Beneath every sound and scent lay grief, concealed as poorly as rot beneath perfume.
Leena’s stillness remained behind his eyes like a bruise he could not stop pressing. The heir’s cries had cut through a house never intended to contain such a fragile sound, while Rhen’s hollow face and bloodstained hands had shown them all that the world had finally found something capable of bringing the Charon to his knees.
Dax forced the images down and continued moving because duty did not disappear simply because the stronghold was grieving. Civilian vampires still became reckless, the young stillallowed hunger to make them careless, and the heretics did not pause their plans for funerals.
He angled toward Bar X.
He did not need a drink, but the club was a throat through which the city spoke. Rumors, bargains, warnings, and names all moved through its crowded rooms before reaching the streets.
Dax entered without effort, slipping inside as naturally as a storm finding its way beneath a door.
The bass vibrated through the floor and into bone. Heat, perfume, sweat, and bodies crowded the air. Vampire civilians occupied most of the room, some blending effortlessly with the human patrons while others had stopped caring who noticed the difference. The low lighting softened every edge and concealed every appetite.
A massive male dressed in black stood beside the entrance like a door capable of becoming a wall.
The head of security did not need to raise his voice or advertise his strength. His gaze passed over Dax once before tightening with recognition.
“Prince,” he said quietly, using the title as acknowledgment rather than flattery. “I didn’t hear you were out.”
Dax stopped close enough that the music would obscure their conversation.
“That was the idea.”
The guard’s mouth shifted in a humorless approximation of a smile.
“Fair enough.”
“I need to know what you’ve heard,” Dax said. “Anything connected to the heretics or anyone asking about the stronghold.”
The guard’s expression darkened.
“There’s been noise, but not the drunken kind. It’s the sort that watches.”
“Who?”
“New faces. They arrive alone or in pairs, stay close to the walls, and never feed here. They watch the room as though they’re counting exits, and they’ve started asking careful questions about the stronghold.”
A cold mechanism seemed to engage inside Dax’s chest.
“What else?”
“The heir.” The guard lowered his voice further. “Word is spreading that the king has a son. People are talking about the prophecy as though they can smell it in the air.”
Dax’s jaw tightened.
“Have you heard any names?”
“They don’t offer their own, but I heard Marcella’s once. It wasn’t spoken in celebration. It sounded like a warning.”
Every part of Dax settled into the calm, lethal focus he had refined over centuries.
“If you hear that name again, you contact us immediately. Anyone asking after the heir gets identified and watched, but you do not let them know you noticed.”
The guard nodded.
“Any word from X?”
“No.”
