Fangless: The Alpha's Vampire Mate-Chapter 336: Intercepted

They were nothing but insects. Look at them—scattering in panic.

Emperor Kaan hovered at the pinnacle of the castle tower, his gaze fixed on the chaos unraveling below.

Every vampire on the blood-soaked ground of Asvaldur obeyed his silent command, moving like puppets with severed strings. They surged toward the Eiran vampires in a frenzied assault, blind and mindless, unaware of their own actions—yet loyal to his will.

"So this is what power feels like..."

He had tasted power before. A child prodigy, born with a crown practically etched into his bones, Kaan had always held more influence than most vampires could ever dream of. And yet, he’d never been satisfied. Not truly. Not until now.

"This is just a small taste of what will be yours," came the sultry whisper.

Thessaria appeared—exactly when she was meant to, as always. She had a talent for knowing when to strike, a gift she’d perfected in life. In death, as an ancestor—an unseen ghost haunting only the elite of her kind—she proved her mastery tenfold.

Thessaria’s mind was a storm of cunning and cruelty. She knew nothing of empathy, nothing of compassion. But she could mimic both flawlessly. Her compliments were laced with venom, her praise designed to swell egos until they floated just high enough to be torn down. Manipulation was her art, and Kaan—her favorite canvas.

Kaan rolled his eyes. Thessaria again.

Though her visits had become less frequent, her presence still grated on him whenever she returned. Once, her voice had been a source of guidance—sharp, manipulative, and effective. But now, it was just noise.

He wondered if he still needed her at all. In his youth, she had shaped him, molded him into the genius the world revered—the vampire prodigy who never made an error.

But that was before. Before he had power beyond imagination. Before he had armies at his command. What use was a ghost who whispered echoes of ambition when the crown was already his?

His gaze drifted lazily downward, to the vampires scrambling like insects across the bloodied plains. The sight made him chuckle. This chaos—they were his creation. His will.

Among them, child vampires darted like wild things, flinging themselves at the Eiran soldiers. The adult Eirans hesitated, their hands trembling with moral conflict. They couldn’t bring themselves to fight back—at least not against children.

Ridiculous.

"Killing is killing," Kaan muttered, his tone laced with contempt. "Why should it matter if it’s a child or a grown warrior?"

That naive morality played right into his hands. And he, unlike them, had no qualms about sacrificing children—if they could bleed, they could serve. His hand moved slightly, and with it, more child soldiers emerged. From the castle. From the forest. From distant villages.

Drawn to the center of Asvaldur like moths to flame. Gathered for one purpose. His greatest weapons.

Kaan was too caught up in the spectacle—too enthralled by the Eirans flailing beneath his control—to notice what truly mattered. Riona had slipped through.

While his focus was fixed on the battlefield, she had broken free from the grip of his puppet thralls and vanished into the castle. By the time he sensed the shift, it was already too late. She was gone.

He whipped around, scanning the castle grounds, the shadows, even the distant perimeter—anywhere she might have fled to save herself. But there was nothing. Not a trace.

Kaan’s jaw tightened. His teeth ground together.

"The werewolves are gone too," Thessaria’s voice coiled into his mind like smoke—serpentine and calm, in stark contrast to his fury.

It was a useful report. He hadn’t noticed. Too blinded by rage to realize another threat had disappeared right under his nose. If she hadn’t said anything, he might have missed it entirely.

And that only made his blood boil more.

Emperor Kaan screamed, his voice splitting the sky as he hovered above the chaos, fists clenched tight. Raw energy pulsed around him, keeping him aloft like a storm held in place by sheer will.

He could have razed everything beneath him—just as he had done in Eira during Elder Alfred’s rebellion. One outburst, and the ground would be scorched clean.

But what use was power without subjects to kneel before it?

So he restrained himself.

Instead of unleashing annihilation, he raised both hands, fingers spread wide—then slowly curled them into fists, as though grasping the very air. It was the signal. The gesture that tightened his grip over the possessed.

The invisible threads coiled tighter. His puppets sank deeper into the nightmare he’d woven for them, their minds further submerged beneath his will. The nightmare fog thickened, spreading its influence like poison.

Even those who had begun to awaken—the Asvaldur vampires accidentally jolted back to consciousness by werewolf blood—started to drift once more into the haze. And the Eiran vampires, too, felt their thoughts grow heavy, their senses dulled.

They were slipping.

"All of you..." Kaan’s voice boomed across the city, low and thunderous, as if the sky itself obeyed him. "You will become my puppets."

His gaze burned.

"Every. Last. One. Of. You."

***

Riona didn’t know where she was going. She just ran. ƒreewebɳovel.com

At every intersection, she chose a path without thinking—no plan, no instinct, just motion. Her mind was a storm of sound, and Florian’s voice thundered louder than anything else. It drowned out Thorin. It drowned out Puck. It drowned out reason.

Fueled by a vampire’s speed and a werewolf’s strength, she tore through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors. Behind her, Thorin called out, his voice raw and urgent.

"Riona—stop!"

He tried to catch her, to pull her back from blindly plunging deeper into the heart of danger. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do this alone. That her hybrid senses weren’t enough to track Florian—not here, not now. But Puck could. Puck, the true werewolf, the one who’d spent a lifetime following the faintest of trails.

But she didn’t hear him. She was too fast, too scattered. Her movements were wild, unpredictable—like she wasn’t just running away, but running through something only she could see.

Thorin pushed himself harder, gaining ground. Then, finally—an opening. A long corridor, just ahead. He took a chance, leapt between the walls, and launched himself forward, intercepting her just as she veered toward another turn.

She collided into him with full force.

They stumbled, breathless. Riona’s eyes blinked, dazed, as if she were waking from a dream. She stared at him, confusion written all over her face.

"Thorin?"

Puck emerged behind them, breathless but determined. "I know where he is," he said between pants.

Riona turned quickly. She braced her palms against Thorin’s chest and pushed herself upright, letting his hands fall away from her back as she rose to her feet.

"We’re going," she said sharply.

Thorin stood as well, already preparing to follow—but a voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Oh no, you’re not."

All three of them froze. They turned toward the source, and there he was—his smile stretching too wide, too smug, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Hello, my almost bride," he drawled, his beautiful eyes locked on Riona. "I didn’t realize you were this obsessed with me. You really should’ve accepted my proposal while you had the chance."