Scarlet Hearts After Dark

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jul 18, 2025

THE DARKBORN SAGA: NEW EPISODE

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

character inspo by Wonder.

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

I run my fingers through Frey’s long mane. She’s the purest white, and her eyes, flecked with blue, lock on mine as she lets out a deep exhale through her nose. She’s massive and strong, and absolutely stunning. Reaching out, I run my palm over Hati’s dappled face, clomping a pace slower beside us. He’s white and gray and equally magnificent.

“They are a gift?” I clarify, incredulous. “From Hel herself?”

“Thank you, Asha,” Arless murmurs, and accepts a steaming mug from one of the warriors. “Tell him what you told me.”

Asha turns and meets my gaze. She’s a novice fighter, her face still plump with youth with a spark of eagerness in her dark eyes whenever she’s around Arless. She brims with purpose and determination, just as Arless did when we were young, and I see why she respects her as she does. “The general told me they are a gift from the goddess. That they were made for each of you.” She nods to Hati. “He is stubborn and determined. And that one,” she continues, nodding to Frey, “She is sneaky and fast as lightning.”

I grin. “All I’m hearing, Ari, is my horse is faster than yours.”

Hati’s massive head whips up with a snort, his mane flailing around him.

“Stomp on his toe, Hati. No one would blame you,” Arless mutters. Hati paws threateningly at the ground in answer.

Chuckling, I rub his forelock. “I’m only teasing. You’ll get used to me.”

Arless scoffs.

“Actually,” Asha hedges, “Nira, the general’s mare, is the queen of horses. She is the fastest and most powerful. The general wanted to make sure I told you that part as well.” The warrior grins impishly.

Arless barks a laugh.

“Of course she is.” I sigh. “And, of course he did.”

With a widening grin, Asha leaves. I give both horses another neck rub before joining Arless at the campfire.

It crackles and pops, sending a flurry of sparks dancing into the frigid midday air. Camp is relatively quiet as the warriors rest after hours of hellish battle. Though Arless doesn’t look rested at all. Then again, we’re both weary to the bone. But I’m not sure what darkens her features more, the pine shadows shifting around us from a snow-clouded day, or her heavy thoughts, and I know exactly where they linger.

“This isn’t any feat, Ari,” I say firmly. “Sylas looked at her like—like he was going to devour her. Not to mention the north won’t exactly welcome her with open arms. To them, she is the enemy.”

She rests her elbows on her knees, arching her delicate brow. “If she does not stay with us, then with who? Where else would the princess, heir of the entire southern empire—the lone survivor of her family and a beacon for her every enemy—be safer than with us?”

Huffing a breath, I peer into the veil of falling snow. My breath clouds with each exhale, but I don’t feel the cold so much as remember it. Sighing, I shake my head. I hate when Arless is right, and I have no answers to best hers. “My count was three hundred and forty-one, by the way,” I add victoriously and out of spite.

Her mouth gapes in mock astonishment. “Gods, really? I only beat you by a hundred and ten.”

“What?” I shake my head. “No, I think you skew your numbers.” There’s absolutely no hiding my devastation.

Arless nods toward Warsong, leaning against her tent, where the princess is being tended to.

I curse under my breath. “You and that damn bow. What do the Gatriel sisters put in your arrows, hmm? Do they use magic?”

Arless grins.

“And, for the record,” I add, holding up my finger. “The wounded don’t count unless it’s fatal.”

“Child,” she mutters and takes a sip of her steaming mug.

I grin, watching her do something as benign as drinking her tea after watching her stab, decapitate, spear, and feed off dozens of enemy soldiers. “Does it help?”

Slowly, Arless’s eyes drift from the fire to me, and she licks her lips. “What?”

“The chamomile and mint.” I nod to her mug. “In our past life, you drank it to help you sleep. And now?”

She lifts her shoulder and stares into the stoneware. “It’s familiar.” She’s thoughtful for a moment. “It brings me comfort.”

Purposeful footsteps crunch through the snow toward us, a cadence I’d recognize anywhere, and our brief solace evaporates. I grab my deerskin of grog, nestled in the snow beside me, and gulp half of it down.

Imara stops a few paces away, clad in wildfang robes as she holds her hands to the fire. Her nose is adorably red, though I try not to notice, and once again, I’m hit with the reality that she is a human and that she hates me.

I chug for another heartbeat. Unfortunately for me, getting drunk isn’t nearly as easy as it used to be. And the sweet taste of grog is more sickening than anything as I gulp it down.

Arless glances between us, that damn eyebrow of hers arched again.

“Well, my lords,” Imara prompts, her eyes solely on Arless. “Do I tell my shieldmaidens we head north?” she asks sharply. The wind tousles her hair, long, loose and clean, no longer braided and matted with blood. Though she looks exhausted from a night of brutality, the firelight makes her green eyes gleam impishly. She looks softer and more feminine than usual, and I take another drink.

“Since every aspect of our original plan has changed,” Arless explains, “We’re deliberating the best course of action.” She nods toward the tent the princess is in. “With Sylas gone, it is on us to keep the princess safe, as well as our warriors.”

“Wherever we take her, there will be resistance to the princess,” Imara unhelpfully points out. “And nearly a thousand warriors who know who she is, that she’s with us. So there is no keeping her identity a secret.”

There’s a collective inhale among the three of us.

“Then we make sure everyone knows she is protected by the Darkborn,” I tell them, and Imara’s eyes cut to me. “Though you detest our existence, Commander, our reputation will be helpful in this scenario. Don’t you agree?”

Imara’s eyebrow lifts so minutely, I almost miss it. “You mistake me, my lord. It is only you I detest.” Her smile is so forced but so beautiful, I huff and have to look away.

“They will understand,” Arless says, her voice distant. “They must.”

“And Sylas?” Imara continues, “How long will the general be gone?”

There’s a beat of silence before Arless shrugs. “He goes where Hel tells him. So . . . as long as it takes.”

Silence. Many heartbeats. The crackling fire and whispering wind through the treetops. Sylas and Lucian’s absence is the most uncertain, unnerving part of all.

Imara’s gaze burns along my arm; I can feel it roving each of my runes and they tingle in response, but I keep my gaze locked on the fire.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it,” she muses. “You Darkborn never get cold, do you.” Not a question. A reminder. That we are unnatural. When I glance at the shieldmaiden, she shivers and nestles deeper into her furs.

Arless wraps her cloak tighter around herself, but it’s only muscle memory. She isn’t cold, neither of us are. We likely never will be again.

“It’s decided then,” Arless says. “We take the princess with us. Back to Rockhavn. It’s the only way to keep her safe.”

Imara stares at the princess’s tent in consternation, and by the minute uptick of her heartbeat, I consider how worried she might actually be about the princess. “If any of Barron’s people get their hands on her, not only will the girl’s life be forfeit,” she murmurs, “but the people will have no one to rally behind but him. They will lose hope, and in turn . . . our enemy more than triples in size.”

My gaze travels the length of the scar on Imara’s face, it’s hairline thin but traveling from her right temple down her cheek with a slight curve at the end. I’ve heard whispers about her scars—how she lost all her loved ones to Torchkeepers six winters ago—but knowing one of them had a blade against her face makes my fangs ache with hunger and my body coil with fury.

“Exactly,” Arless says more loudly than necessary. When I glance at her, she’s giving me the stop-staring-at-her-like-you’re-going-to-kill-something look.

I avert my gaze as Arless continues. “And we can’t exactly take the short route back, parading her through towns and villages, alerting everyone we have a human girl traveling with us, stirring up questions. We must ask our warriors to use discretion. We can’t exactly keep her a secret, but if they don’t want additional battles to fight, it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep her name from their lips.”

“Barron knows,” I tell them. “Or rather, he will. And soon. That’s why we need to leave the south. We don’t know these lands like we do home.”

“Which is why Sylas heads deeper south,” Arless adds. The fact that he and Lucian left without a word to me still stings. But then, I was the one fucking a shieldmaiden in the great hall, while their entourage headed out, so I can’t fault him completely. “Hel believes Koldis is key to the battle ahead, though he knows not how.”

“Aye, and Hel may have gifted us snow,” I interject, “but it will not last forever. We can protect the princess better at Qisp Keep.”

Arless tilts her head. “I thought you said we shouldn’t take her to Rockhavn?” There’s no mocking tone, nor any snideness, only curiosity in her question.

“And as you said, we have no other choice. My worry is Sylas—”

“Sylas?” Imara rasps. “Why would you worry about Sylas? Did he not leave you in charge of the princess?” Imara holds Arless’s gaze, and I get the feeling she’s intentionally avoiding speaking to me. I can’t say I blame her. Nothing good ever comes of it.

“He did,” I grit in answer because everything is more complicated now. I’m not sure if Sylas being away makes it easier or worse. “But he didn’t intend for us to keep her with us. He couldn’t have. Not after his . . . reaction.”

Imara frowns, but I wave it away and take the final dreg of grog and toss the deerskin aside.

“We don’t know when they will return,” Arless snips. “It could be months, or . . . years.”

I feel her trepidation—it matches mine—and our eyes meet. There’s a strange and unexpected emptiness without Lucian and Sylas near. It feels like I’m constantly holding my breath, and I worry it will be that way until they return.

Rubbing my face, I focus on the dancing fire flames as the three of us stew in silence. The towering pines surrounding the clearing sway gently in the breeze, their rustling needles a soothing counterpoint to the ominous thought of the days ahead.

“We keep moving, quickly and quietly,” I finally say. “We sail home, toward Crowsgate.”

Arless’s breath catches. We have no other choice, but I don’t have to tell her that; she knows it as much as I do.

Imara glances between us. I assume its curiosity quickening her heartbeat, but she has the courtesy not to ask. “Whatever comes of it,” she says instead, “we’ll manage. We always do. Besides, it seems the goddess has set us down this path. There is no deviating from it.” Despite Imara’s general disdain for the Darkborn, she is our most respected commander, so her leadership is expected, but even more so, appreciated. My eyes shift to hers as she adjusts her furs. “It’s settled then. I’ll tell my warriors to get some rest. We leave for the harbor tomorrow.”

Arless nods, and Imara’s eyes dip down to me before she turns on her heel and strides away. A few heartbeats pass and I lean back in the snow, staring up at the bending treetops as snow tickles my face.

“That was . . . slightly uncomfortable,” Arless says. My eyes snap to hers and she nods at Imara’s retreating figure.

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, not everyone likes me.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

I roll my eyes as she takes another sip of her tea.

“But that was not dislike, Thorne. Not entirely. That was—heavy. I practically tasted what it is.”

Scoffing, I glance toward the fortress hidden through the sea of trees. No matter the distance, however, Imara’s feral tone as she stood in the great hall earlier brands itself in my memory. “Trust me,” I mutter, “it’s nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something, brother. My stomach is still knotted with tens—”

“It has to be nothing,” I bark, and as amusement glints in Arless’s eyes, I groan, scrubbing my hands over my face again. I’m too tired for this.

“I see.” Arless takes another sip from her mug to hide her smile.

“Look,” I start more softly, “Imara can’t stand to be in my presence. And more importantly—”

“More important than she can’t stand you?”

“—she’s human, Ari.”

The smile on her teasing expression falls instantly. I don’t have to explain how much that matters. Arless lost everyone she cared about in the same fire. And I will never position myself to lose those I love again, especially fragile humans who age and die so quickly.

We sit in somberness as what’s left of our preternatural high from battle diminishes entirely, and our eternal, very complicated and unearthly existence festers like an infected wound. Always raw and painful. Never healing.

With the rustle of fabric, the princess pokes her head out of Arless’s tent. Her youthful face is clean but etched with uncertainty as she glances around our camp, cautious, before stepping out. The wind howls as it rushes past, tugging her heavy cloak as she pulls it tighter around her shoulders.

