A/N: Vladimir gets angry as he watches his empire collapse.
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The smoldering remains of his empire lay beyond repair as the gray cloaks drift away. Buildings crumble and dried-up blood stains the dirt streets. People hide in their houses, and close the shutters to their windows. Devastated cries fill the city as they find their loved ones lifeless and bone-dry.
In his hiding place in a nearby forest, a furious snarl escapes his lips as the thick smell of incense comes his way. Purple smoke from the fires flare up. His servants burn up in makeshift bonfires.
Humans—his humans—lay drained of blood, their clothes in tattered shreds and their bones broken. One dead child sat nuzzled in her in her mother's arms; they had both been touched by Death himself.
A millennia of work had been crushed in a day.
What was their name? The Volturi? An enraged growl breaks the ominous silence. The specks of gray in the distance do not show the slightest emotion at his outburst as they disappear into the hazy mist.
Rage bubbles up in him, and his lips curl up in pleasure at the thought of revenge. Maybe he and Stefan would have to wait centuries, but the time would come when the Volturi would grow weak. Then, they would strike and bring them down.