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The vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness above them, carved obsidian pillars stretching upward like the ribs of some ancient beast buried beneath the palace. The walls had witnessed centuries of ambition, betrayal, and bloodshed. Kings had stood within this chamber and mistaken their crowns for immortality. Generals had entered believing their victories would protect them. Lovers had whispered promises beneath its blackened arches only to later sit across from one another as enemies.
This morning, it reeked only of fear.
The members of the council sat in uneasy silence, their carefully arranged expressions failing to hide the unease that clung to the room like a thick smoke. Lady Drevain’s death was not merely another corpse. Corpses were common in the Blooded Court. They were the language of their people, the inevitable conclusion to every bargain, insult, and betrayal.
Drevain’s death had been a message.
Lucan stood at the head of the table, one hand resting against the carved obsidian surface as he listened to the theories unfold around him. Assassination. Revenge. Political retaliation. Human rebellion. The council offered possibilities like frightened children throwing stones into a dark forest, each hoping the noise would scare away whatever waited beyond the trees.
None of them understood.
That pleased him.
Fear had always been more useful than loyalty. Loyalty could be bought, inherited, or abandoned when the price became too high. Fear lingered. Fear made creatures cautious.
And cautious creatures made mistakes.
“Ravenholm will become unstable if Drevain’s death is not addressed quickly,” Lord Raviron muttered, fingers tapping against the table. “The humans there have been restless for months. They will interpret this as a sign to attack again.”
“They will interpret whatever we allow them to interpret,” Ataen replied smoothly.
Lucan glanced toward him.
Of course.
Jace had spent the entire morning doing what he did best: appearing entirely uninterested while quietly guiding the conversation exactly where he wanted it to go. The vampire lord lounged in his chair with one ankle resting over his knee, crimson eyes half-lidded as though the fate of an entire kingdom bored him. Lucan knew better; Ataen had always been dangerous when he seemed careless.
“The question is not whether Ravenholm will grow restless,” Jace continued. “That course was set long ago by Anileta. Instead, we should be asking ourselves, who would benefit most from the continued absence of an elder vampire?”
None dared answer. Several council members shifted uncomfortably. Lady Volyrin crinkled her brow as if deep in thought, while Lady Aeyna opposite her only stared at Jace with wide eyes. The truth he wanted them to see—partially true, at that—was something they feared to utter lest a knife came for them in the night.
Drevain’s murder had not been an act of passion. It had not been a random strike against a vampire. Not petty court politics, an accident, or even an execution by the Blooded Prince. It had been deliberate, theatrical, and designed to leave them searching for meaning.
“Do we have any evidence of who entered her chambers?” one councilor asked.
“Human blood,” Lucan answered. The lie came effortlessly.
Murmurs answered him.
“Then it is Ravenholm,” Aeyna replied.
A smile flitted across his face. Deceiving the council almost came too easily; the blind fools! He had spent centuries surviving because he saw what others missed. He saw weakness. Desire laced with ambition. Pawns to manipulate. He always uncovered every hidden fracture in those who stood before him.
Except lately, every path seemed to lead back to one person.
Elarian.
His thoughts betrayed him before he could stop them. Did she regret any of their actions last night? Had the bloodwine helped with the fever? Did the lingering ache in her body ease after he bit her during sex, and then again as she slept?
The realization irritated him more than any accusation in the chamber.
A councilor spoke. Lucan heard the words but not the meaning. Something about reinforcing patrols along the western border. Another missive about questioning servants. Even more words about sending investigators to Ravenholm.
Meaningless.
All of it.
Because beside him, seated on her heels observing it all, the moon elf assassin he had loosened upon his court hummed with joy.
