Midnight steeped the Sarafan keep in sable mystery, the moon's diffuse glow draping its brooding angles in a ghostly cloak; never had the dun-coloured walls looked so forbidding as they did this silent evening. Measured footsteps approached the main entrance, echoing forlornly against the deserted town walls. Morris the Gatekeeper waited warily at his usual post as the P'ramma approached, his attitude a smidgen more alert than normal at this hour.

"Evening, my Lady," began he, nervously clearing his throat.

"Morris," Freya acknowledged the greeting with a brief nod.

When it became apparent that she would pass him by without further word, he added, "Lord Antaris has requested you join him in the Great Hall immediately on your return." His eyes darted sideways to the guard sequestered in a darkened alcove inside the gatehouse.

Freya continued on her way determinedly. "That's just where I was going." As her footsteps faded behind the closed inner door, Morris and the hidden guard exchanged glances and shrugged.

The inner halls of the keep were narrow, unkempt and ill-lit, in direct contrast to the grand exterior, which was regularly redecorated and often festooned with multi-coloured banners. Freya found the analogy with the Sarafan knights fitting. Arriving at last at the door to the Great Hall, she paused momentarily to gather her strength: it had been a long day, and the wound in her shoulder was a constant nagging twinge. Resting her hands against the smooth wood of the titanic portal, it briefly crossed her mind to leave the unavoidable clash with Antaris until morning. However, unwanted images of the day's events at Lemar strengthened her resolve, and the knowledge of his underhand, mutinous attacks on Vampire strongholds fuelled the dying spark of fury in her gut.

As the massive double doors to the hall creaked reluctantly open, Antaris and Thorin, seated at a tankard-covered table before the fire ceased their conversation and stood slowly, their mutual expression one of grim eagerness.

"Finished pandering to the undead's slaves, have we?" Freya ignored Antaris' mocking question and advanced into the chamber, eyes fixed on her nemesis. "What took you so long?"

Freya came to a halt on the other side of the table. "I spoke with Kain's Lieutenants. They tell me you've been misbehaving in my absence."

The Sarafan Lord gave a half-nervous laugh. The woman's glare was nothing short of demonic. At a gesture from him, the Hall doors clanged shut and the entire contingent of Twenty-Five, along with a few choice others began to pace towards the centre of the room where Freya stood cornered. Her single-mindedness had caused a fatal error; in failing to check the rest of the hall before entering, she had allowed the Sarafan to lay their ambush.

Seeing that his opponent was not going anywhere, Antaris took to pacing back and forth before the open fire, his hands toying idly with a brazen handled dagger. "This is a great day for us. The Council has voted in my favour," he paused, enjoying her look of distaste, "And you, the last of the dissidents in Meridian, will soon be no more." Freya cast a despairing glance around the room, wishing for the first time that all this had ended on the battlefield with the Melchahim - at least then she would have met her demise in battle at the hands of a decent foe. This was degrading. The Sarafan Lord stepped closer. "By the way, if you wish to pay your last respects to Cornelius, you should do so now." Freya's eyes widened in shock. "Do you know he was the only one of the Council who refused to accept me over you?" Antaris shook his head. "Stubborn old fool."

Control snapped. Anger and indignation took over from common sense, and Antaris found himself on the floor a split second later, beset by a furiously pummelling and randomly cursing woman. At his surprised yelp, two of his Special Force grabbed an arm each, eliciting a snarl of pain as the pressure inflamed Freya's wound. Back on his feet once again, the Sarafan Lord wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, his waxy complexion bright red at his loss of face in front of his men.

He fingered the handle of his wicked-looking knife with a malevolent, anticipatory smile. "This is going to hurt."

" I couldn't agree more." Came an eager concurrence from the window. Thirty pairs of Sarafan eyes swivelled instantly in the direction of the transfixing voice, and thirty pairs of Sarafan feet were shortly shuffling in the opposite direction. Every window in the west-facing wall was crawling with vampires. Fang-rimmed grins graced every casement, and as the Sarafan watched horrified, the undead began to pour into the hall like some turgid black landslide. Freya took advantage of the situation and wrenched herself free of her captors' now-limp grip, backing towards the east wall in utter confusion. To which side should she lend her support?

Antaris, recovering belatedly, realised he had to take control of the situation. He ordered the soldiers to arms with a shaky command, and drew his own sword in readiness. From the other side of the room, he could hear a ravenous cry for his blood, and that self-same liquid seemed to run cold as he recognised the voice.

"Where are you, you conniving bastard?" It was Zephon, frantically pushing aside the forward guards that confronted him in his haste to confront his adversary. "Show yourself!" The Sarafan Lord backed himself into a corner by the fire, gripping his blade in misery. He didn't like these odds, and he guessed, rightly enough, that the Vampire Lord who sought him, possessed by righteous vengeance, would ensure his death was neither pleasant nor swift. His pacing retreat eventually brought him face-to-face with the P'ramma who, armed once again, met his hunted gaze with a look of steady hatred.

"Hello again."

Meanwhile, the Sarafan had engaged the unusual mix of Clans in a desperate and bloody fight. The Turelim Elite, many of whom had frequent contact with individuals at Lemar, were taking great delight in terrorizing the already unnerved Sarafan with melodramatic shows of teeth and claws. One stocky specimen caught a Sarafan blade that came slashing towards his evilly grinning face in an obsidian gauntlet. Drawing the man close by his grip on his sword, the Turelim tilted his head to one side to observe with apparent interest the look on his adversary's face as his other lethal claw opened his abdominal cavity to spill piles of slippery intestines on the pitted floor.

