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My thoughts are cut short when the ceremony begins without fanfare.

Soft murmurs rise as the men speak the old vows in unison, their voices blending into a low, resonant chant. I repeat each line after them, my voice steady even as the weight of the words settles into my bones:

“I swear to protect the House of Night.

I swear to honor the rites of the dead.

I swear to maintain balance in Forsyth.

I swear to be the hand that guides, the voice that commands, and the shield that stands between our people and oblivion.”

Graves steps forward and takes my right hand. With the ceremonial knife, he makes a clean cut across my scarred palm. Blood wells up immediately, dark and rich. I hold my hand over the silver bowl and let several drops fall into the liquid below. The offering is accepted with a collective exhale from the council.

Professor Hawthorne then lifts the King’s mask from a velvet cushion on the altar. It’s ornate yet understated, carved with subtle runes and crowned with a faint silver filigree that catches the candlelight like starlight on water.

I take the mask with both hands and place it over my face.

The world narrows. The cool metal and fabric press against my skin, molding to the contours of my face. It feels heavy. Not just physically, but spiritually—a tangible symbol of everything I have just sworn to carry.

For a long beat, no one speaks.

Then, in perfect unison, the council bows their heads.

“Long live the King,” they murmur, the words reverberating through the sacred chamber like a prayer.

I stand in the center of the rotunda, masked and anointed, feeling the full, crushing weight of what I have just become.

Hours later, I pace before the King’s throne with my hands clasped tight behind my back, the heavy iron and carved wood looming over me like it’s waiting for its true owner to return. The torches lining the walls of the old ritual chamber flicker and spit, casting long, dancing shadows across the gathered faces of the Barons. Hunter stands at my right shoulder, silent and solid, his presence the only thing keeping the room from boiling over.

Every remaining member of the frat was called back to Forsyth early from holiday break. The summons was blunt and non-negotiable. They’ve all heard the rumors about what happened at the Mercer Christmas party by now, whispering through Forsyth’s version of the ‘telephone game.’ Mashed-up details whispered around the bar at the Gentlemen’s club, shared in a bed down at the Hideaway, or passed around anywhere people like to gossip. But none of them have heard it straight from us. The anxious energy in the room is thick enough to choke on—restless shifting, low murmurs, eyes darting between Hunter and me like they’re trying to brace themselves for what’s to come.

I chose not to wear a mask for my first act as King. The darkness used the secrets and cloaks and masks of this house to fester. This moment is about transparency. Every last card needs to be exposed.

Including mine.

I let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil tighter, then I speak, voice low and steady.

“Just before Christmas, there was another kidnapping attempt on the Baroness. The former Barons, Liam and Billy, revealed themselves as the monsters lurking beneath Forsyth. During her rescue, the King was injured. Gravely.” I pause, letting the words land. “He’s in recovery right now. Fighting for his life. Because it is not his time to cross over.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. Some men go completely still. Others exchange quick, uneasy glances. A few look genuinely pissed, jaws clenched, fists curling at their sides.

I carefully watch every reaction, and continue, “Billy and Liam aren’t the only betrayers. Mateo turned as well.”

A senior near the back spits on the stone floor in disgust, muttering, “Son of a fucking bitch.” Hunter and I scan the room carefully, cataloging every face, every flinch, every flicker of emotion. We have no idea if there’s anyone in the group waiting to betray us further, but I know that no one is leaving this room until we find out.

Slade’s voice cuts through the noise, loud and direct. He’s impossible not to notice, with his height and size. “Is it true that the King has been revealed to be Timothy Maddox?”

The room goes dead quiet again.

I meet his stare without flinching. “It’s true.”

Jace—his twin—leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Did you know this?”

Hunter answers before I can, his tone flat and final, “We did. But very few others were aware. Until now.”

“The King revealed himself to save his Baroness,” I add.

“It was an act of sacrifice,” Jace says, nodding, like it’s all coming together for him. “He’d fucking die for his wife.”