One Year
Jules clutched her bleeding arm, catching her breath as she bent over her knees. Ambros patted her shoulder.
"You're going to do great today."
Today was the biggest day of Jules's life—the day she challenged Cassius for his position as Vicar. For the past six months, Jules had dedicated every waking moment to training, proving herself worthy of the role. It hadn't taken the High Court long to notice her, especially after Seraphine's reading. Her visions were never wrong.
As a result, they nominated Jules to challenge Cassius.
Cassius, however, strongly opposed the idea. Not only would Lucian be furious, but Jules was flippant and egotistical—at least in his eyes.
"She does not possess the ethical qualities to serve as a second hand," Cassius told the High Court.
Alastor disagreed. He'd seen the potential in her from the moment Lucian saved her.
"Then let the challenge decide that," Alastor replied.
Cassius's preconceived notions only further fueled Jules's determination to take his place. She'd spent countless hours with Ambros, practicing again and again. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this—and she wasn't going to give up. Not ever.
There were nights she'd nearly broken. The only thing that kept her going was proving to Lucian that she was better off without him. She pictured his face when he was informed of her promotion, and that alone was enough.
Jules sat before her mirror, staring at her reflection. She buttoned her black silk gown, which opened in the back to expose her shoulders and spine. A silver chain was clipped around her throat. Her hair was pulled back at the crown, black curls cascading down her back.
A knock at the door startled her. She jumped as it cracked open.
"Are you ready?" Ambros asked, kneeling beside her.
Jules took a breath, then turned to him.
"Yes," she said sharply.
Ambros cupped her face, then kissed her cheek.
"Then he doesn't stand a chance."
Her gaze softened.
"Thank you—for everything," she said quietly.
Ambros kissed the top of her head and squeezed her hand.
"They're waiting."
She rose from the stool and descended the cathedral steps into the underhall. Buried beneath the city, it was the safest place for sacred meetings and challenges—soundproof, sealed. The tremors would go unnoticed by humans above.
Jules fought to keep her confidence as the hum of voices grew louder. Ambros took her hand, guiding her through the crowd. When they reached the clearing, the Supremes sat at the far end of the chamber, stone thrones carved to symbolize their dominance.
Before her sat two of the most powerful vampire Supremes known to man: Ivan Ioannovich and Etienne Rousseau. Their power stemmed from ancient blood, physical dominance, and political immunity. It was rare for them to appear at events like this—typically, the High Court maintained order. The Supremes concerned themselves with wars, erasure, and foreign territories.
Ivan Ioannovich, son of Ivan III Vasilyevich—Ivan the Great—was born in 1458 and turned thirty-two. Poisoned by his stepmother and left to die, he'd been saved by Etienne Rousseau himself. To the world, Ivan died of throat inflammation. In truth, Etienne's fangs had sealed his fate. He trained under Etienne before joining him to form the Supremes.
Etienne Rousseau was born in 52 BCE, in Gaul, long before France existed. He died of tuberculosis at forty, alone in a cot, drenched in sweat—until a shadow loomed over him. Pain tore through his neck. When he awoke, he was a vampire, forced to learn the rules alone.
The underhall was dark and gothic. Pillars carved with saints rose toward stained glass depicting fallen angels. Iron braziers burned with low blue flames. Beneath Jules's feet, marble floors were veined with deep crimson stone.
She bowed her head to the Supremes.
The fact that they had sent two of their most powerful rulers meant something. It meant everything.
A hush fell as Ivan leaned forward, fingers threading through his chestnut hair.
"Jules Thatcher," he said, his thick Russian accent heavy. "Have you prepared yourself?"
She nodded.
The crowd parted again.
Cassius.
He wore a dark vest, sleeves rolled, leather gloves tight around his hands. His boots were laced high at the ankles.
Etienne's dark eyes flicked to Jules.
"This is a challenge of claim and capability.
No killing blow.
Yield or submission ends the trial.
Blood may be drawn.
Power will be judged."
Cassius stepped beside Jules. He was twice her size. Standing next to him, she felt the odds shift.
Cassius entered the circle first.
"You don't belong here, girl," he snarled.
Jules followed, eyes burning.
"If I didn't, the floor wouldn't have accepted me."
Unease rippled through the crowd.
"This isn't rebellion," Cassius scoffed. "It's suicide."
"No," she said calmly. "This is succession."
He charged like a bull, slamming her into stone. Ambros clenched his jaw—but Jules didn't panic. Everything was according to plan.
She slipped low, sweeping his legs. Cassius hit the floor hard. When he charged again, furious, she leaned close.
"You fight like a man who's never been hunted," she whispered.
Snarling, he lunged—but she slipped free and sliced him with her fangs. First blood.
The Supremes leaned forward.
Cassius panted, shoulders heaving. Jules waited.
He lunged again—and Jules met him head-on.
Pressure.
Cassius stumbled back.
"What are you?" he snarled.
"I'm what comes next."
She didn't overpower him. She outclassed him.
Enraged, Cassius struck one final time, slamming her to the ground. Stone cracked beneath her.
Pinned, the Supremes exchanged glances.
Cassius smiled.
Ambros turned away. He couldn't watch.
"Yield," Jules whispered, smiling.
Cassius laughed.
Then she let go—just enough.
Power surged.
The floor cracked violently. Cassius was launched backward, gravity forgotten. His body hit the stone hard.
Silence.
Cassius tried to rise. He couldn't.
Jules stood over him, unshaken.
"I…" His voice broke. "I yield."
Ivan and Etienne rose.
"The position of Vicar is claimed."