“Feeling better?” Arless asks, motioning the princess toward a hide-covered stool by the fire.

The princess nods and walks carefully through the snow, eyeing the blanket of white like it’s made of pure magic. Her hair falls in loose, tawny waves down her back, catching in the breeze, and her cheeks redden quickly from the cold.

“I’ve never seen winter,” she says, so quietly I might not have heard her above her crunching footsteps if not for my acute senses.

“You will see much more of it from now on,” I caution. She settles on the stool, wrapping her heavy fabrics around her. Her cloak is the color of lapis with a gilded hem; not lined with fox or wildfang or saber cat fur like everyone wears from the north. “The sun shines only one season in Nordlund. But you will get used to it. Eventually.”

“Is that where you will take me? To your home?” Uncertainty laces the princess’s words, but there’s a tinge of hope, too.

“Is that your wish?” Arless asks, as though the princess has a choice in the matter.

Eyes leveled on Arless, she hesitates, only a moment, before she dips her chin.

I study the girl, noting the amalgam of emotion in her eyes. “You are not frightened of us, Princess?” Her heartbeat stumbles, but the girl’s expression doesn’t change.

Arless and I glance at one another. The princess witnessed Sylas in a feeding frenzy only hours ago. Still, leery she may be, but there is a steadiness in her disposition we both sense, too.

“I have heard horrible things about you,” the girl says, thoughtful as she stares into the fire. “Tales of monsters and heathens and bloodletting. I’ve heard that you massacre innocents and murder all in your path, claiming it is the will of the fallen gods.”

“Fallen gods?” Arless parrots with amusement. “Seeing as we were reborn of their creation, and that they are responsible for the snow that has given our army the advantage over Blackhorn’s, it would be foolish for anyone to assume they are fallen.”

The princess doesn’t reply. Her wide, blue eyes shift between us, but they don’t linger too long before refocusing on the flames. “Whatever the stories,” she continues, “I have seen firsthand what is left in the wake of Barron’s armies, and I would rather take my chance with you than the Fists of the false king.”

“The Torchkeepers?” I clarify.

She nods. “If that’s what you call them.”

“Well, that’s . . . saying something,” I mutter.

“The other one like you,” the princess starts, clearing her throat. She runs her hands over her thighs and fists them. “The one in the dungeon who . . .”

“Sylas,” I tell her. “The one who killed Blackhorn?”

Her frantic gaze meets mine, her heartbeat quickening again. “Where is he?”

My brow furrows as I try to scent her emotions, trying to discern if it’s curiosity or fear that hums through her at the mention of him.

“He is no longer here.” I draw the words out, listening carefully to her heartbeat. It steadies, just a little.

“Will he return?”

I lift my chin. “In time.”

The princess nods as if she’s coming to terms with something and her gaze shifts once more to the fire. She licks her lips, her body shaking with a chill.

“I know he frightened you,” Arless says carefully. Her voice is softer toward the princess than I’ve ever heard it. “And he was frightening in that moment. But you are safe now because of him.”

The princess mulls the words over, biting her lip as her thoughts drift. “You should ask your questions, Princess,” I say. “At least the pressing ones. Seeing as you will be stuck with us for the foreseeable future.”

Blue eyes lift to me. “I believe you will not harm me,” she says soberly. “Or rather, I believe you do not wish to. But . . . What is to stop you when you are”—her gaze darts between us—“hungry.”

“We don’t much like the taste of princess,” I jest. “Too lean.”

Arless glares at me. “Ignore him,” she mutters. “All of us try to.”

I grin. “Try being the key word.”

Ignoring me, Arless continues, “Our feeding . . . it doesn’t work like that, Princess. Not normally. We have learned to control our hunger. It’s more private. Usually, at least. In battle, it is different. We are stronger if we feed, and when it comes to our enemy, we hold nothing back.”

“But Sylas, the way he looked at me. The anger in his voice. Will I be safe if he returns?”

“You are here with us to keep you safe–it was his command before he left. No harm will come to you when he returns.” Not entirely confident of that statement, I avert my gaze.

Questions tumble through the princess’s head. I can see them with every blink and furtive glance between us. Every time she bites her lip, I think she might finally ask another, but she doesn’t.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” she finally admits. “But I am not naïve. I know I have no choice but to trust you. And I have nowhere else to go.” Her voice cracks, and the princess peers down at the scrapes on her fingers and the dirt under her nails. “I will never see my home again, will I?”

Silence stretches as Arless and I stare at one another, uncertain how to answer that. The only way she’ll ever see her home again is if we eradicate Barron’s army and kill the man himself, and that is a battle we are nowhere close to winning. Not yet.

“One day, you will see your home again, Princess.” My voice is harder than I intend, but that is the least of our problems at the moment. “Eventually.”

She tucks her hands into her cloak. “Leore.”

Arless and I meet her gaze. “You can call me Leore.” Again, her voice cracks with emotion and exhaustion. “The truth is, I don’t feel much like a princess anymore. So, I would prefer it.”

“I am Ari. He is Thorne, but mostly he’s a pain in the ass, so feel free to call him whatever you like.”

That gets a hint of a smile from the princess. The crackling flames and rustling pines fill the silence once more, as the princess yawns despite herself.

“Get some rest,” Arless tells her. “We leave tomorrow, and it will be a long journey. You need your rest.”

“I don’t have the energy to argue,” Leore rises, her cloak puddling slightly at her feet. “So I bid you good day, for now.”

“Anyone will help you, if you need anything,” Arless says over her shoulder. The princess stops, hand on the tent flap. “Thank you, both. For your kindness. It will not be forgotten.”

There’s more Darkborn coming - stay tuned!

Until next time….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jul 11, 2025

The Darkborn Saga: New Episode

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

scene insp created by Wonder

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

“Oh . . . gods—my lord!” The shieldmaiden’s cries of pleasure urge me faster. Fraites is it? Or was it Frida? Her name doesn’t matter. I pound into her harder, chasing the peak of my high. Blood pounds in my ears, my body thrumming with the aftermath of battle and whatever the hell that was with Sylas below.

My muscles ache with unspent energy, a familiar hunger gnawing from the inside out as the woman beneath me claws her fingernails into my back, her breasts bouncing, the scent of sweat and blood permeating off her as our skin slaps against one another.

She’s more than a willing vessel, and that she gives herself to me freely—that she wants me and isn’t disgusted by the thought of me—only makes my cock harder.

I bite into her neck, and she arches against me with a gasp, our satisfaction instant.

But in that moment, it is Imara’s heartbeat I detect in the distance. Imara’s scent I smell and crave.

No. I growl in frustration and focus on the shieldmaiden beneath me. Her blood is hot as it slides like liquid silk over my tongue and down my throat. Her arousal is thick in the air and should be intoxicating and all-consuming. Her blood is what I taste. Her scent.

But rich, auburn hair that gleams with shades of copper in the daylight, and defiant green-flecked eyes flash to mind. “Fuck,” I groan against the shieldmaiden’s neck. Imara’s somewhere close and it’s fucking everything up. My cock is so hard, it hurts in the most excruciating, delicious way. I pretend my partner has hair the color of autumn leaves, and that there’s a scar down her right temple, and I bury myself deeper in the warrior beneath me.

“Gods!” she cries. “My lord!” I fuck her faster, exploding in the depths of her body to the sound of her screaming my name.

It’s liberating. It’s heady to the point of blindness, and if I wasn’t sating the hunger and my body’s animalistic desire at once, the bloodlust would win out. This warrior would be a meal and nothing else. But my release sates me, at least a little, and I relish another pull from the shieldmaiden’s neck. One last mouthful. A final swallow and I’m damn sure my eyes would roll back in my head if they were open.

As the tension in the woman’s body lessens, her euphoria utterly and completely met, I allow myself a final dreg before unlatching my fangs from her neck. With a growl and trembling muscles, I roll onto my back on the tabletop, one of many in the great hall, with plates of food discarded from the soldiers whose bodies now litter the ground throughout the fortress.

I stare up at the beams criss-crossing above and settle into the sound of the great hall. It’s empty save for the roaring fire and the flickering shadows that dance across stone walls and ceiling.

“Gods damned, I needed that.” Rubbing my face, I inhale a deep breath, frustratingly but deliciously spent.

Whatever that was with Sylas and the princess threw me for a loop. I’d smelled the princess when we first arrived, but it was nothing more than a new, curious scent. But for Sylas—it gripped him in a way I’ve never felt through the bond before. And for an immortal who has spent his second life pushing every intimate feeling he might have away, my feeling his reaction to the girl—and his utter abhorrence of it—seems like a cruel joke the gods are playing on him. Again.

And Imara popping into my head? I exhale a heavy breath. That woman is beyond maddening, and the whole damn night has me on edge.

The shieldmaiden lifts onto her elbows, her chest still heaving as she peers over at me with a lazy, lust-filled gaze and glistening skin. “Feel better?” she murmurs, a catlike smile on her face. She runs the tip of her tongue over her upper lip and I imagine myself licking a small drop of blood from it.

With a brusque nod, I tear my gaze away, glancing at her body instead. “You’ll be weak for a day or two.” I may not know her name, but I’m not a total ass; she needs to be prepared.

A fleeting, uncertain look that might border on trepidation flits across her face.

“You’ll be fine. I promise.” With a grin, I reach up and gently lick her wounds closed. “The brotherhood thanks you for your service,” I tease, and that seems to squash any forming regrets. She grins.

“Sigrid.” Imara’s sharp voice cuts through the haze. Sigrid. Shit . . . I was way off.

Unlike Sigrid, who startles at Imara’s sudden presence, I sensed her long before she entered the great hall, like I always do.

Sigrid scrambles to her feet, and languidly, I tuck myself back into my pants.

“We’re heading back to camp.” There’s an extra bite to Imara’s tone, the one she reserves just for me. “Help the others with the injured on the eastern wall”—she scours her shieldmaiden up and down—“if you can manage it.” Imara drips disapproval and her tone brooks no argument.

Sigrid glances over her shoulder at me, as if she’s asking permission to leave. I nod, a strand of hair falling into my face, loose from our activities, and the shieldmaiden wrestles into her leathers.

Imara’s gaze doesn’t waver as she waits for Sigrid to finish dressing. I look Imara up and down too, appreciating how battle-worn she is, her skin streaked with dirt and sweat, and her leather armor spattered with enemy blood, like me.

Sigrid marches out the door as I climb off the table, and immediately Imara’s heated, loathsome gaze snaps to me. Her pulse thunders so loud I can’t ignore it, but the look on her face is one of anger, not desire.

My jaw clenches and I walk over to the warm water in the pot by the hearth. “Well,” I say and submerge my tunic. Imara’s eyes sear through my back as I scrub the dripping cloth over my shoulders, cleaning the blood and grime away. “Let’s hear it.” I keep my voice light and teasing, though tension coils in my gut. I submerge the cloth into the water again and scrub my arms next, wondering if a dip in the frigid river would be a quicker option.

“I don’t appreciate you using my shieldmaidens as your vessels.”

“Willing vessels,” I clarify.

“I don’t care. It affects us all when they are weak and useless and in some sex haze for the next two days.”

Grinning, I turn to face her, fully aware of her eyes shifting down my torso, even if she tries to hide it. “It sounds like you’re jealous.”

Imara’s glare sharpens. “I need them alert, Thorne, not weakened from blood loss, especially after battle. We’re already beat to shit as it is—we’re not immortals, like some.”

“Perhaps they enjoy a little extra danger—”

“Enough!” she growls. “You insist on taunting me, and I have had enough.”

My own annoyance flares, and in three strides I am only inches from her.

Imara swallows thickly, as if suddenly recalling who and what I am.

“And you insist on hating me for no reason other than you wish to.”

