The Dravienne estate had never been so silent.
Not even during the great wars, when witches set fire to the streets of Valemont, had its halls carried such a suffocating weight. Tonight, the silence was not of battle, but of mourning—a predator's hush before the inevitable bloodletting.
Lucien stood at the grand staircase, dressed in black velvet, every line of his form sharpened by the dim chandelier light. From that vantage, he watched the procession of vampires file into the hall, their faces carved from grief and suspicion alike. Each one whispered, their eyes never quite meeting his, as though afraid of what they might reveal.
At the heart of the hall lay Evander Dravienne's coffin—sealed, obsidian, bound in silver filigree. No one dared open it. The patriarch's death was shrouded in mystery, and among their kind, mystery was never a comfort.
Cassien lingered near the coffin's edge, his hybrid nature a stain in this sacred gathering. Half-blood. Neither fully vampire nor fully human. Yet tonight, it was his bloodline that bound him most painfully to the corpse before them.
Their eyes met across the hall.
Lucien's gaze was steel. Cassien's was flame.
Before either could break it, the sound of laughter cracked through the mourning. Jade Dravienne, clad in crimson silk rather than mourning black, strolled between the mourners with a wine goblet in hand. She sipped, smirked, and let her gaze rest pointedly on the coffin.
"Well," Jade purred, her voice carrying like a blade drawn from its sheath, "at least Father left us one last gathering before tearing us apart."
The hall shifted. Whispers rose. Anger flared.
"Show respect," Lucien said, his voice low but edged with command.
Jade only smiled wider, swirling the dark wine in her goblet. "Respect? For a man who ruled us like pawns? For a father who chose secrecy over loyalty? You'll forgive me if I don't weep."
Cassien's jaw tightened, his hybrid aura humming just beneath the surface, power he barely controlled threatening to spill. "Watch your tongue, Jade."
Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second—enough to betray that she had struck where she intended. Then she tipped the goblet in his direction and drank.
From the shadows beyond the coffin, a figure stepped forward.
Nyra Vale.
Her presence sent a ripple through the hall. The witch was dressed in midnight black, her amber pendant glowing faintly like a living flame at her throat. No witch had been openly welcomed to a vampire wake in centuries, but Nyra did not walk like an intruder. She walked like someone who belonged.
And when her eyes found Lucien's, sharp and unyielding, a dangerous silence settled.
"Your patriarch did not die a natural death," Nyra announced, voice ringing with a clarity that silenced every whisper. "He was murdered. And the blood trail runs through these very walls."
The hall erupted. Shouts, denials, accusations. A glass shattered.
Lucien's expression did not shift, though his hands curled at his sides. He had expected this. He had dreaded it. And yet hearing the words aloud cut deeper than any blade.
Cassien moved first, stepping toward Nyra, his half-vampire instincts flaring with both suspicion and something he refused to name—an inexplicable pull toward her. "Careful, witch. You speak treason."
Nyra's gaze flicked to him, unreadable, though a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "And yet… you believe me."
Their eyes locked, the air between them charged with something neither wholly hostile nor safe.
Lucien descended the stairs at last, his voice slicing through the chaos.
"Enough."
The hall fell into a brittle hush.
He stood between the coffin and the mourners, his presence iron, his control absolute. His eyes, however, lingered on Nyra, as though measuring how much of her claim was truth—and how much was a dagger meant for him.
"The wake is over," Lucien declared. "Tomorrow we begin the hunt—for traitors, for liars, for whoever dares play with Dravienne blood. Until then…" His gaze swept across the hall, dark and merciless. "Choose your words with care. For the dead are listening."
The coffin seemed to hum at his words, its silver filigree catching the light like a warning.
And somewhere, hidden beyond the reach of even vampire senses, something ancient stirred awake.