The sound of the coffin slamming shut rang like a gunshot in Lucien's ears.
Not gentle. Not ceremonial. Violent. As if the one laying his father to rest was mocking the dead.
Evander Dravienne—the terror of Valemont, the unkillable patriarch—was gone. His body, sealed in ashwood and iron, lay beneath the cathedral's spires.
And someone had killed him.
Lucien stood stiff as marble, every detail of his attire precise: black overcoat, gloves, the polished silver watch ticking against his wrist. He had trained himself to feel nothing in public, but as incense curled into the rafters and whispers crawled along the cathedral walls, his chest ached with something worse than grief—rage restrained.
Who dared?
Across from him, Cassien leaned against the coffin like a wolf restless in its cage, leather jacket creasing under the weight of his impatience. Golden eyes flickered dangerously in the candlelight. Where Lucien was stillness, Cassien was movement—his half-brother, his shadow, his rival in blood and loyalty.
The funeral was not a sanctuary. It was an arena.
Vampires filled the pews in velvet and iron, witches whispered spells against their palms, and werewolves lingered at the doors like predators waiting to be unleashed. Even humans had come, clueless lambs craning their necks, gossiping about the "fallen nobleman" without realizing the city's balance of power was unraveling before their very eyes.
Then, the betrayal struck.
Nyra Vale stepped forward, her voice ringing out clear as a bell:
"Such a pity… Evander Dravienne, slain. Tell me, Lucien—do you grieve your father, or do you celebrate the empty throne?"
The cathedral shifted as whispers erupted like fire in dry grass.
Lucien's gaze swept across her. Cold. Measuring. Nyra's emerald eyes glittered with a storm only witches could conjure. Her smile was cruel, as though she already knew the truth: whoever ruled House Dravienne next would decide the fate of Valemont.
Lucien's reply was steady, each syllable sharpened like glass.
"Only a fool believes grief and strategy cannot share the same heart."
Cassien barked a laugh, too loud, too careless. "Strategy? Don't make me choke, brother. Father is dead, and while you polish your words, vultures already feed."
The crowd stirred. Vampires smirked. Witches smirked. A low growl rose from the wolves.
Lucien did not move. He simply pressed a hand against the coffin, fingers resting lightly as if to remind himself of the weight beneath the lid. Focus. Control.
But Cassien's gaze burned, reckless.
"You want the throne, don't you? Admit it. You don't care about Father. You care about power."
Lucien's jaw clenched. His voice was quieter than Cassien's, but it carried, heavy as iron:
"Our house will not fall. Not tonight. Not ever."
That was when the first candle blew out.
The cathedral dipped into shadow. A hush fell like a curtain. Every head turned as the great doors boomed open, slow and deliberate.
A figure entered.
Cloaked in midnight, face hidden, they walked with a confidence that bled menace into the room. Each step echoed louder than the bells outside, until the intruder stopped at the base of the coffin.
"Who dares—" one of the elders began, but the cloaked figure raised a single hand. He fell silent, throat closing as though invisible fingers gripped it.
The stranger's voice was low, rasping, yet unmistakably amused.
"The king is dead. Long live the war."
A ripple of dread surged through the crowd.
Lucien's eyes narrowed, calculating.
Cassien's beast stirred, rising to the surface.
And in that moment, everyone knew: the funeral had only been the opening act.
The war for Valemont had just begun.