1The Damned The Year of Knowledge Unearthed (1451 DR)It was a clever device she had fashioned, a thimblelike, conical piece of smooth cedar with a point like a spear and an opening that allowed her to fit it onto her finger. She slipped it on and gently rotated a knot in the wood, and the mundane became magical as the finger spear diminished and took the form of a beautiful sapphire ring.
The glittering adornment fit the majestic image of Dahlia Sin’felle. Her tall lithe elf form was topped by a head shaved clean but for a single thin clutch of raven black and cardinal red locks, woven to run down the right side of her shapely head and nestle in the hollow of her deceptively delicate neck. Her long fingers, wrapped with more than that one jeweled ring, were tipped with perfect nails, painted white and set with tiny diamonds. Her icy blue eyes could freeze a man’s heart or melt it with a simple look. Dahlia appeared the artist’s epitome of Thayan aristocracy, a lady great even among the greatest, a young woman who could enter a room and turn all heads in lust, in awe, or in murderous jealousy.
She wore seven diamonds in her left ear, one for each of the lovers she had murdered, and two more small sparkling studs in her right ear for the lovers she had yet to kill. Like some of the men of the day, but few if any other Thayan women, Dahlia had tattooed her head with the blue dye of the woad plant. Dots blue and purple decorated the right side of her nearly hairless skull and face, a delicate and mesmerizing pattern enchanted by the master artist to impart various shapes to the viewer. As the woman gracefully turned her head to the left, one might see a gazelle in stride among the reeds of blue. When she snapped back angrily to the right, perhaps a great cat would rear up to strike. When her blue eyes flashed with lust, her target, be it man or woman, might fall helplessly into the dizzying patterns of Dahlia’s woad, entrapped and mesmerized, perhaps never to emerge.
She wore a crimson gown, sleeveless and backless, and cut low in the front, the soft round curves of her breasts contrasting starkly with the sharp seam of rich fabric. The gown reached nearly to the floor, but was slit very high up the right side, drawing the eyes of lusting onlookers, man and woman alike, from her glittering red-painted toenails, past the delicate straps of her ruby sandals, and up the porcelain skin of her shapely leg, nearly to her hip. From there, one’s eyes could not help but be drawn to the base of the
V, and up to the shining tip of the singular black and red braid, the image there framed by a wide, high open collar that presented her slender neck and her perfectly shaped head like a colored glass vase holding a fresh bouquet.
Dahlia Sin’felle knew the power of her form.
The look on Korvin Dor’crae’s face when he entered her private room only confirmed that. He came at her eagerly, wrapping his arms around her. He was not a tall man, not thick with muscle, but his grip was strengthened by his affliction and he pulled her to him roughly, raining kisses along her jaw.
“You will not be long in pleasing yourself, no doubt, but what of me?” she asked, the innocence in her voice only adding to the sarcasm.
Dor’crae moved back enough to look up into her eyes, and smiled widely, revealing his vampire fangs. “I thought you enjoyed my feast, milady,” he said, and he went right back at her, biting her softly on the neck.
“Be easy, my lover,” she whispered, but she moved in a teasing way as she spoke to ensure that Dor’crae could do no such thing.
Her fingers played along his ear and swirled amidst his long, thick black hair. She had been teasing him all night long, after all, and with sunrise nearing he hadn’t much time—not up in the many-windowed tower. He tried to walk her back to the bed, but she held her ground, and so he pressed in more tightly and bit down more forcefully.
“Be easy,” she whispered with a giggle that coaxed him on all the more. “You’ll not make me one of your kind.”
“Play with me through eternity,” Dor’crae replied, and he dared bite harder, his fangs finally puncturing Dahlia’s beautiful skin.
Dahlia lowered her right hand to herside and reached her thumb over the illusionary ring on her index finger, tapping the gem. She slid both of her hands onto Dor’crae’s chest, undoing the leather ties of his shirt and pulling the fabric wide, her fingers fluttering over his skin. He groaned, pressed in closer, and bit down harder.
Dahlia’s right hand felt his breast and slipped delicately to the hollow of his chest, and there she cocked back her index finger as if it were a viper readying to strike.
“Retract your fangs,” she warned, though her voice was still throaty, still a tease.
He groaned, and the viper struck.
Dor’crae sucked in a breath he didn’t need, let go of Dahlia’s neck, and eased back, grimacing every inch as the pointed wooden tip invaded his flesh and prodded at his heart. He tried to back away, but Dahlia expertly paced him, keeping the pressure just right to exact excruciating, crippling pain without killing the creature outright.
“Why do you make me torment you so, lover?” she asked. “What have I done to so deserve such pleasure from you?” She turned her hand just a bit as she spoke, and the vampire seemed to shrink before her, his legs buckling.
“Dahlia!” he managed to plead.
“A tenday has passed since I gave you your task,” she replied.
Dor’crae’s eyes went wide with horror. “A Dread Ring,” he blurted. “Szass Tam would expand them.”
“I know that, of course!”
“To new areas!”
Dahlia growled and twisted the tiny spike, driving Dor’crae down to one knee.
“The Shadovar are strong in Neverwinter Wood, south of the city of Neverwinter!” the vampire grunted. “They have chased the paladins from Helm’s Hold and patrol the forest unhindered.”
“Imagine that!” Dahlia exclaimed sarcastically at yet another bit of common knowledge.
“There are rumblings . . . the Hosttower . . . magical wards and unleashed energy . . .”
Wicked Dahlia cocked her shapely head despite herself, and eased up her prodding finger just a bit.
“I know not the full tale as of yet,” the vampire said, his words coming more easily. “It is shrouded in mystery older than the oldest elf, in a time long ago when the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan was first built. There are—” He stopped with a grunt as Dahlia’s wood-covered finger burrowed in.
“To the point, vampire. I haven’t an eternity.” She looked at him slyly. “And if you offer me eternity one more time, I’ll show you an abrupt end to your own.”
“There is magical instability there, due to the fall of the Hosttower,” Dor’crae blurted. “It is possible that we could create carnage on a scale sufficient—”
Again the woman twisted the words from his mouth, silencing him. Luskan, Neverwinter, the Sword Coast . . . the significance of that region was no mystery to Dahlia. The mere mention of the area rekindled memories of her childhood, memories she clutched close to her heart as constant reminders of the wretchedness of the world.
She shook the haunting images away—it was not the time, not with a dangerous vampire held at arm’s length.
“What more?” she demanded.
A panicked look came over the vampire, who obviously had nothing substantial to add and expected a sudden end to his existence at the hands of the merciless elf.
But Dahlia was more intrigued than she showed. She retracted her hand so suddenly Dor’crae fell to hands and knees and closed his eyes in silent thanks.
“There is no time you are near me when I cannot kill you,” the woman said. “The next time you forget that and try to afflict me, I will utterly, happily, joyously destroy you.”
Dor’crae looked up at her, his expression conveying that he didn’t doubt her for a heartbeat.
“Now make love to me, and do it well, for your own sake,” the elf said.
Copyright © 2026 by R.A. Salvatore. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
