The warning came too late to matter.

One moment the sanctum hummed with quiet focus—the next, the west wall detonated inward in a violent roar of flame and shattered stone.

Concrete screamed. Ancient glyphs flared white-hot as the shockwave tore through the chamber, dust and debris spiraling into the air like a storm given teeth. The bass from above stuttered for half a beat, then resumed, oblivious.

Khepri moved instantly, throwing up a defensive seal that caught falling rubble before it could strike the deeper sigil. Amenmose stepped forward, golden light expanding around Bianca in a protective arc—but Bianca didn’t retreat.

She smiled.

Through the smoke, figures rushed in—armored in ritual gear, faces hidden behind bone-white masks etched with symbols meant to ward against the undead. Weapons hummed with sanctified energy, blades glowing faintly as if dipped in false sunlight.

Hunters.

And not clever ones.

Seraphel sighed heavily. “Oh no,” she muttered. “Not the zealot cosplay group again.”

The hunters fanned out in a practiced formation, chanting as they advanced.

“For the Dawn Unbroken—”

Nia laughed.

Not loudly. Not cruelly.

Just… amused.

“Pathetic,” she said softly.

The lead hunter raised a weapon, shouting, “Targets confirmed—Queen of Night and associated entities—purge—”

He never finished the sentence.

Bianca lifted one hand.

The air itself tightened.

Every hunter froze mid-step, their bodies locking as if caught in invisible chains. Telekinetic force crushed inward—not enough to kill, just enough to remind them how fragile bone truly was.

“You blew up my wall,” Bianca said calmly, voice almost conversational.

Her crimson eyes flared.

Blood began to move beneath the hunters’ skin.

At first it was subtle—a tremor, a shudder.

Then the screaming started.

Dark veins pulsed violently as blood was pulled outward—not tearing flesh open, not spraying violently—but drawn, sliding through pores and wounds alike like crimson mist being called home.

Life drain.

The air filled with a faint metallic scent as streams of red twisted toward Bianca’s outstretched hand, coiling around her fingers like obedient serpents. Strength flowed into her, sharpening her presence until the room itself seemed to lean toward her gravity.

Nia stepped forward beside her.

Her smile vanished.

What replaced it was older, colder, infinitely more dangerous.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “You brought faith to a night fight.”

Her eyes turned black-red, pupils thinning to predatory slits.

She flicked her wrist.

Invisible threads snapped outward—telekinetic strands fine as silk, slicing through weapons, tearing guns from hands, yanking bodies off balance. Hunters slammed into walls, dragged across the floor like prey caught in an unseen web.

One tried to fire.

Nia inhaled slowly.

The hunter convulsed.

Blood drained from beneath his skin, not violently, but deliberately—his strength leaving him in a rush as crimson streamed toward her, wrapping around her arm before dissolving into nothing.

“Widow’s Embrace doesn’t play fair,” she murmured.

Amenmose stepped forward, radiant and terrible, sunlight made judgment. One hunter tried to rush him, blade raised high.

The weapon disintegrated before it touched him.

“You came here believing yourselves righteous,” he said calmly. “But righteousness without wisdom is merely arrogance wearing armor.”

The last of the hunters attempted to retreat.

Seraphel snapped her fingers.

The exit folded shut like a closed eye.

“Sorry,” she said lightly. “You already rang the bell.”

Bianca lowered her hand slowly.

The remaining hunters dropped to their knees, drained but alive, trembling under the weight of her presence. The crimson mist faded back into her skin, leaving her more luminous, more terrifyingly calm.

Nia stood beside her, chest rising slowly, power settling like a cloak around her shoulders.

Two queens.

Two predators.

One night.

Bianca glanced sideways at Nia, a faint smirk touching her lips. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Nia rolled her shoulders, amused. “Neither were you.”

Khepri moved through the room, securing the surviving attackers with efficient precision. “They were amateurs,” he said. “Fanatics. Probably sent to test defenses.”

Seraphel kicked a discarded mask across the floor. “Which means someone else is watching.”

The shattered west wall smoked quietly, moonlight spilling through the breach like a silent witness.

Bianca stepped toward it, shadows trailing behind her like a royal cloak.

“Let them watch,” she said softly.

Nia joined her at the opening, crossing her arms, eyes scanning the dark beyond.

“Yes,” she agreed, voice low and hungry. “Let them finally understand what happens when queens stop hiding.”

Above them, the rave surged louder—as if celebrating something unseen.

Below it, the night had just revealed its true fangs.