The night air in Valemont hung heavy with whispers. Candles flickered in shuttered windows as though even the flames themselves trembled at what was stirring in the city. Across the Cantrie, across Marshwalk, across the velvet-dark streets of Belvoir, factions sharpened knives behind closed doors. Everyone knew Evander Dravienne's death was not a simple tragedy—it was an omen.
And omens never stayed silent for long.
---
Lucien Dravienne stood in the grand hall of the Dravienne estate, the obsidian pillars rising like ribs of some ancient beast. He could feel the walls closing in, not physically, but with the weight of expectation. Eyes watched him—vampire elders, youngbloods too eager for war, courtiers with whispers sharp enough to bleed a kingdom dry.
He lifted a goblet of dark wine, though he hadn't taken a sip. His reflection warped against the crimson surface. He looked strong, calculating, but inside he carried a gnawing ache. His father's voice haunted him still. Protect the legacy. Protect the bloodline.
"Your silence unnerves them," Jade Dravienne's voice cut in. His sister leaned against the carved banister on the second level, her presence equal parts taunt and warning. "They're circling, Lucien. If you don't claim the throne, someone else will."
Lucien tilted the goblet, crimson spilling onto the marble like fresh blood. His reply was soft, deliberate.
"Claiming the throne too soon only paints a target larger than the crown itself."
From the crowd, murmurs rippled. He heard the words—coward… strategist… weak… dangerous. Lucien let them wash over him. He was playing a longer game, one few could understand.
But one voice cut sharper than the rest.
"You play with shadows, Dravienne," called Warren DuMonte, his rival, his venom dripping even in casual speech. "While you hesitate, others prepare. Power doesn't wait for schemers. It falls to those willing to bleed for it."
Lucien met Warren's eyes and smiled—a smile that promised ruin.
"Then bleed, Warren. And let's see how far your ambition takes you."
The hall tensed. A fight here would split the city in half. But before the storm could break, the doors thundered open.
Cassien strode in.
---
The halfbreed carried himself differently than any vampire or wolf dared—neither bowing nor snarling, but commanding through sheer presence. His coat was still dusted with ash from Marshwalk's underbelly, where rumors claimed he'd dealt with hunters. His eyes burned amber, betraying the hybrid inside him.
Lucien watched the reactions ripple. Elders recoiled. Youngbloods sneered. Jade smirked, enjoying the chaos her brother's arrival always carried.
"Am I interrupting?" Cassien's tone dripped with disdain.
"You always are," Lucien replied smoothly. "But tonight, you're exactly where you should be."
Cassien's jaw tightened. There was no love lost between the brothers, but the bond of blood—even fractured—still chained them to the same storm.
"Evander's death was no accident," Cassien said, his voice carrying over the hall like thunder. "The witches grow bolder. And you sit here debating politics?"
The room erupted. Witches. The word itself was a curse among vampires. Murmurs grew into arguments, arguments into shouts.
Nyra Vale stood in the shadows near the edge of the gathering, her cloak drawn close. Only Lucien noticed her—how her presence stilled him, how the fire of her gaze met his and refused to bow.
Her lips curved slightly, but not in kindness. It was the smile of someone who knew secrets sharp enough to cut kingdoms apart.
---
Later, as the court scattered into factions, Lucien found her alone in the eastern gallery. The moonlight fell across her face, illuminating the dangerous beauty of her features. She didn't flinch when he approached.
"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, though his chest ached at the sight of her.
"And yet you wanted me here," Nyra countered, her voice velvet and steel.
Lucien's mask cracked for the briefest second. She wasn't wrong. He wanted her near even though every instinct screamed that she was poison. Witch blood ran through her veins. The very faction suspected of orchestrating his father's death.
"Careful," he said, stepping closer. "This house is a graveyard of traitors. You don't want to join them."
Her eyes locked onto his, a storm of defiance and something dangerously close to longing.
"Graveyards are filled with men who thought they were untouchable," Nyra whispered. "Don't become one of them, Lucien."
The silence between them burned hotter than fire. If he reached for her, the city would fall apart. If he turned away, something inside him might shatter.
And then—shouts tore through the corridor.
Cassien burst in, blade dripping with blood.
"They've come," he growled. "The Versiera."
---
The Versiera—the rebel witches—had struck sooner than expected. Their magic crackled in the night like wildfire, shaking the very stones of Valemont. The estate shuddered as if an ancient beast were waking beneath it.
Lucien's mind sharpened instantly, all thoughts of Nyra buried beneath the need for survival. He drew his blade. His eyes flared.
"Then tonight," he said coldly, "Valemont learns who truly rules in blood and ashes."
And together—Lucien, Cassien, Nyra, and Jade—stood at the edge of the storm about to consume them all.