Raziel and Turel, initially inclined to leave the youngsters to their fun, were soon tempted into the fray at the first intoxicating scent of fresh- spilled blood. Turel went straight for General Thorin as the second- highest ranking officer in the room, his respect for the human's prowess increasing with each moment of the struggle. The combatants circled each other in raw delight, testing each other's weaknesses with a fake thrust here, a sideways feint there. Eventually, Turel tired of the game and forced his blade forwards with all his vampiric speed, the celerity of the attack sufficient to penetrate the General's leather hauberk. With a further shove, Turel drove the rest of the blade through Thorin's chest until he heard the tell-tale splatter of innards emerging from the exit wound, the dark ichor issuing from the human's mouth a further testament to his defeat. Turel smiled benevolently into the man's face as he sank lifeless to the ground, still completely transfixed by the vampire's weapon.

Antaris risked a glance at the scene, discovering to his dismay that his men were down to the last dozen. Here and there, where they were engaged in single combat with Turel's Elite, the outcome had favourable potential, but it was obvious that none could hope to prevail over the three immortals who dominated the contest. Turel was toying with his prey, that much was evident, while Raziel seemed to favour moments of torment before dispatching his foes: Antaris pitied those who died at his hands. Zephon on the other hand was driven by an all-consuming purpose, a goal that remained ever elusive as he struggled to cut a swathe through the staunch defenders of the Sarafan Lord.

A sharp slap on the face brought him back to his own dilemma. The P'ramma stood before him, twitching her sword in her agitation to begin. Antaris saw a way to end this quickly. He parried her first attack carefully, angling his cross-guard so it snagged hers and her blade was pushed to the left. He quickly followed this up with a studied advance, and, their blades still locked, he managed to drive her shoulder against one of the pointed metal sconces that adorned the walls. The pain was blinding - worse than the original injury itself, but as Antaris backed off to prepare a final blow, he observed that she was looking over his shoulder, her expression uncertain.

It was Raziel who stood before him as he turned. The Vampire Lord stood primed and ready, the rolling contours of his torso splattered with the lifeblood of Antaris' men, his fanged mouth rimmed with the precious ruby liquid.

"I'm going to enjoy this."

The Sarafan Lord dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground a foot from where Freya slumped, half-blind from pain. Raziel, infinitely delighted by the effect his presence had on the man, advanced slowly and pruposefully, his every move an unspoken threat.

"Let me live and I'll give you anything." Cried the Sarafan, at the limit of his meagre endurance.

"You have nothing I cannot take for myself." Replied the vampire. "Besides, I don't think Zephon would be too pleased were I to allow you to go free today." He indicated his still-struggling brother with a tilt of his head.

"However, I am not going to allow Zephon to kill you."

Antaris looked up hopefully.

"You have much to answer for, Sarafan. Your fate will be decided by Kain."

The Sarafan had evidently heard stories of the fates met by those who aroused the ire of the Master Vampire. He sank to his knees, begging for any alternative.

Raziel studied the prone human before him and seemed to reconsider. "There is another possibility." His golden eyes were gentle, unassuming, fatherly. "You could join us."

Antaris shook his head in utter denial, the offer going some way towards restoring his faith in his own identity. He was a Sarafan knight - better Kain's unknown punishment than that.

"But surely you can see that we are the next stage in your evolution?" continued the vampire, finding Antaris' revulsion and loathing hugely entertaining. "You cannot deny nature, Sarafan."

The Sarafan Lord stood up slowly, playing his role for the first time in his worthless life. "There is nothing natural about you and your abominations. I would endure a thousand deaths at Kain's own hands before I'd join you."

Without warning, Raziel took a rapid step forward, grasped the Sarafan Lord about the neck in one massive red claw and raised him until his feet were dangling puppet-like a foot from the ground. His wolfen eyes narrowed, his dark lips curved into a cruel smile. "Why don't I show you what it's like?" Antaris' repulsion was evident. He squirmed impotently in the immortal's vise-like claw like a maggot on a hook. Raziel continued undeterred, interspersing each question with a small shake and an almost imperceptible tightening of his grip. "Would you like that? To be my get? To spend the rest of eternity in loyal servitude, your only pleasure being the willing obeisance of my every whim?"

"Raziel!" Zephon's hoarse shout captured his brother's attention instantly. "The right to punish is mine. Give him to me."

Raziel turned towards him, the Sarafan Lord still dangling from one outstretched arm. "He has transgressed against the entire Vampire nation," he advised sternly, quelling his brother's outraged reply before it could be uttered. "Kain will decide his punishment."

This appeased Zephon somewhat, knowing that whatever castigation his sire would conceive was probably far more interesting and depraved than any of his own. It was also a foregone conclusion that all six would be invited to observe, if not participate in, the event. He nodded grudging assent.

Raziel dropped the Sarafan unceremoniously on the floor, allowing Turel's men to secure the blue-faced Lord. His roving gaze now alighted on Freya, who was observing the slowly spreading dark patch on the Sarafan Lord's trousers with feeble glee. She'd managed, during their exchange, to haul herself to her feet, and was now leaning against the brickwork surveying the revised situation. Instead of a room full of hostile Sarafan, she now faced a room full of battle-crazed, partially-sated Vampires.

Out of the frying pan . . .