The underground sanctum was cold, dark, and exclusive. Only those of high standing—handpicked by the Supremes—were permitted to meet in this place. Jules pulled her dark velvet cowl over her curled hair, her eyes flickering in the low light. The stone floors beneath her feet had been worn smooth by centuries of passage. Pillars loomed around her, etched with ancient vampirian sigils.
She entered a circular chamber lit by candles instead of chandeliers, the thick scent of old blood and incense heavy in the air. It was just before dawn. Jules stepped into the lion's den, her ears filling with murmured voices that fell silent as she approached.
Above everyone sat the Supremes, looming over the assembly from their stone thrones. At the center was the Supreme of Continuance, Alaric Montclair. He appeared to be in his early forties, though he had been turned in 1691 in France. Tall and lean, his ash-brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck, framing pale gray eyes that missed nothing. Once an artist, he had nearly perished in a fire before Ivan saved him. It was then that Alaric discovered his aptitude for necromancy—a power he kept carefully restrained.
Alaric believed Jules could either save the Coven or destroy it. Still, he deemed the risk worth taking.
Beside him sat the Supreme of Dominion, Isolde de Ravencourt. She appeared in her late twenties, though she had been born in 1489 during the Holy Roman Empire. Once a general, she had nearly died on the battlefield before her transformation. Her raven-black hair was braided intricately, her sharp features set in porcelain skin. Emerald eyes gleamed with quiet menace. Her power served her well as a Supreme—her voice alone could compel obedience from weaker vampires.
Beside them sat Ivan and Etienne, both of whom had grown quite fond of Jules.
Below the Supremes were the Elders. The two seated foremost were Father Malachai Thorn and Ysadora Vale.
Malachai appeared to be in his early sixties, though he had been turned in England in 1210. Once a merchant, he had been robbed and left to die on cold stone streets. His white hair was thin and wispy, his milky blue eyes deep-set and unreadable. As keeper of rituals and prophecies, Malachai possessed a rare prophetic sensitivity—one that had once drawn Seraphine to him as a mentor.
Ysadora Vale oversaw healing. She appeared in her mid-thirties, with copper-toned skin and thick black curls. Her dark eyes studied Jules without expression. Ysadora had discovered her gift for blood alchemy after her transformation in Spain in 1602. Before that, she had lived among widows following the loss of her husband. Grief had driven her to desperation—until she woke on the stone floor reborn, irrevocably changed.
On the highest tier above the Coven sat the High Council. Closest to the front was the Council Strategist, Marcus Valen. Jules remembered him as particularly difficult to please. A military genius, he was always thinking several steps ahead. His short dark hair was perfectly groomed, his piercing eyes sharp with calculation.
Jules stood alone at the edge of the chamber. She inhaled deeply, knowing this was a path she had to walk by herself. As she moved toward the center, the crowd watched her shadow stretch across the stone floor. The silence was suffocating.
Alaric rose from his throne, his gaze narrowing on her.
"I ask you," he said, his voice echoing through the chamber, "what do you leave behind?"
All eyes turned to Jules.
She took a steadying breath, releasing the fear coiled in her chest.
"I release my safety, my family name, and—" Her voice faltered on the final vow. "My right to mercy."
Alaric nodded, satisfied.
A hooded figure stepped forward beside her. Jules recognized the scent before the face.
Ambros.
An altar stood behind them, candles burning at each corner. Ambros lifted a ceremonial blade from the table and held it aloft.
"The blood oath," he murmured.
"Ambros will taste her blood," Alaric announced, "to determine whether her intentions are pure."
The blade sliced across Jules's palm. She winced, and Ambros offered an apologetic glance before tasting her blood. Once her intentions were deemed true, she was handed a second cup. Her blood mingled with that of the Court.
Jules pressed the sour liquid to her lips. It burned as it slid down her throat.
She set the cup back onto the altar—bound now, permanently, to the Coven and the Court.
A sharp voice cut through the chamber.
"Silas Marino."
Marcus Valen's eyes locked onto hers.
The name struck like a blow.
"You will see him again," Marcus continued. "And when you do, you will not act for yourself. Will you obey?"
Jules lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering.
"Yes."
Marcus paused, then pressed further.
"And if we order you to let him live?"
Her breath caught. She swallowed.
"Yes."
From the shadows, Seraphine stepped forward, placing a steady hand over Jules's bleeding palm.
"Then speak your authority."
Jules straightened, shoulders back, her eyes fixed on the Supremes.
"I do not lead with mercy," she said evenly. "I lead with consequence."
Seraphine smiled faintly.
"Rise," she said. "Vicar."