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Somehow, their lack of recognition unsettled her more than a hundred fangs at her throat.
For nearly a century, Elarian had been a whisper carried through vampire courts. A name spoken with hatred and caution. The moon elf who hunted their kind. The assassin who left silver buried in the hearts of monsters. The wild woman in the mists, her ashen blades all that stood between them and the moon elves just beyond. She had built that reputation with blood, sacrifice, and the unwavering devotion of a goddess. Terror of the shivaem, paladin of She Who Is Death.
Yet now, she walked through the heart of the Blooded Court wearing silk and a vampire’s collar, and no one saw a threat. They saw a possession.
A beautiful creature the prince Lucan Valmere had chosen to keep.
A deadly plaything.
Her fingers curled at her side. Let them think that, she told herself. Let them underestimate the sharpness of my blade. It was always easier to kill those who believed they were untouchable. Infuriatingly, the longer Elarian observed Lucan, the more she realized how little that applied to him.
Lucan did not look back as they walked. She had expected a glance, a smirk—some reminder that he knew exactly what he had done or wanted to savor the sight of her following obediently behind him. Instead, he walked with the confidence of a creature who had never once doubted she would follow. Every shadow bowed to his command, and the silence itself seemed to belong to him; and yet, the longer they walked, the more she saw the rigid set of his shoulders and the tension coiling beneath his skin.
A creature who owns everything should not look so much like a prisoner.
The thought came unbidden. Elarian quickly buried it, looking down at the chain hanging loosely between them as if trying to convince herself he could only be monstrous. People like him did not suffer; they reveled in creating it.
Grinding her teeth, Elarian followed obediently. A secret part of her thrilled at the thought of Lucan presenting her in chains to the very vampires she would soon kill.
At last, they stopped in front of a large set of carved wooden doors. Lucan nodded to the guards standing on either side; it opened a moment later, hinges groaning in protest. Just like when she first entered the ballroom, Elarian’s gasp betrayed her wonder.
The council chamber was not what she expected. She had imagined something gaudy, dripping with the arrogance of creatures who believed themselves immortal. Gold. Jewels. Displays of wealth accumulated over centuries, stolen from the dead and displayed without care.
Instead, the room felt like a tomb.
A massive table carved from dark stone dominated the center, its surface polished until it reflected the flickering lights above like black water. The air smelled of old blood, dust, and cold rain. Ancient banners hung along the walls, each bearing the sigils of vampire houses—some of them extinct by her hand. A raven flew across a purple sky in one, a bloody heart clutched in its dread talons. Elarian permitted herself a smile at the sight. Another house without its leader. When her task was completed here, she would have to remember to retrieve the countess’s fangs from her corpse before leaving.
Several figures already waited inside. The moment Lucan entered, conversation died as their gazes drifted to the door. Elarian felt their attention settle over her like a blade pressed against her skin.
She catalogued them instinctively.
Two guards had positioned themselves near the entrance. Standing closest to the table, three lords paused their exchange, watching her with the careful interest of predators deciding whether she was worth the risk of hunting. A woman dressed in deep crimson silk already sat at the table, not bothering to hide her disgust.
“Your Highness,” one of the lords said as he took a step closer.
His gaze flicked toward the chain in Lucan’s hand, then back to Elarian’s face. The vampire studied her with ancient, calculating eyes. He knew something was wrong—perhaps not the truth, but enough to recognize that a creature like Lucan did not bring strangers into his inner chambers without reason. Elarian shifted, unconsciously moving behind Lucan.
Lucan, however, did not so much as blink.
“Lord Raviron.”
The prince’s voice had changed. If Elarian had not come to know nearly every inch of the man, she might have missed it herself. But the warmth and faint amusement that haunted his private words evaporated. The strangely tormented creature who had carefully freed her hair from a golden chain vanished the moment they entered the council chambers. In his place stood the Blooded Prince—cold, untouchable, and arrogant.
Who are you really?
“I trust you have important matters to discuss.”
The councilor’s eyes moved back to Elarian. “Indeed. Though I confess, I was unaware we would be receiving guests.”
The chain tightened almost imperceptibly, just enough for Elarian to look up. Lucan’s fingers wrapped tightly around the cold metal. A warning, perhaps? Or maybe a reminder.
Do not speak.
Do not destroy this fragile lie keeping us both afloat.
Elarian smiled warmly. She had survived much worse than a room full of vampires speaking on politics and war plans.
The councilor opened his mouth again, but Lucan spoke first.