Imara’s jaw twitches. “They are warriors,” she grits out. “Not your personal fucking feeding stock.” Her nostrils flare, and I detect more than ire in her countenance, but something almost desperate. I scour her face, willing her to give something more about her feelings to me. How can I smell her a forest away, yet I can never get a proper read on her?

The firelight catches Imara’s hair, turning it to molten copper. I think of sex. I think of rutting and orgasms and how badly I want to fuck and feed from her.

“Find someone else to satisfy your . . . appetites,” she continues. “Or you can find another band of shieldmaidens to fight for you. They put their lives on the line for you. They deserve your respect.”

My eyes harden this time, and I close the rest of the distance between us. “Are you threatening me, Commander?”

Imara stiffens and takes a deliberate step back. “I am stating facts,” she says, though the edge to her voice dissolves to uncertainty.

Wet shirt clenched in one fist, I point toward the courtyard where our mangled army gathers.

“Then speak to your warriors, Commander. They are grown-ass women, fighting with and fucking a Darkborn by their free will. And as much as it bothers you that they would deprave themselves lying with me,” I practically seethe, “every vessel I have taken in the past sixteen winters has approached me.”

I don’t know if Imara’s expression widens with surprise at hearing my vehemence, or if she’s simply shocked I don’t have to beg for feeders and lovers, but her cheeks flush ever so slightly.

Without another word, she turns and strides from the great hall, every line of her body rigid with tension. Every footstep echoes with fury. The door closes behind her with a decisive thud, and I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I don’t know if I hate her or simply want to fuck the one woman who won’t have me.

Tossing my tunic across the room, I crack my neck from side to side. Whatever this is, it isn’t healthy or good for my sanity. Because, beneath the blood and battle-lust still coursing through me, something deeper stirs. Something more than mere temptation and challenge. Something terrifying.

The fire pops and crackles, matching the restless energy under my skin, and I sag against the nearest table. “Well, brother,” I mutter to myself, “you’re completely fucked.”

There’s more Darkborn coming - stay tuned!

Until next time….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jul 4, 2025

The Darkborn Saga: New Episode

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

Leore (created by Wonder)

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Sylas Episode: “Leore”

“Sy . . .” Arless’s voice is distant in my feeding frenzy as I relish the warm nourishment that floods my system, strengthening every fiber of my body. And awakens every nerve-ending, leaving me buzzing with unsated need.

Arless clears her throat, and as I toss Blackhorn’s body aside, her eyes flick to the chamber behind me. The world comes into focus again, and my head snaps in that direction. The girl’s eyes are wide and terrified, finally, and her chest rises and falls so fast, I’m surprised she’s not screaming or sobbing with fear. Her nostrils flare, and with each heavy breath she takes, my instincts growl with need.

With a whimper, Moose transforms into a mastiff again, and tail wagging, he trots over to the girl. Her mouth opens and closes in shock and confusion. She doesn’t shy away when he licks her face, as I expect, and I sense her heart rate easing a little, which brings me an unexpected sliver of peace. But her smell is pure chaos to my senses.

Unable to stand her proximity, I barrel down the corridor, needing as much distance as possible. “Keep her away from me, Arless!” I shout.

I hear her tell the girl to stay with Moose, and Arless jogs after me. “What the hell is going on?” she rasps.

I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on one step at a time as the urge to go back recedes. “I don’t know, but she is a problem.” I spin and meet Arless’s confused gaze. “You feel that, right? You sense what I sense?”

Arless studies me. Her eyes trail over my body, her lips pursing. “I smell her, Sy, but your reaction—” She shakes her head and glances down the corridor toward the chamber. “That’s unexpected.”

I straighten, confused. Disgusted. Horrified.

“I feel your need, but . . . I don’t have the same pull.”

We blink at one another as heavy footsteps approach. “Ah, you found the diamond first, I see,” Thorne drawls. He and Lucian stop behind me, assessing Blackhorn’s body. “We missed the finale.”

Lucian lifts his nose slightly, drawing in a deep breath, and Thorne seems to register the strangeness in the air at the same time.

“You smell that, right?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists. “The girl?”

“Girl?” Thorne nods, smiling as he takes me in from head to toe. “I haven’t seen you get worked up for a woman since—”

“Not a woman,” Arless warns as I growl in irritation. “Girl.”

As if she knows we’re talking about her, the diamond steps out of her chamber and into the corridor.

Thorne and Lucian both straighten beside me, and when they look at me, their brows furrow. “That’s . . . unnerving.” Thorne says.

I curse under my breath, and the instant I inhale, I regret it. I push past Thorne, needing to remove myself from the girl’s presence if I’m to keep my sanity.

“Are—” she clears her throat at the other end of the corridor, and her voice stops me mid-step. “Are you going to kill me, sell me, or take me home?” It’s a command, her bravado masking her fear.

“Where is your home?” Thorne asks carefully. “Who are you to Blackhorn?”

“My home is Highmark, in the Frail Valley—”

“Frail Valley?” Arless rasps. “The high seat of the southern empire.” She looks at me, shaking her head.

“Are you,” Throne starts. “Are you Princess Leore of Soothlund?”

The girl’s shoulders straighten and her chin lifts ever so slightly, just as a princess’s would. She doesn’t dignify us with an answer. “You are the heathens preventing the false king from taking the north.” Not a question, but a statement.

Arless scoffs. “We heathens just saved you from whatever fate Blackhorn had in store for you.”

“To marry the false king,” the princess says coolly. There’s an apprehension in her tone, uncertain if she should trust us. She shouldn’t. Not me, at least. And yet, the thought of her in the mere presence of Barron the Butcher sends a murderous jolt through me.

“Fuck!” I shout, and spinning on my heels, I stride out of the tunnel.

Only when I am above ground, inhaling slightly fresher air, does my mind begin to clear. My body still thrums with a confused energy that feels dangerous.

“What jest is this!” I shout up into the sky, chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. I pace, quelling the need to kill something. “What have you done to me?” I mutter, knowing Hel can hear me. I stalk across the courtyard, stepping over and around bodies, vaguely noting Imara and her shieldmaidens helping our injured on the eastern wall.

Arless runs jogs behind me. “My lord—”

“Not now,” I growl and continue through the gates, needing to get the hell away from the fortress.

“Sylas!” she calls, and she’s beside me instantly, her stride nearly matching mine as I stalk farther away. “Sy!” She grabs my arm.

“What?” I bark and spin around. “Can’t you see? I need to get away from here. This—” I gesture between me and the fortress—to the girl. “This isn’t natural. It’s not right.”

“None of this is natural,” Arless reminds me. “None of this is right. And I know you’re struggling. I understand. But . . . she is not a mere human. She is the princess of the entire southern empire and her entire family is dead, thanks to Blackhorn. What do you want us to do with her?”

“Keep her safe,” I say easily. “Put her somewhere no one can get to her. You’ll think of something. She’s your charge now.”

Arless says nothing, understanding the weight of such a task, one I cannot help her bear, even if I wanted to.

The world is eerily silent without the sound of battle, and as I turn, ready to head deeper into the forest, Arless exhales. “Sylas.” It’s a plea, so I pause. “Why does it sound like you are leaving?”

I peer at her over my shoulder. “Because I am. Lucian and I head farther south in search of a man called Koldis.”

The crusted blood on her face cracks as her frown deepens. “You mean, the four of us—”

I shake my head. “You and Thorne stay here, raise more armies. Train. Figure out what to do about the princess.”

There’s a sadness in Arless’s gaze, already mourning our absence. The four of us have not been separated since our change. We have not had to exist apart.

“This is Hel’s order,” she confirms.

I nod. “Koldis is necessary for whatever comes next. That is all I know.”

Arless crosses his arms over her chest. “Of course it is. Damn cryptic bit—” An angry gust of frigid wind whips over us and Arless rolls her eyes. “Bitch,” she mutters.

I nearly smile. “Tell Lucian to meet me at the forge for fresh weapons. We prepare and leave at first light.”

Arless’s mouth draws down in the corner, and ever so slightly, she nods. “Thorne and I will manage things here. When the army has all their plunder, we’ll head home.”

I dip my chin. “Be careful,” I murmur. We don’t know how our powers work when we aren’t together. But Hel would not separate us if it was a detriment.

“How long will you be gone?”

“As long as it takes.”

We stare at each other in silent understanding before Arless nods and takes a step back. “Safe travels, brother.”

And with that, she’s gone in a flash, and I am alone with thoughts I do not want and more uncertainty than I’ve ever felt about our future.

There’s more Darkborn coming - stay tuned!

Until next time….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jun 27, 2025

The Darkborn Saga: New Episode

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

Sylas character image created by Wonder.

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Sylas Episode: “Blackhorn”

For sixteen winters, the melodic sound of agony and crunching bone has been my lullaby. I’ve learned to appreciate the earsplitting sound of metal against metal. To distinguish the smell of fear and blood amidst the cacophony of death filling the night, and the battle has only just begun.

As our army descends on Blackhorn’s Soothlund army, my wife’s face is all I can see, and my daughter’s screams in her final moments are all I hear. The scent of their burning bodies fills my nose, and red-hot, all-consuming rage envelops me, enlivening my senses until my entire body is vibrating with unrestrained power.

This is what fuels me, and I welcome nights like this when evil gets retribution and I can bask in the glory of Hel coursing through the runes on my skin. Her essence floods every fiber of my being. Her vengeance hardens my heart. Her endless power fortifies my body, feeding my fury until the monster in me takes control, maiming every enemy in my crosshairs. Even the creatures of the forest, saber tooth and wildfang alike, give us a wide berth.

Bodies collide into bodies as Blackhorn’s soldiers lift their swords across the horde, their reactions sloppy as the night shadows and knowledge that the Darkborn are here play tricks on them.

But try as they might, they will not win. Not this lot, and not tonight. Their poison-tipped arrows and saber tooth spiked axes may slow some of us down, but for every Nordman the southerners have slain, the brotherhood will seek retribution. For the innocent daughters and sons the Soothlunders have taken from us. For the wives and sisters slain—no one with southern blood is safe. Especially not Blackhorn.

“Having fun yet?” Thorne winks at me, blood spattered across his face and matting his red hair into thick ropes that drip crimson. I don’t need the arrow flames to know his eyes are lit with hunger as he lifts his war hammer and cracks it between the eyes of the enemy. “I think Ari has killed more than me.” He grunts with frustration and pulls his hammer back. “But do not fret, brother. I will not let her win. It goes against my every nature.”

Swing. Crack. Grunt. The sound of seeping blood soothes my ears, and the sweat mixing with blood on my skin feels like a homecoming.

“Good,” I say dryly, grunting with another clip of my axe against hardened wildfang hide, nearly thick as steel. “Imagine my concern.” I swing again with a curse, the soldier collapsing to a heap of twitching limbs at my feet.

“Such a waste of warm blood,” Thorne mutters, and I sneer as I continue carving my way through the sea of mindless Torchkeepers who fight for a false, cruel god, toward the General’s circle of defense. Blackhorn swings his battle axe, lodging it between a Nordman’s neck and shoulder, oblivious to his commander’s barking order like frightened pups.

Stay close to the General!

Keep the horde away from the fortress!

Eyes on the heathens!

Through a swing and thwack, I glance in his direction. Blackhorn’s movements are practiced, and each kill is made with a smirk and unnerving ease. And as the breeze carries Blackhorn’s scent to me, I detect no fear.

I growl. Challenge accepted.

The general’s hubris may be the only crack in his armor, but it will be the death of him; tonight, he is my only true target, and he is as human as the rest of them.

Lucian roars a battle cry in the distance.

Moose snarls in the melee behind me as he moves with our northern armies across the snow-covered clearing.

