Alaric's POV
The blood in the glass caught the light like liquid garnet, thick and heavy, slipping against crystal as I turned my wrist lazily.
The throne room was silent, save for the slow, steady echo of dripping water somewhere deep within the mountain. Torches burned low along the columns, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts. I liked the silence. I liked the way the air trembled before a command.
My throne—carved from black granite and veined with gold—rested on a dais surrounded by shallow pools of dark water. Each ripple mirrored the flickering light. Every drop that fell into them broke that reflection, like time itself dared not stay still in my presence.
I lifted the glass to my lips. The blood was still warm.
Then—movement.
From the far end of the hall, the shadows thickened. Boots pressed against marble. I didn't look up yet. I could feel who it was before the sound even reached me. The scent of fear always preceded words.
