Page 165 of Ashen Blade

Lucan turned toward her, drinking her in. Silver hair brushed against her ears. Blood stained her torn gown. The faint marks of his fangs were still visible against her skin.

His.

The thought came instinctively, followed by horror. Aurelion would understand exactly what that meant: a new weapon to carve the remnants of Lucan’s foolish heart from his chest.

“Leave,” Lucan whispered.

Elarian stared at him.

“You heard me.” His voice hardened. “Leave.”

A flicker of anger returned to her expression, and strangely, that hurt less than the sadness.

“I am not running from him.”

“Run, Elarian.” Lucan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “It was a mistake, whatever this was between us.”

Before she could answer, the entire palace fell silent. The witchlights along the walls dimmed one by one, their flames shrinking as though they feared to burn too brightly in the presence of their master. The ancient stones beneath their feet settled, bowing beneath a power older than the kingdom itself. Even Lucan’s shadows recoiled from Elarian.

The Bloodlord did not announce himself—he never needed to.

The door remained open from Senna’s arrival, and through it came the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps and the strike of a cane.

Tok…

Each one echoed through the chamber—a funeral bell for the massacre about to unfold in Lucan’s chambers. His veins froze, and the lingering warmth of Elarian’s blood mixed with his faded. Senna silently moved aside, head bowed, eyes trained firmly on the cracked marble floor before him.

Lucan remained where he stood.

For the first time in five centuries, he forced himself to stand, to hold his chin high as the twisted creature approaching him tried to claim the remnants of his happiness. Lucan didn’t know where his resolve came from—at least, didn’t want to admit what urged him on—but he knew if he backed down now, he might as well be dead already.

The figure who appeared beyond the doorway looked almost disappointingly ordinary.

That was the worst part.

Aurelion did not look like a monster. Monsters were easy to fight: all claws and fangs, obvious cruelty written across their faces. But the vampire with honeyed hair looked like a king returning home. His long, silken locks swept neatly away from his face, a braided crown threaded with gold across his brow. Dark robes untouched by dust or travel swept over the marble floor. A calm expression rested upon features that had not aged since the day Lucan first saw him centuries ago.

Only his eyes betrayed him: ancient, calculating, and devoid of any resemblance of mercy.

The Bloodlord’s gaze moved across the room slowly, taking it all in. The shattered furniture. The broken marble. Senna’s pale face. Then, his gaze trained upon Lucan. A small smile touched his lips.

“My son.” The words were gentle, as they had been for centuries now. Lucan hated them more than any insult.

“Aurelion.”

The smile widened slightly.

“Still using my name after all this time? My, my. I heard rumors of your defiance. I must say, I thought I had thoroughly whipped that out of you, princeling.”

Aurelion stepped into the room, his attention drifting past Lucan. Interest flickered across his face.

“Well.”

The single word made Elarian straighten; Lucan moved instinctively between them.