I don’t need to look back to know Moose is no longer a mastiff; the enormous snarling hellhound fights beside the human army, tearing the enemy limb from limb. While Moose was terrifying to the Nordmen at first, his presence gives the warriors courage in battle.

Swing. Crack. Thunk.

Soon, the snow no longer glimmers in the moonlight, stained dark with blood, and while many of our men and women have fallen, Blackhorn’s meager numbers, having gathered at a moment’s notice when we came ashore, litter the ground in masses.

“Tonight, the threads of Fate begin to unravel.” Hel’s words press me faster. Blood rushes through my veins and pounds in my ears, and I swing harder, gaining ground on Blackhorn.

Peering through the flailing limbs and clacking weapons, my gaze sharpens on him. His chest heaves with exhaustion, though his expression gives nothing away. It’s fierce and determined. He stalls where he stands and peers around, his commanders falling back into the cover of the treeline behind them.

As I slay three more of Blackhorn’s men, our eyes connect.

“You!” I roar, pointing my axe at the general. He snarls. I grin. You cannot hide from me, I think as I inhale the night air, stepping closer.

“The General has a hard-on for you,” Thorne jests, and pulls his weapon from a soldier’s side. “I can practically smell it.”

If not for the men calling him to retreat, Blackhorn would meet me here and now. The murderous glint in his eye is bright and eager.

“The diamond! General, think of the north, General!”

Blackhorn’s eyebrow twitches, and grudgingly, he turns for the trees. Yes, yes. Run for your precious treasure.

The instant I feel the vibration of retreating horse hooves over the forest floor, I laugh.

Thorne does the same. “He thinks his horse can outrun us. That he is safe behind his walls.”

“And now we know he plans to claim the north,” I muse. We knew he would come, eventually. But to mention it in the heat of battle means it’s more important to him than I realized. And perhaps closer than I thought.

We glance back at Blackhorn’s decimated army. What’s left of our own warriors catch their breath as the southerners still standing fall back.

“Ari!” I call. “Take the cliffs with Lucian.”

“On it!” she grits out, loosing a flaming arrow. It hisses through the night, lodging into the eye socket of her target, setting his body ablaze.

Thorne and I break into a jog. My body still hums with power, the promise of Blackhorn’s blood fueling my every movement; this is the night I’ve waited four winters for. “Blackhorn would not retreat to the fortress unless he has a plan,” I tell him, barely raising my voice. “Or, he’s desperate.” For the hundredth time, I wonder what treasure he hides behind those walls.

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Thorne replies, and his voice is a familiar rumble to my ears, easily detected despite our chase.

I block out the waning cries of death behind us, ignore the dry blood cracking on my face, and welcome the burn of the runes along my skin, focusing instead on the mare’s heavy breaths in the chilly night air. She senses us, her primal senses know to fear us more than the bite of Blackhorn’s heels in her sides, and the chase only intensifies the bloodlust. Tru’s blood, amplifying my senses, grows faint after hours in battle, and the Darkborn side of me grows thirsty.

Twigs snap under hurried hoofbeats.

Blackhorn’s battle axe clanks against his stirrups and his muffled commands urge the mare onward as the rumble of our army makes its way through the woods behind us. It’s the thrum of frantic bodies within the fortress, however, that makes me smile; my powers may be diminishing, but there will be plenty for us to drink.

“The general!” someone shouts from the turrets.

“Is that . . . Vampires!”

“Over there—the heathen army approaches!”

“The heathens approach! The heathens approach!”

“Ready the battlements!”

“Hold the line!”

Blackhorn barely makes it through the gate before the grate lowers behind him. Thorne and I run harder, my thighs burning as I launch onto the stone wall and scale toward the top.

“Don’t let them reach the top!” An arrow pierces my shoulder, slowing me for a single moment before I gain momentum again. Another lodges in my side, and I hiss in pain as I break it off, but I don’t falter this time.

Despite the arrow in his leg, Thorne grins, as if it is all a game, and our strong, agile fingers and the toes of our boots find purchase in the crevices of the stones visible in the moonlight with ease.

In the distance, the waves crash against the cliff, and I wonder if Arless and Lucian are close. I have little time for that thought and pull an archer on the rampart over the edge the instant he’s within reach, followed by the guard with the long sword who takes his place.

Something . . . foreign catches my nose. Inhaling at the top, I sort through the onslaught of scents within the fortress, searching out my target. Soot tangles with steel and leather, nervous sweat with the coppery tinge of blood. Manure and damp hay. Overly-ripe fruit. And . . . a foreign scent reminiscent of fresh snow or morning dew. Crisp. Pure. It is wholly out of place among the stench of fear and decay.

I shake off the distraction as Thorne vaults over the stone wall, landing catlike on the battlement. He dispatches the guards instantly. They grunt, and their meaty bodies hit the ground with a thud.

I follow a heartbeat later. “Find his diamond,” I tell him. “I’ll hunt for Blackhorn.”

Two more soldiers charge toward us, blades drawn. I surge forward in a blur, dodging their clumsy sword thrusts and swinging axes. My hands latch onto their throats, lifting them off their feet as if they weigh nothing. The guards kick and gurgle, but their struggles are laughably futile. I hand one to Thorne to feed from and when my hand is free, I twist, snapping the neck of the other and tossing his body aside.

Lucian and Ari are here; I feel them like they are my other selves.

A streak of white catches my attention as Lucian moves like lightning, fighting a handful of soldiers below. The creak and groan of the gate opening once more echoes above their cries.

“Could you two be any slower?” Arless drops from the shadows above, landing in a silent crouch, her dark leathers blending with the night. She juts her chin over her shoulder. “The gate is open.”

Lucian lands on the turret beside us with a graceful thud, giant, bloody war axe in hand. His preternatural white hair, though pulled away from his face, is wild and glints in the torchlight. His beard is red, having recently fed, and though we are still stronger than every human here, our strength is dwindling. But I will not feed, not yet.

“Thorne. Lucian. Clear the walls for our army. Leave no one alive. When our warriors arrive, find Blackhorn’s precious diamond.”

Thorne flashes a wolfish grin, teeth gleaming in the torchlight. “With pleasure.”

“Ari,” I say, meeting her gaze. “You’re with me.”

Lucian nods and stalks off without a word, his hulking silhouette vanishing into darkness.

Arless falls into step beside me as we ghost across the ramparts.

Below, soldiers mill about the courtyard in agitated clumps, some armed and armored, others scampering away. They know death has come for them tonight. Fear hangs thick in the air, spiking with each distant scream as Lucian and Thorne butcher their comrades, feeding on those they wish along the way.

“What is that?” Arless asks as that same foreign, somewhat tantalizing scent from before wafts through the miasma of terror, tugging at my senses. It feels like it’s calling to me.

I inhale again, my eyes fluttering shut. Lilacs and honey, new parchment and crisp apples . . .

“Sylas?”

I blink, burying the strange instinct to find the source. When I meet Arless’s gaze, the fire-red shining through her amber irises is all the reminder I need that she feels whatever strange pull the scent has on me. Perhaps on all of us. I clear my throat. “Let’s move.”

We drop into the courtyard, startling a cluster of guards. I draw my axe, winding my wrist as I swing the blade at an advancing soldier. Too close to use her bow, Arless twirls her twin daggers and bares her fangs in a feral smile. We dart between the soldiers like shadows of death. I lose myself to the graceful rhythm of combat, my axe blade flashing crimson as it cleaves through flesh and bone and sinew. Men scream. Blood sprays. Limbs fall like dead leaves in an autumn wind.

And in a few breaths, they are no more.

Our army finally arrives, pouring into the courtyard like a dark tide, consuming everything in its path. Moose lopes in the fortress with them. His eyes find me instantly, and the hellhound trots toward us.

I glimpse Thorne, gore-spattered and grinning, swinging his hammer in mighty arcs. Lucian roars, splitting a man in half from crown to navel with a single blow.

Arless, Moose, and I make our way through the carnage, and I breathe the copper-rich air in deep, searching for Blackhorn. I detect him, but it’s faint compared to the floral yet crisp scent that’s stronger than all the rest. It’s off-putting and intoxicating, and it makes me uneasy when all I want is to find the general.

“He would have retreated to the great hall,” Arless guesses as she cleans her daggers on a dead man’s vest. And that’s when I smell him—putrid and vile and reeking of blood, sweat, and, finally, fear.

“No.” I tilt my head, listening harder. I peer at the cobblestone beneath our feet. “He’s running like a mangy rat.”

“Coward,” Arless spits, eyes narrowed. “Tunnels?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” We stalk toward the scent of old rot and mold, where I assume Blackhorn’s dungeons are located. Into the bowels of the fortress we go, following the growing scent of Blackhorn’s sweat and desperation mixed among that maddening hint of . . .

I growl and stride faster, hyper-focused on Blackhorn’s frantic heartbeat.

Moose lopes beside me, his hellhound form nearly brushing the stone ceiling of the narrow tunnels as we descend.

We emerge into a dimly lit chamber, casks of wine and preserved foodstuffs lining the walls—supplies for a lengthy siege. And there, around the next bend, is Blackhorn. His armor is gore-spattered, his footsteps quick.

“Going somewhere, General?” My voice is deceptively mild, but my body hums at the promise of his blood.

Blackhorn stops in his tracks. He laughs. “You think you have won, heathen?” he seethes, and the general spins, sword rasping from its sheath.

Moose growls. Arless hisses and takes a defensive stance beside me.

In the guttering torchlight, Blackhorn’s eyes are wide and wild above the deep, blood-stained lines in his cheeks and crusted beard. “You have only slowed him down.”

“And killed you,” I reply. “Which was my goal all along.”

“You haven’t killed me yet, heathen.” With a self-satisfied grin, Blackhorn takes a defensive stance, as if he could fend me off.

With a grin of my own, I stalk forward, Moose hanging back with Arless.

Blackhorn swings strong and true despite his exhaustion. I catch his blade with my hand, feeling nothing more than a pinch, and wrench it from his grasp, tossing it aside with a clatter. The general staggers back, pressing himself against the unyielding stone.

“Barron will avenge me,” he gasps out.

“No,” I promise, “he won’t. You’re no more than one of his pawns.” I seize Blackhorn by the throat, lifting him off his feet. “If nothing else, his greatest general’s death will save lives while he regroups.”

Blackhorn’s hands tear ineffectually at my wrist and fingers.

“Tell me about the diamond,” I command, squeezing harder. “The treasure you hold.”

“I’ll tell you . . . nothing, heathen . . . filth.” He bares his teeth in a taunting grin. “And when Barron . . . has it, it will be . . . the end of you.”

My eyes narrow on him.

“Your forces . . . will be nothing to his.”

I tighten my grip, feeling Blackhorn’s throat convulse beneath my fingers. “What is it?” I shake him like a rag doll. “Gold? Weapons?”

Blackhorn, unwaveringly stubborn, tries to laugh. “More valuable . . . ” As he gasps for breath, I know this man would rather die than tell me. So be it, but not before I play with him a bit.

With a roar, I fling him across the room. “Hungy, Ari?” I offer. “I’m happy to share.”

Blackhorn hits the wall, shouting in pain as he crumples to the floor, his limbs askew.

“I thought you’d never a—”

A section of the stone pivots behind Blackhorn’s body with a grinding rasp. A secret door opening. I look at Arless.

“I’ll admit, it’s a good hiding spot,” she says and lifts her shoulder.

Stalking over, I wrench the door fully open, immediately accosted by the unnerving, impossible scent that’s been taunting me since climbing the fortress wall, and I nearly stumble.

Nostrils flaring, I gape into the small chamber. Huddled on a bed in the corner, staring at me with luminous, fearless eyes, is a girl no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

Warmth floods my body, my muscles tightening with need, and my heartbeat quickens. I think of Letty and I stumble back again, terrified and sickened by my body’s reaction to the girl’s scent.

