"What in the realms is he thinking, that we would fight to get her back just to hand her off — to him —another insufferable king?" She questioned. Kael caught the slight tilt of her head, the twitch of her brow, she'd never admit it aloud but he knew she had come to care for Maris.
“Prepare the war table,” Kael commanded. “Summon all nobles— every vampire lord, every fae matriarch, every nightbound warrior loyal to Nythra. We will meet tonight.”
Riven inclined his head. “Even House Morran?”
“If they refuse,” Kael said coldly, “burn their lands, kill them for defiance.”
The generals rose, bowed before their king and faded into the echoing halls.
Kael stood for a breath, staring down at the flames, the blackened crisps of parchment. He looked toward the window, toward the mountains to the west, and beyond it to where the sea cliffs rose in Nerium.
Valea followed his gaze, she spoke firm and true. "We'll get her back, Highness. He will bleed."
She turned her head and he met her gaze. "You are not the only one willing to draw blood for her."
Kael growled and turned —cloak billowing behind him, he had war to plan.
The great hall of Calyrix had not been this full inover a century.
It stank of clashing perfumes, iron-polished armor, and old bloodlines clawing to stay relevant. Fires roared in blackened hearths along the curved walls, casting flickering shadows on the marble map table that stretched the room’s center. Every mountain ridge, and river vein of the continent carved into its surface —stained with age, scorched at the edges from past councils that had not ended in peace.
Kael stood at the head of it, his hands flat against the stone, silver eyes scanning the faces of every noble, general, and emissary who dared meet his gaze.
Fae lords with gossamer cloaks and starlit tattoos. Vampire nobles with onyx rings and long-forgotten coats of arms. Nightbound leaders like statues carved from obsidian.
And among them… House Morran.
One of the oldest families. Reclusive. Wealthy. Cowards.
Lord Gerris Morran wore his disdain like a badge, leaning lazily in his carved chair as if Kael were some petulant child with delusions of war.
“We do not believe this is our fight,” he said smoothly, voice like rotted silk. “Calanthe is your obsession —not ours. We have remained untouched by these petty squabbles for centuries.”
A rumble echoed through the chamber. The twin generals tensed. Corin’s eyes narrowed. Riven’s hand drifted to his sword.
Kael smiled.
Slow. Cold. Deadly.
“I see,” he said softly, stepping from the head of the table.
The other nobles parted as he moved, his steps deliberate, quiet.
“I suppose when the gods cursed our lands,” Kael continued, “you must have mistaken that plague for everyday aliments. When our fields died, simply bad weather. When thenightmares began crawling past the Veil tearing apart our soldiers and villagers in their sleep — maybe you assumed them to be kin of your household.”
He stopped before Lord Morran’s chair.
“You must have been very warm in your manor to miss all the screams.”
The lord lifted his chin, defiant. “We’ve buried our own. But we do not spill blood for ghost stories and rivalries, especially human consorts.” He attempted to strike a verbal blow, but missed.
Kael’s hand moved so fast, half the room gasped.
The blade was short. Black as pitch. A dagger honed from volcanic glass, a gift to a former king long ago. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t blink.
He drove it into Lord Morran’s throat with the ease of gutting a pig, his shadows pulse out like blades serving his head cleanly.
The noble around the table choked in horror, blood spraying in pulsing streams down the table, staining the edge of the map. But not a soul in the room dared lift a hand.
