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Lucan preferred it that way.

Silence, he found, was the only honest thing that remained in life. It revealed more than frightened courtiers ever imagined. One could hear the faint catch in a councilor’s breath before a lie, the scrape of nervous fingers against polished stone, and the sudden stillness that settled over predators when they sensed another in their midst. Words, by comparison, were cheap things easily spewed with little regard for their consequences.

And gods only knew how many falsities had been spread in this cloistered chamber nestled in the heart of the Blooded Palace. The council room had not changed in over five hundred years. Black pillars climbed toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, each carved with forgotten victories his father insisted deserved remembrance. Gairan honors every death of those dread creatures, Luc, he would always say.

Between the pillars hung ancient banners whose colors had long since faded beneath candle smoke and time. Crimson had become rust. Gold had dulled into sickly bronze. The oldest still bore the crest of House Valmere before Aurelion had stripped them of everything but title and took it as his own. In front of them hung newer house banners, their tasseled ends kissing the floor. Larger than even Lucan’s faded inheritance from a dead kingdom, the banner for House Ravenholm dominated the wall opposite his chair. A raven flew over a sea of plum wine, a bloodied heart grasped in its long talons.

How had Lucan not seen Anileta’s grasping ambition sooner?

Not that it matters now, he thought wryly to himself.

The chamber smelled of melted beeswax, ancient vellum, and the copper tang of blood that had seeped into the stone over centuries. Witchlights floated overhead inside iron cages fashioned to resemble hands clasped in supplication. Their amber glow caught upon polished obsidian beneath Lucan’s boots until the floor reflected the council like still water. Any fool who lowered their gaze found themselves looking upon a sea full of monsters.

From the head of the table, Lucan observed his council’s reaction to his proclamation.

Lord Raviron recovered first, as Lucan knew he would. The elder vampire lowered himself into his carved chair with measured dignity, gray-threaded robes pooling around him like fresh ash. One of the eldest vampires in Lucan’s court, Raviron favored charcoal robes embroidered only at the cuffs, a relic from the years before Aurelion demanded spectacle from those closest to the throne. He had always dressed like a man attending funerals rather than councils.

Six centuries had done little to dull the man’s instincts. His crimson eyes drifted toward Elarian only briefly before returning to Lucan, though not before memorizing every bruise peeking above the collar at her throat and the silent breaths she drew while kneeling dutifully beside him.

Good.

Let them remember who Lucan truly was: a fucking monstrosity of a broken man.

The others followed more hesitantly. Countess Drevain, draped in crimson, was the last to sit. Chairs scraped against black marble. Heavy ledgers thudded open and wax seals cracked beneath impatient thumbs. No one questioned Lucan again regarding the supposed dhampir. Aurelion’s name lingered over the chamber like incense at a funeral. Even the oldest among them knew better than to prod too deeply into the Bloodlord’s private affairs.

Exactly as planned.

For now.

Lucan rested one elbow upon the plush, velvet arm of his chair, allowing the chain looped around his fingers to hang loosely between him and Elarian. It looked casual. Possessive. The idle habit of a prince keeping hold of a favored pet.

Only he knew how violently every instinct urged him to loosen his grip and see her spill the blood of this court he so loathed.

Beside him, Elarian knelt with the composure only an assassin could muster. Her back remained perfectly straight despite the collar encircling her throat. Pale pink silks spilled around her knees like flower petals fallen upon a grave, hiding little of the bruises darkening beneath her moon-pale skin. Her breathing had steadied since entering the chamber, yet Lucan noticed the minute tightening of her shoulders each time another councilor’s gaze lingered upon her. He smiled. Better they stare at a prince’s newest indulgence than imagine an assassin kneeling among them.

Perhaps we shall survive this mess you’ve made.

Beckoning for Senna—who he knew lurked in the shadows—Lucan cleared his throat.

“You requested my attendance,” he drawled, breaking the silence at last. “Do try convincing me it was worth abandoning my morning.”

Lord Raviron inclined his head. “There are…several pressing matters requiring your judgment, my prince.”

Lucan sighed.

“There always are.”

Senna slid quietly next to Lucan’s side, goblet in hand. He set it down and slipped a folded note to his master before retreating into the shadows. Quickly scanning the note, Lucan saw only five words: Anileta is dead. Drevain suspects. Lucan smiled thinly, then crumpled the parchment in his fist. He stole a glance at the chained assassin by his side, strangely proud of her for finally silencing the raven-haired vampire he loathed but had no reason to execute.

“The first issue concerns Ravenholm,” another councilor interjected.

Lord Ataen, one of the newest additions to Lucan’s council, leaned in closer as he continued. Flaming red hair spilled over his shoulders, glowing like molten copper under the shifting witchlights. Injury had withdrawn him from Lucan’s hunting parties, but the old lord—once Lucan’s lover—still dressed like the commander he once was. Black velvet stretched across his broad shoulders, medals pinned proudly over a heart that shuddered still long ago.

“Trade routes are disrupted and supply caravans are missing,” Ataen continued. “The western hold continues to decline.”

Of course it did.

Even dead, Anileta remained determined to inconvenience him.