Covering my nose, I look at Arless as she hauls Blackhorn to his feet.

“This is your diamond?” I snap. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.

Blackhorn’s eyes harden on me in warning. “If you take her,” he grits out, wincing as if it hurts to breathe. “Barron will find her. He will tear down the world for her.”

Scowling, my gaze shifts to the girl again. To her braided, light hair pulled away from freckled, sun-kissed cheeks, and her big blue eyes blinking between us. Despite my size and blood-soaked appearance, her gaze betrays no hint of revulsion when she looks at me.

Some long-dormant impulse stirs, fierce and feral, and a maelstrom of confusion, and some unnameable emotion I dare not examine too closely, floods my senses. The need to protect, to possess, to keep this creature safe from Barron. It wars with the ever-present bloodlust and, with my strength waning, there is little I can do to ignore the vile urges pulsing through me.

The monster inside me needs feeding if I’m going to control it.

I wrench my eyes away, fixing Blackhorn with a murderous glare, my restraint tattered.

He laughs. “You’ve already lost, vampire. You just don’t know it yet.”

And with those words, I unleash the monster, practically tearing his windpipe from his throat as I sink my teeth into his neck, reveling in the feel of his viscous blood, fervid against my tongue, and the harmonious sounds of his gargled screams.

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jun 20, 2025

THE DARKBORN SAGA: NEW EPISODE

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

Image created with Wonder (character inspiration)

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Sylas Episode: “Tru”

Pulling the tent flap back, I stare inside. Tru sits by the fire, watching its flames as he waits for me. He’s regal and lithe. Not built like a warrior, but something fragile, something beautiful—pure and untouched by this heathenish world. Only, there is nothing further from the truth because, as my vessel, Tru is the fuel that keeps me sated and this war raging between the lands.

Stepping inside, I notice the wine jug on the table beside him is full; I can smell the fermented fruit permeating the air, settled and untouched.

“You have been waiting for so long,” I say quietly, unclasping my cloak. “Yet you do not drink.” The noise from camp is muffled as the tent swishes closed behind me. “You know I wish for you to be comfortable when I feed.” Draping my furs over the seat at my drafting table, I watch him, thoughtful, and remove my leather jerkin next.

I’ve never found a man so enticing, nor one so calming. Then again, I’ve never wanted to sink my teeth into a living being more badly than I do in this moment, either. Nor have I craved the peace I know it will bring me. My body hardens, the bloodlust filling each of my veins with desire and anticipation. Everything about today—about being here in the borderlands—leaves me restless.

Tru peers over his shoulder at me. His long dark lashes descend with a bashful blink, and he offers me a hint of a smile. “I know you dislike the taste of anything in my blood,” he says easily.

Pulling my tunic off so as not to stain it with blood, I drop it where I stand.

Tru’s gaze shifts down my body before he meets my eyes. I see it in his expression and smell it pouring out of him in waves—a potent, unequivocal desire, and it makes my cock rock-hard and my body greedily awaits what it’s about to receive. And that Tru gains some pleasure out of the lonely existence as my vessel gives me a small sense of comfort.

Stepping around Tru, I crouch in front of him, feeling the fire against my bare back. Every muscle in my body is coiled and buzzing with need, but I am slow and gentle because it is Tru, and I would never hurt him. Never break him. And I yearn for that thread of control as much as I need to feed from him, putting everything in an intricate but sustainable balance.

I don’t know what it is about this human, but the softness in his eyes calms the disquiet that has always accompanied feeding time.

His amber-colored eyes shift over my face and a strange sadness furrows his brow ever so slightly. I frown.

Reaching up, I cup the side of his face. Caring this way about a man doesn’t feel like a broken vow because it will never be what it was with Milla. Instead, it is a means for survival. A friendship as deep as I have with the Darkborn, if a bit different, for my vessel and I are forever tied together in the most intimate way.

Tru’s blood runs through my body. It feeds the hungry depths of me, giving me life. His essence is my own, filling all of my senses. So Tru’s desire thrums through me as much as his heartache. “What troubles you this night?” I whisper.

Tru looks away. “You will go to war again.” He peers down at the hem of his tunic. “You say you cannot die,” he continues, “and perhaps that is true, but you feel pain. You always feel pain, and I hate that for you.”

“As do the other Darkborn, yet you do not worry about them? About Thorne?” I tease him, hoping to lift the heavy moment.

Tru scoffs. “It might do Thorne some good to fear for his life once in a while,” he grumbles.

I smile in agreement, but Tru’s features harden and he tugs his tunic off his slender shoulder, and pulls out his arm to feed me. “They will come for you soon,” he says in a clipped tone. “You should feed.”

Was it only a dozen winters ago I was on the brink of madness, unable to sate my hunger? Now, I crouch in front of a man, concerned his feelings for me are too strong after so long together, because they can never be reciprocated the way he wishes them to be, even if I care for him in a way I cannot put into words. What sort of cruel existence is that for him?

“Come to the bed.” Rising to my feet, I take his hand.

“My lord?” Tru peers up at me, confusion wild in his wide gaze since I have never fed from him like that. But tonight feels fragile, like we’re in a delicate balance that needs care and comfort.

“You will need sleep afterward,” I explain. Gently, I tug him to his feet and lead him to my bed. His heartbeat races and the sound of his pulse pounds in my ears like a war drum. “And we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Tru blinks at me as I pull the furs back so he can lie down.

“A journey?”

“Yes. We travel with Lucian to Finfjord after the battle. So, I command you to stay in this bed, Tru,” I say more forcefully. “You will be warmer here. You will be safe. Am I understood?”

Nodding, Tru lays back against the goose down pillow, swallowing thickly as I pull up a stool beside the bed.

Laying his bare arm on the furs, our gazes linger on one another before I clear my throat. “Thank you for your offering.”

“Yes, my lord.” It’s a croak and locking eyes with Tru, I lift his arm toward my mouth.

There is no way around the intimacy of feeding. I have never fed from his neck, nor will I, but the scent of his skin chips away at my resolve. The feel of his warm arm in my chilly hands feels like fire in my palm, awakening every coiled, overwrought inch of my body in need of release. I learned long ago to embrace the euphoria as much as what’s left of my soul will allow. And this is it.

Running my nose along the vein in his arm, I inhale and lick the tender flesh in the crook of his elbow, and suck the soft skin before sinking my fangs into the supple flesh.

Tru moans, and my cock twitches. My heart thuds with power as I drag his blood deeper into my mouth. It coats my tongue and throat as it seeps into my ravenous body. It’s intoxicating and only remotely do I feel Tru’s body shift.

I suck harder, groaning as the warmth of him fills every inch of me. It enlivens every sense and heated velvet wraps around the cold parts of me, making my body hum, flaring a painful vitality that needs release.

With only my hand to sate my sex for so many winters, coming is never enough, and in the throes of bloodlust is no exception. Tru’s arousal coursing through me, thick and tantalizing in his blood and scent.

I need to fuck. But I won’t.

I want to. But I never do.

I never will.

I physically can’t.

“Let go, my lord,” Tru whispers. His hand skims over my knee and down my thigh, and my body pulses, vibrating and begging for release as I thrust my bulging cock into his palm, agitated by this impossible situation I grow tired of navigating.

“I wish you to feel no pain.” He squeezes my cock in my pants, a jolt of pure lust rushing through me. His heated palm and the pressure of his grip make me growl with yearning, and it’s all I can do to refrain from mounting him, claiming him as mine in every possible way.

But I am someone else’s. The thought is assaulting, grating over my skin and blaring painfully in my head, plaguing me as always. Fuck!

I snarl in frustration, grabbing Tru’s hand, still coaxing my cock, and pull it away with bruising pressure. He tries to pull his wrist from my grip, and I growl in warning, taking his blood deeper, sucking harder to sate the growing hunger. My mind swirls with agitation, my thoughts eroded with a need that will never be fulfilled.

“My lord?” Thorne’s voice is low and cautious as it carries in from outside, and the pulsing need to fuck recedes only slightly. I unhinge my mouth from Tru’s arm, gaze locked on his. Whatever my expression, Tru’s eyes widen slightly with terror.

“Sylas—”

“Give me a fucking moment!” I growl. When my nostrils flare, Tru exhales and tugs both his arms from my grasp.

Twigs snap as Thorne steps away from my tent, and I run my hand over my face and down my mouth, wiping the blood away. My body is a tempest over a calm sea—sated and yet vibrating with raw energy I’m desperate to expel.

“Never do that again, Tru,” I grind out as I squeeze my eyes shut. I palm the ache in my pants, willing my body’s impulses away. The lingering need hurts like hell, and with no time for release, I tell myself it is fuel for tonight’s battle.

Forcing my eyes open again, I look at Tru. “Do you understand?” My voice is ragged.

He nods, licking his dry lips nervously. “Apologies, my lord. I only wanted to—”

“Help.” I shake my head. “You mustn’t.”

His chest rises and falls and I know I’ve hurt him, or perhaps frightened him, but I cannot allow that again. “You say you do not want to hurt me,” I explain, softening my voice. “But whatever this curse—” I shake my head. “Breaking my vow physically hurts me, more than any blade in my chest ever could.”

Tru blinks at me.

“Do you understand?”

Again, he nods, and this time, I think he truly does.

Rising to my feet, I adjust my throbbing cock with a groan. My body is so hard with power it hurts.

Ready to kill and maim and wreak havoc on Blackhorn, I take Tru’s arm, lick the blood from his wounds so they will close, and pull the furs that had fallen off him over his body once more. “Stay and sleep. Tonight, I kill Blackhorn and everything he holds dear.”

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

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Jun 13, 2025

THE DARKBORN SAGA: NEW EPISODE

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

Meet Moose (created by Wonder)

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Sylas Episode: “Plans”

“What else do we know about Blackhorn?” Imara, commander of the Sage Land shieldmaidens, asks, bracing her fists on her hips.

“That his fortress is cliff side, making it nearly impenetrable from all sides but one,” Arless answers. “And if the rumors are to be believed,” she continues, “Blackhorn possesses something important, a treasure of sorts. Something that could change the tide of this war, and we cannot let him have it.”

Thorne grins from his wide-legged stance by the fire. “Aye, and he needs this win.” Thorne glances around the war table. “I hear some of his troops deserted once they heard we’d arrived. He can’t afford to lose to us, or he’ll have no army left.”

“Or the Butcher King will enslave more of his people to fight for him,” Imara mutters. “All in the name of his god.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Olaff cuts in, and he meets my gaze. “If you know of Blackhorn’s whereabouts, is it not better to kill him where he sleeps and be done with it?” He twists his dark mustache thoughtfully.

I’m about to answer when Arless snorts. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides,” she leans back against the wall, sounding bored. “If we kill Blackhorn in his sleep, what’s to stop Barron the Butcher from advancing Blackhorn’s soldiers without him?”

“The gods have granted us this mercy,” I add. “It never snows in the southlands. We have the advantage and must use it to weaken their numbers.”

“Especially,” Arless adds, “since the rest of their army continues north.”

“So,” I continue, “We do this tonight. His soldiers are at a disadvantage. We have no idea how long the snow will last, and without it, they know this land far better than we do.”

“Precisely.” Imara grits out. “Respectfully, my lord.” She continues, as if the moniker causes her physical pain. A servant refills the commander’s ale cup. “You forget we are not . . . like the Darkborn.” She peers around the circle of human hersir commanders and Darkborn. “We cannot see in darkness. Not if we are to win.” Her red hair is braided back, away from her face. The scar on her cheek is a constant reminder of the price she has paid to be here, and the only reason the shieldmaiden has offered her warriors and skill to our cause.

“What? Are you frightened?” Thorne taunts, his arms crossed over his chest where he leans against a tent pole. “You can stay close to me, if you like. I’ll keep you safe.” His eyebrows dance and Imara’s glare narrows on him.

