It didn't take him more than a few steps before closing the distance. Lucreiza's heart ceased at the reach and pulsed at the same time, evoking the odd scent of old wood spice and… something darker.
The gasps seized, however the room suddenly turned slightly atuned in his presence. She knew she should take a look, a glimpse at the face of the monster, but trepidation wrapped her body in a cold embrace.
"Lord Vaeron," Finally, a voice echoed like distant thunder, breaking the silence among them but not the intimidation buried deep into their bones, the kind belonging to the King as he watched him step into the hall.
And her heart sank.
From the angle of her lowered head, Lucreiza caught the shine of his polished shoe and tailored robe, exuding the aura of elegance and stateliness. She'll admit that she was surprised.
From what was learned, Lucifer's Incarnates harbored four feet, like the demons they are. They were semi-monsters during the day, and pure-bred bogey at night.
Unlike werewolves that transform on a full moon, Sins don't transform. They are created in their own image, and in the likeness of Lucifer, which is why King Vladimir requested the marriage be done on a full moon.
If there should be any form of attack, they would be of greater advantage. But Lucreiza couldn't shake off the feeling that the numbers were nothing compared to the darkness made of this creature.
However, looking at them—his feet—she could only discover the normal set of two. A small part of her held onto the idea that he may not be the Lord of Dreadwyn. Perhaps his aide, or right-hand, or something else that could delay more treacherous thoughts.
Due to the fire from the braziers, from his shadow, her eyes—still concealed by the black tiara—followed his movement. He didn't bow in respect or nod as acknowledgment, but rather kept an unquestionable posture taking her by another surprise.
Not a single soul dares not bow to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. But this one, this… Sin dared that rule that one would question if he was king or the one before him.
He exuded an air of someone who demanded respect rather than offer it, and for that alone, didn't need to bow.
Because he's made from Lucifer's bones, that thought voiced at the back of her mind, sending spider-webbed chill crisscrossing her spine.
Who wouldn't fear the Devil?
"King Vladmir," If the King's voice echoed like thunder, then he was the chill that followed. It was deep and measured, those words falling like an iron on stone, stripped of warmth yet calm, detached, and utterly soulless.
Lucreiza could feel the intensity singe her veins, urging her to take a glimpse. She knew she should, but hesitancy and nervousness replaced all other fair emotions.
"I hope your journey was fair and sound? The weather must've made the roads less kind than usual." King Vladimir said, even with an edge of courtesy and authority.
Though he appeared calm, his eyes held a good amount of irritation and hatred for the demon with hazel eyes.
"The weather knows better than to delay me." It was the blandness which struck her, the casualty to be precise as though corresponding with a mere commoner.
If not for the number of years spent in the tower, and tales from Madelyn who managed to keep her sanity intact with trending news and gossip, she would've thought the King to be this strange Lord.
He harbored authority with his presence and debaucheries by words alone.
It didn't seem to strike her only, but tick the edge of the King and a few generals in waiting.
After composing himself properly, King Vladmir merely tilted his head giving the barest nod. "Your arrival had been unannounced. Part of the agreement and rites were to be completed by dawn."
"Dawn is too long a wait for a promised blood." He said, eliciting a few drags of terrified breath from a distance. "I've come for what is mine."
Lucreiza's heart skipped at the latter. M-Mine?
"An agreement is an agreement, Lord Vaeron," King Vladmir retorted, shattering her thought before it dwindled. "Yet you dishonor the rites of our kind and tread close to insult."
"I honor the accord, but my honor has its limits, King Vladimir," He replied coolly, like a creature unaffected by the sudden tension palpable in the room. Like he was the consequence, and they, the sinners. "Where's my bride?"
At his question, the breath in the hall shifted, stimulated with apprehension subtle but unmistakable. Lucrezia could feel the pulsation against her ribs, one she feared may crack, soaring against her will.
The tiara suddenly felt like some sort of barricade preventing the flow of air in her lungs and more than ever, she wanted to take it off and gasp in fat air to stabilize her heartbeat.
And at that point, Lucrezia doubted she could make it alive. Run, a pragmatic nerve struck her through the haze of anxiety, but she knew better than to abide by that promising suggestion.
Take one step, and her mama was gone.
From a small distance, Lucrezia caught the outline of wolves tethered by the pillars. They stirred, followed by low growls rolling in their throats like distant thunder as a threat.
Her eyes caught one of them—a mottled silver female—who whimpered with her tail low and ears back, patiently waiting to attack. She knew her; Lady Myriah Thornhell of House Greysteeds.
She was the last surviving bloodline of her family after the unfortunate incident where her family and pack were massacred in one single cursed night by something called the Unknown. It was rumored to be ghouls and spirits, however, others believed it to be the handiwork of Lucifer.
For years, these strange creatures walked on land and took souls, leaving ashes behind. It was also said that once it performed alchemy, those past souls become corrupted, festering, wandering for a body to possess and claim. And the chosen bodies were werewolves.
The safety of her mother depended on her ability to spy. Once every five months, Lucrezia would return to Vleximoor with information. If successful, her mother would dodge the fate of torture and be drugged for stabilization.
It was another advantage of the sedation; the ability to maintain her health despite the soul amputation. Lucrezia has seen it happen before; when she was without it. A pure rogue with bloodlust eyes, burning hatred, outrage, and pain… unbearable emotions causing a deep spreading ache around her chest.
As much as she hated the knowledge of what it did—prevented her wolf from ever returning—it was the best. Lucrezia recalled a time she visited her mother. She begged not to let them drug her, begged to be free of it for just a week.
Corvina knew of her daughter's minor abilities, and one of them was hypnosis. The next time she visited, Lucrezia made sure to avoid taking her drugs before due time and made way to the castle as usual, performing the ruse. However, that day was the first time she ever witnessed her mother transform into something entirely different.
Queen Catherine's eyes flared, though her voice remained level, calm, and silken as poison, breaking her off reverie. "She is within the veil as of custom and she will be—"
She spoke like a worried mother looking after her child, the tone only used for her children, and Lucrezia grimaced.
Her facade was substantial and plausible, giving no room for suspicion. To others, the Luna was kind and loving, accepting of keeping her sister after bewitching her husband, birthing a witch. Standing up against thousands of people was something but against a creature born of darkness was another.
And with that, he tilted his head just slightly, barely a movement, interupting her as somewhere deep in the stone belly of the keep, a door slammed shut.
Although all the windows were shut, a strange canard of wind blew in, carrying the flames in the sconces as it wavered in a thin and pale fraction.
But the darkness… the darkness intensified.
With a low tone, "She will be what?" It was calm and cold, utterly devoid of amnesty or emotions, but now thick with some primal pull, sending a surge of quiver down Lucrezia's spine.
Just then, the chorus of a slow rumbling deep growls filled the air in warning, dragging tension into the hall. In soft defiant steps, their paws stepped into the torchlight against the stone as one by one, wolves emerged from the pillars in a threatening slow stalking rhythm.
Light caught their eyes, gleaming in gold and grey like polished blades as they advanced in what was known to be a warning written in motion.
Lucreiza could feel the change in the atmosphere, more worse than previous, charged with pride and ancient grudges. And worse, something that could break into bloodshed with a single breath too loud.