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“Senna,” he barked out.

“My prince?”

“Prepare the cell. Bring him the moment he arrives.”

Nodding curtly, Senna peeled away and disappeared toward a corridor leading to the dungeon.

Though the Bloodlord Aurelion was nowhere to be seen, his presence dominated the room; not that Lucan would have bothered to look for him.

Slipping into his comfortable mask, Lucan indulged himself in the practiced ritual of holding court. He nodded courteously, accepted sickly-sweet bloodwine, and gently pressed his cold lips against the hands of those he despised. Servants scurried out of his way as he approached, heads bowed as they avoided his eyes.

He pretended it was because they feared him, but in truth, they only wished to avoid anything that might draw their master’s attention away from his Blooded Prince.

Gods, Lucan despised his title more than anything.

How many knew it was his own blood that earned him golden shackles and an eternity to find the perfect soul to ruin as Aurelion once ruined him?

Lucan lowered himself into the lesser throne and drank deeply from his goblet. The wine—warmed, the way Aurelion preferred—coated Lucan’s lips. He panted as it spilled down his throat, desperate to quench his aching thirst. It had been nearly a week since his return from the Evermist, but he still had yet to properly feed.

“I am strong enough with bloodwine,” he’d told Senna.

In truth, he preferred drowning his thoughts.

At the far end of the court, the grand doors opened up with a hushed groan. At once, the court fell silent. Moving with centuries of practice, they fell to the floor, heads lowered as Aurelion’s golden-tipped cane slowly thumped across the marble floor.

Lucan stared forward, gaze hovering just above the Bloodlord’s golden circlet. He felt Aurelion’s eyes pass over the court like a hand deciding what to keep.

Then—

A pause.

The attention of the court shifted to Lucan. He finished the last of his bloodwine, then set the goblet down with care. Perhaps this time would be different. Perhaps tonight, Aurelion would be satisfied with words and spilled elf blood. Maybe he would not find himself with a new rune carved into his back—another memory scraped raw from his broken body, then roughly returned when Aurelion tired of his screams.

Unlikely, but possible.

Hope vanished long ago. Infuriatingly, habit remained.

Aurelion smiled tightly as he approached the dais.

“My son,” he softly said as he glided up the steps. “I do hope you have a show for tonight.”

Lucan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He clasped his hands in an attempt to hide their slight tremor.

“Of course, Father,” he replied. Please don’t let it be me.

Aurelion raised an eyebrow as he seated himself next to Lucan.

“I know you shall please me.” He did not turn toward Lucan, and for that, he was grateful. “Failure is not an option after the Evermist.”

Before Lucan could react, Aurelion lifted his hands and clapped. The court rose from their knees, soft murmurs filling the room as they each whispered a vow to their Bloodlord.

“Bring him in,” Aurelion boomed from his throne.

For a second time, the wide doors swung open with a low groan of the iron hinges.

Two guards entered first, then the prisoner.

He stumbled behind the guards over the threshold, blinking as the bright light no doubt blinded him after weeks of withering away in the dungeons. Even from a distance, Lucan could see the way his ribs now looked like mountain ranges, the sunken flesh between them cast in shadows. Chains hung from his wrists, connecting with the ones clasped around his ankles. It was more ceremony than anything else—anyone could tell the elf already hovered on the edge of death.