“And you forget, Commander,” I tell her carefully, “that we will know the numbers standing against us and where they hide long before they know we are coming.” I nod to the map of the forestlands sprawled south of Glass Harbor. “And,” I say, offering her a compromise. “That is why we attack on a full moon, and why we will use flaming arrows.”

“So they will see us coming a mile away,” she spits.

“Only when it’s too late to do anything about it,” Arless counters, but her mind is clearly elsewhere as she admires the servant girl refilling the rest of the council’s cups.

Imara rests her fists on the table and leans in. “You may be immortal, my lords,” she says pointedly, “but your warriors are mortals who bleed and die. You are risking a great deal by putting your entire army at the same disadvantage as the southerners. Meanwhile, their numbers encroach on our people in the north.”

“I hear you, Imara,” I say patiently, and while I understand her bitterness toward us, it begins to wear thin. “However, day or night, raining or snow-bound, this is war. Men and women will die. It is to your advantage that the four of us—”

“And Moose,” Thorne adds cheekily, flipping a wood pick between his teeth with a cocky grin.

It’s an effort not to roll my eyes every time he goads a reaction from Imara.

“It is to your advantage,” I continue, glaring at him, “that the four of us are as strong as we can be, and that is at night. And that Blackhorn’s men who outnumber us are at the greatest disadvantages possible.”

Imara stares down at the soot-drawn cliffs and fortress on the map.

“When we have slain him,” I say earnestly. “We will head north again and meet the Torchkeepers. They have been fighting for three winters. They are depleted and in need of more men. The Darkborn will waylay them while we wait for our armies, if we must.” While I understand Imara’s concerns, our entire purpose is to crush these armies, and it must start with tearing the viper’s head from the body.

“Then, my lords,” Imara grits out again. “I have preparations to tend to.” She dips her head hastily and turns. “You know where to find me.” Then she strides out of the tent.

“She’s pleasant,” Arless mutters.

I glance at Arless and Lucian, who stare back at me from across the table, then I look at Thorne. He immediately looks away, and I refocus on the rest of our commanders. “Are there any other questions?”

Tatem and Henlock shake their heads, but Olaff, a jarl from the Iklund clans to the north of Frail Valley, eyes the map closely. “We can use the forest cover to our advantage,” he muses. “It’s General Blackhorn’s stronghold I worry about. With two of its walls facing the sea, they have a significant advantage should he make his way behind them.”

I meet Olaff’s gaze. “You leave Blackhorn to us,” I say calmly.

Olaff’s eyebrow raises. “I’m not sure I want to know.” He shakes his head, his eyes flicking to my mouth like he might see my fangs, and nods to the others. “I need rest if we’re to set out at dusk. Commanders.” He nods his farewell and strides away from the table and out of the tent. The other two take their leave and follow. Arless, Thorne, Lucian, and I stand around the table alone.

Arless runs her tongue over her lips as she watches the servant clear the cups from the table, and when the girl catches Arless staring, a shy smile parts her lips.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” the servant asks, and with a sigh, I shake my head. The servant dips in a small curtsey and leaves with her tray in hand.

“I need to fuck and feed,” Arless says with a weighty sigh. “No one bother me for at least an hour.” She strides around me. “Make that two.” Then she disappears out of the tent, hot on the servant’s heels.

Lucian remains silent as he swallows his irritation. At first, Arless said things like that to get a rise out of him. Now, I fear she is moving on, and Lucian remains fixed in the standoff that has existed between them since we were younger.

“When are you two going to pound it out and get on with this thing between you?” Thorne quips. “We’ve literally died and come back to life and you’re exactly where you were a lifetime ago.”

Lucian glares at him, but I feel his surge of loss and longing as he marches around the table.

“I’m serious. What even happened? Neither of you have told me,” Thorne calls after him, and Lucian stalks out of the tent in answer.

I meet Thorne’s gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that. You want to know as badly as I do. They’ve been in love with each other their whole lives, and yet they hate each other more than ever. It makes no damn sense.”

“That is not my concern.”

Thorne rubs Moose’s head as he looks curiously up at us from beside the fire. As a hellhound in a mastiff’s skin, I wonder if the fire makes him feel more at home.

“Well?” Thorne prompts. “Let’s hear it.”

“I know Imara is the only woman in camp who will not lay with you, brother.”

“Not this again—”

“But you push her too far. One day, she will grow tired of your games and pull her shieldmaidens from our army, and that loss to our army would be on you.” I give him a pointed look. “We need them.”

“She won’t leave the Darkborn,” Thorne says haughtily, and he plops into a leatherback chair by the fire. “You know what the Torchkeepers did to her father and sister because they would not convert. She wants justice as much as the rest of us.”

“Not if she hates us more than she hates them,” I warn. “We are a means to an end for her. Imara has no loyalty to us—the sight of us alone makes her sick.” Pain flickers in my brother’s eyes, but it disappears quickly. “If you are not careful, Thorne,” I say quietly, “you will push her even further away.”

I don’t know what it is about Imara that Thorne is drawn to, but I feel his pull to her. It’s visceral and impossible to ignore. And she wants nothing to do with him. A Darkborn—an abomination and another reason the peoples of the Winter Lands are divided. Zealous Torchkeepers or blood-thirsty monsters—we are all the same to Nordmen like her who only want peace. My heart, at least what’s left of it, aches for such a sentiment, because I once felt that way too.

Finally, Thorne nods, and his attention shifts to the fire as I turn to leave. Moose jumps to his feet, loping after me.

“You need to feed,” Thorne whispers.

The thought alone makes my body sing with bloodlust, and I run my hand over my face, exhaling a heavy breath. Not because I am physically tired, but because I am eternally exhausted. “I will,” I promise. “There is something I must do first.” And with that, I pull the tent flap aside and step out into the frozen woods.

Though camp is quieter than usual, the afternoon is bright and confuses my senses. Warriors rest to prepare for what lies ahead. Their death. Their glory. It will be a bloodbath, regardless. Fires burn in pits, warriors sharpening their weapons and murmuring in stilted conversation as heaviness hangs in the air.

My bearskin cape tugs in the wind as I make my way toward my tent, but I am not cold so much as comfortable with the weight of it on my back. One of only a few things that makes me feel like my old self; that makes me feel human. Moose trots alongside me, sniffing the ground and his tail wagging.

Moans of pleasure fill Arless’s tent as we pass. The servant girl’s blood smells like sweet honey scenting the air. It makes me hard and hungry, so I walk faster.

Thorne is right. I need to feed so I will be at my strongest when the sun sinks low, and the sky darkens. I’ve grown used to feeding now, a cursory and necessary act, but even if it helps, I am never entirely sated. We all know why, but I’ve lost so much of myself to the darkness, I refuse to lose what little is left. No matter how many solstices my wife has been gone. No matter how much her memory fades; it’s all I can do to hold on to it. To remember why I am doing any of this at all.

I smell my vessel awaiting me in my tent, and can hear the calm melodic sound of a human heartbeat. Pulling the flap back, I peer inside. Tru’s long black hair and back are to me, tanned skin flickering with the torch light within. “I will return.” Tru’s sharp profile shifts lightly in my direction. “There is something I must do first.”

“Yes, my lord.” His voice is quiet. Patient. Knowing he is there calms me and gives me solace for what I am about to do next.

Swallowing thickly, I pass between Thorne’s tent and my own, heading for the edge of the clearing. “Here,” I say, and Moose sniffs around the snow-dusted ground before he finds an acceptable location. Using his massive paws, he digs. He sniffs and licks his chops, making quick work of the frozen ground.

When Moose deems the hole is large enough, he pauses, looks up at me, and I crouch down beside him. My heart squeezes in my chest as I stare at the unpacked earth. In the silence, I can still hear Letty laughing in the fields back home with Moose as they search for rabbit holes. I can still feel the sun on my face and the sound of my name on Milla’s lips as she calls me into the house for supper after a long day with the plow. I know Moose remembers it too, and no matter how many holes we’ve dug, no matter how many winters have passed, this moment is when I feel most human. When I remember Sylas Von Wolfson, the man. When I can scantly remember what it felt like to be him.

Moose pants with exertion, and sliding my hand inside my cloak, I pull out the pouch of wildflower seeds tucked in my trousers.

Moose sniffs the pouch with a whimper and I hold it over the upturned soil, sprinkling a few seeds into the hole. “For you, hummingbird,” I whisper. I can’t help the crack in my voice, and I don’t care to try. Instead, I allow the pain to fill me. I allow their memory to fuel me for the battle to come. To remember why I do this.

I don’t know how long I stare at the hole, but finally, Moose licks my face, stirring my thoughts. “I know,” I mutter and tuck the pouch back into my pants before covering the hole with the loose earth. “We’re going.”

Rising to my feet, I exhale a final whispered prayer to the memory of my family and turn back to my tent. I’m nearly there when the runes on my body heat and a familiar tingle unfurls through me.

Moose stands stalk-still and I peer into the treeline, knowing she is in there. Whatever her tidings, Hel’s presence is rarely a good thing. Moose whimpers happily as he races ahead of me, disappearing into the trees.

“The Wolf is weak,” Hel muses. “You have not yet fed.” Her voice is a purr as I step through the trees. Hel stands in warrior garb, cast in the muted light filtering through the leafless treetops as she rubs Moose’s head. He stands to her waist, and yet he is only a quarter of his natural size.

Two horses flank each side of her, impervious to the giant mastiff at their feet. All of them are massive—a version of white—and their manes flutter in the breeze as they stand excitedly, snorting and nickering, as if they are waiting for something.

“What is this?” I walk toward the steed, whose gaze is fixed on me. The pink around her nose is freckled and her eyes are a piercing blue. She paws at the forest floor as I draw closer and rest my palm on her neck to soothe her. “You bring us horses?” I say, confounded. “Unless they are hellhounds in horse’s skin, they will not help us win this battle.” I stroke the steed’s neck, the warmth and pulse of her life giving me unexpected comfort.

“They are for what comes after,” Hel offers. “Her name is Sleipnira.”

I can’t help my furrowed brow and utter surprise. “What comes next?” I confirm and look at the four animals again with fresh eyes. “To what end?” Powerful the gods may be, but they do nothing without reason, and their aid comes at a high price indeed.

Hel stares impatiently at me, unanswering. Figures.

Sleipnira nudges my arm, her eyes closing as she leans into me like we’re old friends. I rub my hand over her forelock, her white mane cascading forward as she lowers her head in fealty to me.

“Nira,” I breathe. “I like it.” It’s a bond I feel in my soul, and for the first time in so long, a joyful warmth washes over me.

“She was made for you,” Hel explains. “She is the queen of horses, the fastest and most powerful. And this,” Hel continues as the horse beside Nira lifts his head higher. He’s white with pale gray spots over his face and shoulders. “This is Hati, made for Arless. He is stubborn and determined, just as she is.” My lips curve in a smile as I stroke his face before moving onto the others. “This male,” I say, seeing something different in his eyes, something cunning and curious. “He is for Lucian.” I’m not sure how I know, but somehow, I do.

“He is Hugin. Clever and strong.” The deep gray around his mouth and eyes match the gray streaks in his mane and tail. “And she is Frey. Sneaky but loyal and faster than lightning. She and Thorne will do well together.” Frey lips at my clothes and nudges my cape like she’s looking for treats.

I run my fingers through her mane, shaggy and white, and the longest of all the horses. “If it is food you seek, clever one, you will not find it with me.” Frey looks at me with boredom, and I surprise myself with a chuckle. “And the price we pay for such gifts?” I ask, never forgetting everything comes at a cost.

Hel rubs Hugin’s face, but the goddess’s eyes never stray from me. “When you have won this battle,” she says evenly, “you and Lucian will ride for Finfjord while the others return to Qisp Keep.”

