The council chamber of the Vampire Empire shimmered beneath the cold light of a thousand suspended candles, their flames floating weightless in the air like captured souls. Power hummed beneath the marble, a silent pulse only the old bloodlines could feel.
Nickolas stood at the heart of it — regal, composed, the picture of a perfect heir. Yet in his stillness, the elders saw what they wanted to see: obedience.
From her place beside the obsidian dais, Saphine watched him with a knowing smile, her silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight. Her presence filled the chamber with a quiet, dangerous grace. When she spoke, the air itself seemed to listen.
"The human realm stirs again," she said softly. "And so does the prophecy. Alexander's bloodline has reemerged — in New York."
A murmur rippled through the council. Only Lord Kareth, the former ruler — Valerian's father — remained unmoved, his expression unreadable.
"You speak of the girl," Kareth said, voice low. "The one my son nearly died protecting."
Saphine's gaze flickered — faint amusement behind the glint of her eyes.
"He crossed the veil twice, unbidden. It shows... attachment."
"Attachment is not treason," Kareth replied evenly.
"No," she countered, stepping closer, "but it is weakness. And weakness cannot rule an empire."
Her words were poison disguised as silk, and the council drank it willingly. The eldest among them nodded, the motion setting off a ripple of assent.
Nickolas bowed slightly — the gesture respectful, but carefully measured. "Then who should?" he asked. "If Valerian is unfit to rule, who do you propose takes his place?"
Saphine's smile deepened.
"The one destined by the prophecy's new alignment — the one with enough restraint to bridge our world and theirs. You, Lord Nickolas."
The council erupted into whispers. Some protested, invoking bloodlines and sacred oaths. Others, already under Saphine's quiet influence, murmured agreement.
Kareth's gaze hardened. "My bloodline still stands. Valerian is my son."
Saphine inclined her head gracefully. "And yet, he is bound by shadows and curses of his own making. The veil does not serve him — it consumes him. You know this, old friend."
Her tone softened, almost tender. "You kept him alive. Let me keep the empire from falling."
Kareth said nothing. But his silence was all the permission the council needed.
The motion passed — Nickolas was to be presented as the provisional heir, his succession to be formalized after the Masquerade Ball in the mortal realm.
Later, in the dim corridors of the keep, Nickolas stood alone. He should have felt triumphant — yet the words Alexander's bloodline echoed in his mind like a curse.
Shyla.
There was more than mortal beauty in her; there was legacy, power, and something ancient that whispered of blood oaths and forbidden bonds.
Behind him, Saphine approached soundlessly.
"You played your part well," she said softly. "Now you must play it again. The ball will serve as both celebration and test."
"And if Valerian rises?" Nickolas asked.
Her lips curved. "Then he falls harder. The world loves a hero who dies quietly."
She brushed past him, her perfume lingering like smoke.
When she was gone, Nickolas looked toward the sealed throne room — where the former lord watched in silence.His jaw clenched.
"If the prophecy names me," he whispered to the empty hall, "then so be it. But I will not be their puppet."
Yet even as he said it, the torches along the wall flickered — as though the shadows themselves were laughing.
And somewhere deep within those shadows… Valerian stirred.