Book One of The Nocturnal Chronicles. The Seraphim She is a whispered myth wrapped in mortal flesh - light dressed in shadow; salvation stitched with sin. The Seraphim does not bend; she breaks. She is not the storm, she is the silence before it - a pause so sharp, it feels as though the world forgets how to breathe. To follow her is devotion; to stand against her is death. She was forged for the night, and in her hands, empires ignite - quietly, mercilessly. The Pakhan In the Bratva, he is death crowned - an immortal ruler on a throne of blood. The Pakhan is not a man but an empire - ruthless, unshakable, inevitable. His law is written in crimson; his loyalty bought with fire. Kings are feared. Emperors are obeyed. But the Pakhan? He is the end written in blood. The darkness bends at his command, for the night has only one master. But empires are never built without enemies. And enemies never forget. Old ghosts are rising, and they are hunting in the dark. She was forged in shadows, he was crowned in blood - but when vengeance hunts them both, empires will break, legacies will bleed, and love may be the first casualty.