“Why, exactly, are we riding to Finfjord? And without the Darkborn or our army?”

“You will know soon enough,” Hel says. “But you must go alone, so as not to draw attention to yourselves. It is imperative you go, Sylas, if you are to win the battles that lie ahead. Ask for a man called Koldis when you arrive.” Hel nods toward camp. “Now, go.” The horses start a lazy walk away from her. “Feed,” she tells me. “Prepare yourself for battle. It’s uncertain how long this storm might last.” There’s a smile in her voice, though her features give nothing away.

Turning her words over in my mind, I walk shoulder to shoulder with Nira through the trees.

“Tonight, the threads of Fate begin to unravel, Sylas.” Despite my senses, Hel’s voice barely reaches my ears, and I stop short. When I turn to look at her, however, the goddess is already gone.

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

Jun 6, 2025

The Darkborn Saga: Interlude

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

Interlude

From the Journal Archives of the Berserker King…

Summer 828

Since those first weeks of unending torment, I have practiced my letters, a skill I need when intercepting correspondence, seeking vessels for feeding, and coordinating armies. And if I am honest with myself, I am uncertain how else to track the days or measure our efforts. As time stretches on, I worry my memories will begin to fade. So it is in these letters and reflections I find a sliver of sanity. I cannot sleep. When I close my eyes, I see my family lit with flames. Food tastes like ash on my tongue. And I have not fed the bloodlust in days. I cannot. I will not if it means desecrating my vow to my wife, even if her words haunt me. I promised to never forget her, to never forget who I am and what I fight for. And I will not, no matter what it costs me in this hellish life.

-S

Summer 828

I killed an innocent man today. It was not my intention, but the thirst was too strong. In witnessing the toll my defiance has taken on the Darkborn, I gave in to the need to feed. Though I tell myself I did it for my friends to release them from my pain and hunger, it was out of weakness and desperation to feel something other than anguish as well. But in allowing the monster to surface, I took a man’s life. A man with a family. A man with a whole life ahead of him, gone in mere moments. No matter how many times Constance has cleaned the stains of blood off the study floor, it’s still there, remnants only I can see, that I cannot take my eyes away from. This cannot be my life. I must find another way.

-S

Winter 828

If the Darkborn could kill me, I think they might. My erratic feeding has taken its toll on the brotherhood. I know I am selfish, for my pain is theirs, and yet, I cannot bring myself to feed and fuck as they do, even if it means innocent life must be sacrificed to sate me. Something prevents it in my very core and as much as I want to give in and put us all out of our misery, I cannot. I have never loathed this life so much as I do now. It is misery. It is pain. And it is never ending.

-S

Winter 828

A caravan of travelers arrived today, one among their party a powerful seer. She has been touched by the gods. I sensed them around her the moment they entered the city. I have only seen her from afar and still her eyes found mine. Her gaze unnerves me to the bone, and she has requested an audience with me alone. I have learned to be wary of those not born of night, and yet, I sense the seer has been brought to Frail Valley for reasons not yet known to me.

-S

Winter 828

I have found a way to endure the hunger, keep my strength, and spare innocent life as well as my conscience. Through her riddles and vagueness—her knowledge of the future she keeps close to her breast—the seer has helped me find balance, and in turn, she has helped all of us find a sense of peace. For I now have a vessel, one I have no wish to fuck, that I can feed from regularly to keep the blood-thirst in check, and spare the others my moods and hunger pains as well. It is a simple solution, one I can see so clearly now above the haze of hunger. And for the first time in many moons, I feel hope.

-S

Summer 829

It has been one winter since we woke as Darkborn. In the first days, we tried to fight the creatures living within us. But as time wore on, and we found ourselves at our worst, we learned to embrace the darkness instead of shun it. We pushed our limits, reveling in how fast we could run, how high we could jump, and how unstoppable we were at the pinnacle of our strength. We discovered Thorne’s primordial tracking skills, his sense of smell the most potent. Arless was easily the fastest, her agility far superior to any of ours. And as for Lucian, of course, he has always been the strongest Nordman I’ve ever known. Though, I’m not sure we could ever be called that again.

Despite the growing pains, it has become easier for us to embrace those parts of us as we find a rhythm in this new heartbeat of life. For the first time in our rebirth, I think we feel as Hel intended, her immortal instruments of fury and death. For seeing what we can achieve together makes the hope of what’s coming more promising as we build an army to have at our backs.

But every ounce of strength comes at a cost. A cost that requires daily replenishing, especially in battle. A cost that weighs on me daily, and through our preternatural connection, my deficiencies weigh on the others as well.

Arless claims my self control is what makes me the leader, but I feel anything but in control. Every part of me teeters on the edge of hunger and self loathing, and it is all I can do to keep myself in check.

For the memory of my family.

For the honorable man I used to be.

If I cannot seek justice in their name, it is I who becomes the monster.

Vampires. Those are the whispers spread throughout Barron the Butcher’s ranks after we raided the Torchkeeper camps months ago. The four of us ambushed three hordes and two scouting parties, preventing them from advancing west toward the Winksyn Woods, where men, women, and children did not seek cleansing, nor a war they were not apt to win. Though we saved some, it is nothing compared to those Barron’s forces have massacred and tortured in pagan sanctuaries and peaceful lands.

Still, our victory did not go unnoticed. A strange turn of events followed, for when we returned to the keep after months of learning the land with our new senses, the village did not stare and whisper with fear, but with a quiet reverence. A respect. I might go so far as to say that word of our victories has turned into loyalty at last. They leave us gifts during a full moon, which they are convinced we are born from, since our strength and victories rise with the moon. Virgins, livestock, jars of blood. No matter what we tell them, the gifts appear, so we have stopped saying anything at all. They place it at the altar of the Darkborn King. Arless insists I accept the moniker and show gratitude.

But I will not, lest she refrains from berating me, insisting I take a vessel the way she does. No matter how necessary she thinks it is for me, I am not ready for that, nor do I think I ever will be.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson

Summer 833

It has taken weeks, not months, for our enemy to whisper about the dark ones roving the land, capturing innocents. They fear us, for we grow stronger by the day, our minds and bodies in tune with one another in a way we never expected. With Hel’s power coursing through our veins, we are connected, and at night, when the runes are their most powerful and the bloodlust the most insatiable, we feel that in each other, too.

Perhaps that was part of Hel’s plan all along, to bind us together in the most fearsome way, so our senses alone would drive us to do her bidding. But with each passing moon, we hone our skills more, wielding our acute senses to our will, becoming unstoppable. We have left battlefields drenched in the enemy’s blood. We have ravaged their land, leaving nothing behind when it suits us. That is the power of the Darkborn. We are the night. We are the vengeance and wrath of those unjustly slain. We are the villagers who cannot fight for themselves and our names are feared throughout the kingdom. Soon, the Torchkeepers will be no more.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

Summer 834

We have amassed an army, greater than anything the North has ever seen. Shieldmaidens and warriors from all over the land come to fight with the Darkborn army. While their instinct is to fear us, their respect and thirst for vengeance outweigh their nature. They want to fight the evil that continues to spread across Nordholm, consuming the weak, the unprotected, and the misguided.

In all of my years in this cause, I finally have hope that it will soon end. Our enemy is torn between disbelief that we exist and curiosity, and both will get them killed.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

Winter 838

The years weigh heavy. This life is unnatural. Some days I don’t know myself. I don’t recognize the man I have become—a creature who lives by day but stalks the night. Who feeds on blood—who would lose my mind in the thirsty haze without it.

The feeling was indescribable at first—addicting and impossible to ignore. The raw power that hums in my body and sings through my veins on the onslaught feels tainted, and yet, I cannot live without it. The others have given in to all of their base needs, and though I have yet to fully embrace the darkness inside of me, I pay the price for it every day. I can feel their hunger, just as I can feel when it’s sated, different from mine. Always different—complete. A purring cat of content. And just as they sense the lack of satisfaction in me. It unsettles them, but bound as the Darkborn or not, I will not be swayed.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

Winter 841

There is no end in sight. For every Krosses army we eradicate, another arrives on our shores, knowing us and understanding our battle tactics more completely. The slaughter continues. Innocent people’s blood stains the snow and anger and resentment stews throughout the North. The Torchkeepers struggle in the harsh Winter Lands, but it is not enough to deter the generals who have only become more hungry for pagan blood than ever. In the wake of our resistance, the Torchkeepers have resorted to torturing those who will not be cleansed as an example of an alternative penance, which the God of Penance and Light requires. Where are our gods in this? How can they allow their people to suffer? The northern lands are vast and Barron the Butcher’s army advances tenfold.

Rage is all that fills me anymore, and I have made it my single mission to find and eradicate the Butcher’s newest general, Blackhorn. It is his armies that are smarter and more equipped to fight and succeed in our lands of late. It is his missionaries who come not only with books, but with swords and arrows. Only, he remains at the border of the Winter and Summer Lands, so we must sail to Swindfell if we are to stop him. Unlike the others, Blackhorn breathes battle. His every move is calculated and strategic. He is a man of patience and a patient man in the throes of war is a dangerous man.

My spies tell me he has studied every account he could find of our kind, studied every battle the Nordmen have ever won, and that converted pagans support him. He uses our strategies against us.

Whether it is my senses warning me, or my instinct, this man will ruin me. But until that day comes, I will make him suffer as our people suffer, and I mean to blot him out before he can do worse. For General Blackhorn has not yet seen all the Darkborn are capable of, though he soon will.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

Winter 845

It is as I feared. Lucian intercepted correspondence today, headed for a ship sailing to the Summer Lands. It was addressed to General Blackhorn, giving away our numbers and locations near the southern borders. Blackhorn has spies everywhere. Some of our own men turned against us. We may be revered by many, but we are hated and feared by others, and Blackhorn has used that to his advantage.

I have patiently waited for him to make a false move, but even now, something feels off. He is clever, and this oversight could be a trap. Nonetheless, he is at a disadvantage too. For now, we know the location of his stronghold and that he holds a treasure he is certain will change the tide of this war, whatever it may be.

Still, the letter sails with the ship for the Glass Shores on the morrow, as if nothing is amiss. Only, we will be right behind it.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

Winter 845

We have found Blackhorn, and while there is no doubt he knows of our arrival after today, he is not ready for the hell the Darkborn will unleash this night. His keep is three hundred strong and while they outnumber us by nearly a hundred men, the rest of his army pushes north where he expects we’d remained. And now the Darkborn army is on his shores.

Tonight, I vow to suck the life from Blackhorn to show the south what the Darkborn army is capable of, lest they forget.

-Sylas Von Wolfsson, General of the Darkborn Army

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

The places:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week.

Jun 2, 2025

THE DARKBORN SAGA: NEW EPISODE

💥 This is a rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

A Wonder image I generated during brainstorming.

*Need to catch up? Read here to see what you missed last week. Or read ahead in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark Reader Community. It’s free to join and follow.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Arless Episode: “Control”

Fresh blood thrums through my body. My heart pounds with a toxic mixture of sated desire and fear, and every nerve ending tingles with fire and energy as my mind spins.

I’m sequestered in my room for a whole ten heartbeats when there’s the lightest knock at the door. I know it isn’t Lucian. He wouldn’t dare come to my room unless it was life or death. And Sylas would know to give me my space.

I nearly laugh at the idea of Constance outside my door. She would never come to our rooms knowing what we are—what we’ve done—and I don’t blame her in the slightest.

“Go away, Thorne,” I growl quietly and pull the covers over my head, though I’m not the slightest bit cold. The weight is comforting. Familiar. And I want to crawl beneath them and hide for as long as the fire and hunger in me will allow, muting the world around me.

