Night settled over the palace in layers, thick and deliberate, as though the sky itself had learned patience from its king.
From the highest balcony overlooking the grand hall, King Lucien stood with his hands resting lightly on the stone balustrade.
Below him, servants moved in controlled chaos, adjusting lanterns, polishing marble, draping silk banners dyed in the colors of ancient vampire houses. The palace shimmered with preparation, but Lucien saw past the surface.
This was not decoration.
It was camouflage.
Beside him stood Alaric, his right-hand man—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair pulled back with military precision. A faint scar ran from his temple to his jaw, earned decades ago in a border war that had nearly torn the kingdom apart. Alaric had served Lucien since before the crown, before the blood oath, before the world had learned to fear his name.
