her before she had even left the islands — and long after she had done so. If she had not been aided by the few still loyal to her deceased father and to the rightful heir she was, she would have been dead long ago.

  Now it did not matter. Her past lay behind her. What she had once possessed was lost, and she knew well that reclaiming it was, for now, far beyond imagination.

  What mattered was the present. The most important thing was fulfilling the dream she and Artax had shared — to create a strong country of monsters — one that, besides the five races evolved from humans and the rest who had not inherited that honor, would gather the full strength of the seventh power of the other three continents untouched by the Catastrophe: the Monsters of Montara.

  There she could live. There she could plan the future. The blood of a ruler slept within her, and the aura that filled her was the same aura that filled the powerful rulers of the vampire race — those with whom the world had to reckon.

  The clang of steel, a scream. A hook came loose. One of the goblins fell from the height straight to his death.

  The garrison of the watchtower noticed it. Drums began to pound, horns sounded. The auras of dozens of beings scattered above her.

  Unfortunately for them — too late.

  In the form of mist she teleported to the very top. A hunched goblin, wrapped so tightly in furs and rags that only his brown eyes could be seen, did not even gasp when the sole of her boot smashed his face and the dark blade whistled through the air and cut him diagonally.

  Valeria fell into a fencing trance. Furious. Mostly at herself. At her weakness and her lack of talent that had caused her fall — it stabbed her worse than the sharpest knives. For a few moments it was as if the God of the Sword had possessed her. The second, third, fourth, and fifth fell amid the cacophony of severed limbs and breaking bones.

  “Monster! Run while you can!” one cried, foolish enough to turn his back.

  Zoggo joined the slaughter, soon followed by others. A bloody massacre erupted, filled with fury and hatred. Beasts who sold their own into slavery. Guards of those who treated their own — the slightly weaker — worse than vermin.

  The daughter of House Nocturne knew what to do. She wasted no time. Quickly she found the old stairs full of cracks and mold. She killed in cold blood anyone armed who had the misfortune to meet her. Since meeting Artax she had grown stronger than during the entire previous decade of training with experts on the Misty Isles and fighting for her life in exile against assassins sent by her uncle.

  She did not know what magic it was. Perhaps she did not want to know…

  She was guided by the vision of hundreds, perhaps thousands of auras standing almost motionless nearby. Some of the enemies begged for their lives. They were no challenge for her, and the garrison was so thin and unprepared that many did not even want to attempt a fight they knew they would lose. Valeria spared those who dropped their weapons and showed no ill intent toward them — but those whose strange aura movements betrayed lies, and who kept their hands hidden, tasted vampire steel.

  At night she truly felt at her best. Time seemed to flow more slowly, she moved faster than usual, she felt auras more clearly. Nothing could escape her attention — even dozens of meters away she could feel Zoggo’s aura filled with rage and fervor.

  Before her stood heavy doors bound with rusted iron.

  She grabbed one of the goblins with keys tied to his belt by the collar and lifted him high, ordering him to open them. He hurriedly turned the key, revealing a shocking sight within.

  She saw faces full of fear, emaciated goblin-like creatures sitting in frozen cages, others tightly bound with ropes and shackles to beams soaked in blood.

  One of them — leaning on a staff — slowly rose and spoke.

  “Has the time of our death come?” he asked, with no hope in his voice.

  Valeria looked at him for a moment. She saw no will to live.

  She smiled.

  “Fool. The time of your revenge has come.”