Flickering firelight plays over the thin blanket and I watch it dance. A scathing, screeching memory invades my mind.

Thorne’s marriage celebration.

The fire.

Hel’s cool breath and salacious promises that rose from the ashes.

But even more than the incessant hunger and burning need that is never sated, was the screaming.

The muted darkness was all that gave me solace when we tried locking ourselves away in the beginning. Only after two days did we realize wooden doors were pointless. That’s when the night screams filled the corridors and the rumors started. The day our staff disappeared, and the village started to talk. But they aren’t rumors if they’re true.

“Not going to happen, Ari.” Thankfully, Thorne’s words are little more than a whisper, because the mice in the walls are loud enough, and the crackling Birchwood in the hearth is blaring and grating on the last of my nerves. I couldn’t bear his baritone too.

He opens my door and I pull back the covers as he pokes his head in. Thorne’s red braids fall around his face, and the worried look on his rugged features melts my heart, but only slightly.

“You might as well come in at this point,” I grumble. “You’re letting out the heat.”

Quietly, Thorne closes the door behind him, and with careful footsteps, he walks to the fire. “What,” he says, crouching to stoke the flames, “suddenly you get cold again?”

“If only,” I mutter, and sitting up, I pull my legs to my chest, shaking my head. “I never thought I would miss mortal problems like that, but I do.”

He pokes and prods the wood. “Aye. Funny how that works, eh?” Rising to his feet, he comes over to my bed, running his hand down his face as he sits on the creaking bedframe.

If we hadn’t seen each other in excruciating pain and utterly feral, I might feel a modicum of unease, naked with a blanket falling off me. But I don’t. Thorne’s always been more like a brother, and now . . . Now we share a curse that precludes social etiquette and anything remotely normal. There are no boundaries between us. He’s seen me drinking blood from a man’s neck like a rabid animal, after all.

I can practically hear him blinking. “Stop looking at me like that,” I tell him, finally meeting his gaze. I lift an eyebrow. “I won’t break . . . even if I’ve never felt more broken.”

His expression is unchanging, and I wonder where his thoughts go.

Until the change, I never noticed the way Thorne’s heartbeat quickens when he’s worried, or the way his eyes crinkle with concerns, even when he fronts his feelings with a cocky smile. And as the gold flecks illuminate the green in his eyes, I can see why Tilly loved him so much. His ego might bulge bigger than his biceps at times, but his heart is just as big and mushy when it comes to those he loves.

“I know you won’t break—you’ve always had more fortitude than all of us combined. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t in pain, or scared, or angry like the rest of us.”

I shake my head, staring at the flames in the hearth as I concentrate my focus on one image, one noise, instead of the barrage of them overwhelming me with each beat of my heart.

“It’s never been like that before,” I say in Thorne’s silence. “It was amazing and horrible all at once. I thought my head was going to explode.”

He pours me a mug of water from my bedside table and hands it to me. Immediately, I gulp it down. It’s more of a habit than a necessity. But the coolness eases the burn in my throat and makes me feel more normal.

“If feeding strengthens us, it makes sense that feeding during the day, when we’re less in control of our senses, would allow us to harness the overwhelm better. Especially with the sunlight, when the world is so much brighter and louder.”

I feel the furrow in my brow deepen as I think about that, ticking off the list of overpowering sensations that throb like a gaping wound through every inch of me.

We sit in silence as his heartbeat, the flames, the mice and creaking rafters fade to the back of my mind, and then it dawns on me . . .

“Thorne . . . It worked.”

His green eyes shift to me.

“I didn’t kill him. I fucked the hell out of him and fed from him, but I didn’t kill the southerner.” I blink at him. “Did I?”

A rush of ease settles over me, but Thorne shakes his head. “Not at all. The bastard was swaying on his feet a little, but he was very much alive when Sylas paid him.”

Nodding, I bite the inside of my cheek, replaying the consensual gratifying frenzy of flesh and blood in my mind. “There was no feverish compulsion to drain him, only to feel good, unlike the other times I’ve fed. It’s almost as if—” I remember the scent of desire permeating off him and the swelling of his cock. “As if his willingness took the predatory instinct out of it. Like, without the chase, it was more perfunctory, you know? And the desire, I think it gave me something more than hunger to focus on.”

Thorne leans against the post of my bed, rolling a piece of thread between his fingers. “Perhaps that’s the key to it all, then.” His furrowed brow eases a little. “We find willing vessels for feeding and fucking.”

Then he frowns again and we both arrive at the same conclusion at once.

“Sylas,” we whisper.

“If sex and desire are required for balance,” Thorne whispers, his voice sad, “Sylas will be gutted.”

“What about you?” I rasp and my heart hurts for him—for both of them.

It’s only been two weeks since our families were ripped away from us. I didn’t have a wife or children, and my struggle has been wretched. But Thorne and Sylas did, and there is no way they are ready for something like this. Even if their lives depend on it. And Sylas . . . I know him as well as I know myself, and he would rather starve than cheat on the memory of his wife, and that’s exactly what it would feel like to him.

“We might not have a choice,” Thorne croaks, and while I know he misses his beloved Tilly, losing his sister devastated him differently, perhaps even more. “We already know what happens when we wait too long and deny ourselves.”

“There’s always the option of not giving a fuck,” I say wryly. “We could simply let ourselves loose in the world. We’d be unstoppable. Strong. We’d have each other.”

Thorne smirks. “And in a hundred years’ time we’d be miserable, alone, and have lost all of our honor.” Thorne shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

“It would be easier,” I admit.

“Aye, and we would hate ourselves more than we already do.”

“All we can do is try,” I remind him. “But that’s easy for me to say.” I give him a sad smile and rest my cheek on my knee.

“Lucian might be an issue as well.” Thorne shakes his head and runs his fingers through his beard. “He was in a state when you ran out of the room.”

I don’t have the energy to think of Lucian’s reaction to this—to me and the southerner. Not when I’m trying to grasp hold of a shred of control in a never-ending future. And not when I will need to feed again soon if I’m to keep the desperation at bay.

“The southerner.” My eyes widen. “Is he still here?”

Thorne shakes his head. “I heard the door close when I was coming up the stairs. Though, if the connection was as good between you as it sounded—” He clicks his tongue. “Something tells me he’ll have no qualms coming back.”

Leaning back against my pillows, I stare at the fire, a tightly wound knot of uncertainty. “Feeding isn’t our only problem and Hel’s too busy sitting on her jagged black throne, watching us massacre our people while we figure this out for ourselves.”

Thorne leans his head back, dipping his chin ever so slightly. “Aye. We need an army if all that we’ve done wasn’t for nothing.” His timbre is calm, his thoughts distant. “We need to get ourselves straight first. There is time to figure the rest out.”

“Thorne, our people are dying,” I say, though after what we’ve learned today, I don’t feel as helpless as I did when the day started.

His eyes meet mine in earnest. “It will all get sorted.” He swallows thickly. “It has to.”

“Sylas?” I whisper. Having felt his desperate hunger, I know our fearless leader is in pain and has denied his need to feed for far too long.

Thorne dips his chin and runs his fingers over his braided red beard. “He hasn’t slept or fed.”

“And we know he won’t fuck,” I finish for him.

Thorne cringes at the words as if they physically hurt him, because they do. Everything about all of this affects us all, and while we’ve always been tied together in some way, this is different.

Now that I’ve fed, I can feel the entire house even hungrier than before, craving what I have. Every compulsive swallow each of them takes is a breath of wanting that stirs inside me. It’s building—nudging me like a depraved, ravenous sickness.

Then, low and deep somewhere in the castle, a growl rumbles through the corridor. It thrums with warning and sharpens with desperation, and when a crash follows, Thorne and I rush for the door.

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community. Create a free account and read for free.

Apr 18, 2025

The Darkborn Saga: New Episode

💥 This is rough draft and is unedited. Each word is battle-born. Read at your own risk, be kind, and enjoy.

*A Wonder image I generated during character brainstorming.

🫦 Read with caution. Vikings and spiciness ahead.

💀 💀 💀 💀 💀

Arless Episode: “Urges”

Our groans mix in the morning air as I sink my teeth into the Southerner’s neck. His blood is warm and salty on my tongue, awakening my cursed senses that are dulled by day, making me sluggish. But his blood, warm between my teeth, makes me feel lighter, like I’m floating in a tepid saline pool, and each pull of blood down my throat hits like a drug.

I take another deep dredge of sweet, warm, intoxicating blood and my hands, powerful and impatient, tear his pants to shreds until the hot flesh of his full cock presses against me.

That’s all the invitation my southerner needs before he’s pulling at my jerkin, tugging my tunic from my trousers, and shoving his hands inside as I drain the blood from his neck.

I tell myself I have to stop, if only for a moment, so I can feel him in all parts of me, but as his fingers cup my sex and delve deep inside of me, I cry against his skin with pleasure. It’s been far too long since I fucked someone, and with some of my bloodlust sated, the feel of him wins out.

I unhinge my mouth from his neck and shove him onto the settee, pulling my shirt over my head and dropping my pants until I am completely bare.

In a daze, the southerner stares at me, his eyes skimming over my sex, my breast, but lingering on the faded markings covering my arms. I make quick work of his clothes until he is completely bare, leaving nothing between us but skin as I climb onto him.

The tip of his cock is smooth and swollen, glistening in the daylight, sneaking through the window. I straddle his lap, lowering myself over him without preamble. “You will fuck me, southerner, if you know what’s good for you.” The need in my body thrums so loud, I barely hear myself.

The southerner sits up, groans into my mouth, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. It sends me into a frenzy, and my thighs work me up and down, his cock filling me to the point of pain—until he can’t go any deeper, and I barrel down on him again. Over and over.

My mouth finds his neck once more, and as his hands press into my back and grab my ass, holding on for dear life, and his blood coats my throat, his length filling me so full I am bursting at the seams, I nearly implode. It’s fast, it’s rough, and the pain feels so good. I fuck him until I have no choice but to unlatch my bite from his throat as I scream.

I see colors and hear a rainbow of sounds. I feel light and airy, and for the first time in days, I feel so powerful—so alive . . . I am happy.

The southerner’s cries of pleasure fill the room immediately after, his come coating my insides, and utterly, completely sated, I laugh in my euphoria and lean my forehead against his shoulder.

“That was unreal,” he rasps, his hands sticky against my sweat-dampened skin. Languidly, I lick the smearing of blood from his skin, humming with satisfaction like a milk-sated cat.

In a sudden rush of warmth and acute pain, my entire body stings with what feels like tiny embers of fire. The muted light is so bright it burns my eyes, the sound of the horses in the barn pounding in my head. It’s too loud. Too close. Too grating.

I spring off from the settee to catch my breath. My thoughts swirl, and my body is pulsing with fire and ice. I have felt the hellfire-singe of Hel’s runes in my skin and the heady warmth of someone else’s blood filling my veins. But this is different. This is terrifying. It is too much at once and overwhelming.

“Are you—” The moment the southerner touches me, I spin around, my entire body vibrating with power.

“Don’t!” I shove him away, scared of what I might do if he comes any closer. A wingback chair scrapes the wood floor as he falls into it.

Squinting against the light, I rush for the door, fling it open, only to run completely nude and untethered into Lucian, whose eyes blaze with anger in the threshold. He’s looking at the southerner in deathly silence.

I push Lucian out of my way and run for my room. For darkness. Whatever just happened was the best moment of my life, and also my undoing. I want to know this feeling, but Hel would not answer our calls when we needed her most, and I know she will not come to me now, the bitch.

Ayyyyeeee...

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until then….

xo, Scarlet

P.S. If you want to read ahead in the Darkborn’s story, you can find more chapters here in my Scarlet Hearts After Dark reader community.

The places:

Alter Ego:

❤️‍🔥Learn more about Lindsey Pogue