The funeral pyres still burned in Valemont.
Black smoke coiled above the gothic spires, staining the dawn with the stench of loss. From the Dravienne manor's balcony, Lucien watched the flames with a soldier's stillness, though every crackle of burning wood seemed to claw at his chest.
His father was gone.
But grief was a weakness, and weakness was a luxury the heir to the Dravienne line could not afford.
"Your silence will be mistaken for guilt," Jade's voice slid into the air behind him, sharp as cut glass. His sister stepped into the light, her crimson gown rippling like blood caught in the wind. "The Council already whispers. Some say you wanted him gone. Others…" Her smile curved bitterly. "Others believe Cassien had more to gain."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Cassien is too reckless to orchestrate this."
"Reckless doesn't mean innocent," Jade countered, eyes gleaming. "And you—ever the strategist—are too calculating to be trusted."
Their words hung between them, poisoned daggers neither dared sheath.
Lucien turned from the balcony, crossing the chamber with measured steps. "The witches smell weakness. The wolves circle the borders. If we fall into infighting, Valemont won't need an assassin. We'll destroy ourselves."
"Perhaps that's what Father wanted," Jade said softly, her gaze cutting past him to the burning pyres. "To see which of his children rises… and which one burns."
Before Lucien could answer, the great bell tolled from the tower below—the summons of the Vampire Council. The sound reverberated through the manor like the beating of a war drum.
Jade's smile sharpened. "They're waiting for you, brother. The weight of ashes sits on your shoulders now."
Lucien lingered only a breath, his hand brushing the pommel of the blade strapped beneath his cloak. He could almost feel his father's ghost pressing against him, whispering secrets he could no longer hear.
The Council would demand answers.
The witches would test their patience.
The wolves would howl at their gates.
And somewhere in the shadows, the truth of Evander Dravienne's death coiled like a serpent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Lucien squared his shoulders, stepping into the hall where centuries of portraits lined the walls—faces of Draviennes who had conquered, ruled, and bled for Valemont.
Now it was his turn.
But as he descended toward the Council chamber, one truth pulsed in his mind like an unhealed wound:
In Valemont, blood was never thicker than ambition.