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“You say that of all the elves, Aeyna.” Lord Ataen laughed.
Through it all, Lucan studied Elarian from the corner of his eyes. Not a single muscle moved. Her eyes remained unfocused, a demure smile painted over her dark purple lips.
Perfectly hidden.
Gods, she truly was a magnificent being. Deadly plaything indeed, he thought warmly to himself. He reached out and brushed a strand of silver hair from her face, fingertips lingering along the length of her pointed ear. Her breath stuttered under his touch; something warm blossomed deep inside his chest.
“Should we increase patrols, my prince?” Ataen asked as the attention shifted back to the prince.
“No.”
Lady Volyrin’s nails scraped over the table. Raviron choked on the bloodwine still in his mouth while Ataen merely stared at Lucan with a slackened jaw.
“If the Ashen Blade wished to be found…” Lucan paused as his gaze slid over Elarian kneeling beside him, red blooming around the collar at her throat. “None of you would still possess your throats.”
Lady Drevain did not return her attention to the council.
While Lord Raviron resumed speaking of patrol routes and dwindling supplies, the countess merely lowered her gaze to the ledger resting open before her. Her quill moved with deliberate precision; not in the hurried scratches of a councilor recording policy, but with the measured patience of someone assembling a puzzle. Every few strokes, she paused. Her crimson eyes lifted from the page—not toward Lucan, but toward the elf kneeling at his side.
Lucan felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
Dangerous, meddling curiosity.
The foolish woman was not searching for flaws in his deception. She was studying Elarian. Observing the bruises on her throat. The silver hidden beneath moon-pale skin. The silences between her breaths. Determining her worth, measuring her against the other dhampirs that had walked these halls. Building, no doubt, some elegant little theory she believed clever enough to present before Aurelion himself.
Where one grasping hand at the throne withered away, another rushed to take its place.
Lucan almost pitied her.
Lady Drevain had always mistaken observation for wisdom. Like so many of Aurelion’s favored lapdogs, she believed collecting enough truths made one untouchable. She had spent centuries clawing her way toward influence beneath the Bloodlord’s gaze, mistaking borrowed power for her own.
Then, with all the grace of a woman marching willingly toward the executioner’s block, she had volunteered herself to oversee Ravenholm. Lucan’s fingers curled around the chain almost absently. Beside him, Elarian’s head lifted, her pale crimson eyes finding his with quiet irritation as the collar tightened against her throat.
She frowned.
Lucan smiled.
Yes, he thought warmly.
Lady Drevain would be one of the first gifts he gave his deadly plaything.
twenty-seven
Star-death
Every agonizing step back to Lucan’s chambers felt like a battle she had already lost.
Elarian had crossed ancient battlefields beneath moonless skies as her blood spilled a silvery trail in her wake. Crawled over broken bone and shattered glass, guided only by the whispers of fey wolves beyond the veil. Sharpened under Reshva’s command, she often endured weeks without food, days without sleep, and wounds that would have felled lesser Blades.
Yet today, the simple act of walking behind the vampire prince took every last reserve of her strength.
The castle moved around her in a blur of black stone and amber light. The towering halls stretched endlessly, every archway and corridor bleeding together until she could no longer tell where one ended and another began. The witchlights overhead burned too brightly, each flame a dagger driven behind her eyes. The polished marble beneath her bare feet shifted between freezing and burning, the sensation changing with every step as her body fought a war it could no longer win.
Her starin was fading faster than she had anticipated—though her calculations had never accounted for waking in Lucan Valmere’s bed.
Lucan walked ahead of her with the chain wrapped carelessly around his fingers, never once needing to pull. He trusted the illusion of obedience and the title forced upon her.
Eliyn, the dhampir courtesan. The name tasted foul in her throat. He meant her to act as if a beautiful possession gifted from the Bloodlord’s court—some poor, helpless creature bred for pleasure, not bloodshed.
