Elijah
Empire Hotel, Pandaemonium City
Yorkside region
Capital of the Kingdom
September 29th, 641412:45 pm
"Wake up!"
"No!" I groaned, burying myself deeper into the plush bed. My body was wrecked, heavy with exhaustion and a gnawing hunger I thought I had satisfied the night before. Around me, the press of warm bodies was comforting. Their skin radiated heat, their pulses tempting. The lingering scent of blood coursing beneath their flesh made my mouth twitch, but the fatigue was overwhelming. I just wanted more time. I wanted to sleep, to let my body finish healing.
And then—splosh! Ice-cold water splashed across my face, shocking me fully awake. I shot upright, sputtering as I swiped at my face. "What the fuck?" I snarled.
Stephen Marcos, my assistant, stood a step back, empty glass in hand, looking as calm and smug as ever. Her dark, tailored suit was immaculate, and her sharp gaze barely glanced at the group stirring beside me. The humans—last night's entertainment—were waking up groggily, untangling themselves from the bedsheets as they gathered their clothes. Stephen didn't so much as flinch when one of them crossed her path. She simply set the glass on the nightstand and stood aside, her arms folded, waiting for me to get moving.
I sighed, stretching stiff muscles and feeling every inch of the healing wounds still etched into my body. My mind drifted back to the events that had put me in this state—the fights, the bloodshed—and the rough recovery that had followed. By the time I'd dragged myself back to the penthouse, all I'd wanted was to drown my pain in human blood and lose myself in the comforting warmth of their bodies. But now morning had come, and apparently, so had Stephen's reminder of my responsibilities.
"You're late for your morning appointment," she said. Her tone was clipped, no-nonsense. She barely glanced at the others as they shuffled out, though I caught the slight lift of her eyebrow as one man pulled his shirt on, revealing puncture marks on his neck. The others waved half-heartedly as they left, leaving me alone with Stephen's disapproving silence.
"Do you always have to wake me up like that?" I muttered, wiping the water from my face with yesterday's shirt. I'd lost count of how many times she'd used that particular tactic. Every time I thought I'd anticipate it, she found a way to catch me off guard.
"You were taking too long—again," she replied coolly. "And the morning briefing reports are waiting." Her gaze lingered on the mess I'd made before she began tapping notes into her tablet.
I groaned again, rubbing at the persistent ache in my chest and shoulders. "What would I do without you," I muttered.
"Struggle," she replied dryly, not missing a beat. "I've sent the report to your Uni. Have a look at it."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the living area, leaving me no room to argue. I stood and stumbled to the wide windows, dragging open the heavy curtains. The morning light poured in, too bright for my taste, but it offered a sprawling view of the city. Below, the streets buzzed with ground traffic, while above, WindMobiles zipped through designated air lanes. The city's pulse was steady, alive, and relentless—a far cry from the quiet stillness I craved.
"I've got coffee with synthblood mixed in," Stephen called from the living room. Her voice carried a professional detachment, but I caught the faintest hint of concern beneath it. "It'll help get you through the morning."
She appeared at my side, a steaming mug in hand. I took it, the faint coppery tang of blood already sparking my senses. As I sipped, the familiar rush of energy flowed through me. It wasn't as rich as fresh blood, but it was enough. Enough to push me out of my lethargy and refocus my mind.
"There are clothes laid out for you," she added, glancing at her watch. "I suggest you get ready. Your next appointment won't wait."
Half an hour later, I was suited up in a tailored black Giuliano ensemble, stepping out into the crisp air outside the Empire Hotel. The sharp lines of the suit fit me perfectly, its understated elegance a statement in itself. Stephen walked beside me, tablet in hand, scrolling through the morning's briefings. I skimmed the summaries on my Uni, my mood darkening with each line. Crime rates were rising in the outlying regions, Peacekeeper funding was stretched thin, and reports from Kettlia painted a bleak picture of growing unrest. My jaw tightened as I read the latest updates from the former capital.
Two years had passed since the assassination of the former King and his family—two years of turmoil that still left scars. The flames of that night had burned more than just the palace. They had seared through the nation's sense of security, leaving a fractured kingdom that even now struggled to find balance. Some regions were finally recovering, but Kettlia was still a hotbed of instability.
I couldn't stop the memories from surfacing, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the report in my hand. The chaos, the screaming, the blood-soaked floors... I closed my eyes briefly, forcing the images away. Not now. Not today.
A sleek black car waited for us at the curb. Two guards stood at attention, opening the doors as I approached. Stephen slid into the seat beside me, her tablet still in hand, the faint glow of its screen reflecting off her sharp features. I followed, the familiar scent of leather and the low hum of the engine grounding me. As the door shut behind us, the chaos of the past receded—if only for a moment—and I prepared myself for another day of navigating the precarious new reality that had taken hold of this kingdom.
"Can't the Grand Council do something about the situation in Kettlia?" I asked, snapping my Uni closed with a frustrated motion. The screen's glow had done nothing to dispel the heaviness in my mind, the weight of reports piling on top of me. Kettlia, a volatile powder keg in the heart of the Kingdom, was one of the last remaining regions openly resisting the political shift. Riots and protests were the new normal there, the humans clinging stubbornly to a bygone era. It wasn't just nostalgia; it was raw devotion—to the former King, my uncle, who had given them that land generations ago. Even after his death, his shadow loomed large, and now, with his brother—my father—on the throne, that stubborn loyalty had turned into rebellion.
"It seems the Council isn't too fond of the Royal Cabinet's recent proposals either," Steph said from her seat beside me. Her calm, measured tone did nothing to smooth the irritation bubbling under my skin. The Royal Cabinets. I groaned at the thought of them, a collection of self-serving aristocrats who cared little for the consequences of their decrees. They were obsessed with maintaining power, no matter the cost. My dealings with them had been exhausting at best. Their latest suggestion—a proposal to enforce identifier wristbands for humans and vampires—was more than just a bad idea. It was catastrophic. Such a move would stoke the flames of rebellion, pushing the humans of Kettlia into open war. It was a fool's gambit, and as the Director of R.E.T.U, I was the one who would have to clean up the mess if they pushed it through.
The memory of my last visit to the Royal Cabinets was still fresh. Their opulent chambers, the weighty scent of rare incense hanging in the air, the gold-trimmed walls gleaming under artificial light—all of it a nauseating reminder of their decadence. They were so far removed from the reality of the common regions that I doubted they could even spell "rebellion," let alone recognize the threat of one. Yet they were the ones setting policy, the ones my father relied on. And if they got their way, Kettlia would erupt into chaos. My fists clenched at the thought, and I forced myself to take a deep breath.
The Council might have its grievances, but they weren't the ones I had to face today. That privilege belonged to the Royal Cabinets themselves, and I couldn't afford to keep them waiting. My father's temper was not a thing to be trifled with, and I'd already pushed my luck more than once. I glanced over at Steph, who was scrolling through her own Uni, her eyes flicking across the text.
"How much longer until we reach the Palace?" I asked, my voice tight.
"We're approaching the E-Gate now," she replied without looking up. "Another fifteen minutes."
I sighed, settling back into my seat as the car sped down the reserved lane. Through the tinted windows, I could see the city humming with activity. Ground traffic crawled at a steady pace, a contrast to the sleek WindMobiles zipping above. The streets were alive with pedestrians, their faces turned away from the sky, their expressions mostly unconcerned. Manaborns of all kinds moved through the thoroughfares, seemingly indifferent to the unseen forces holding their fragile peace together. The buildings we passed were adorned with banners and garlands, decorations for Remembrance Day. Even now, workers hung lights and flags from the highest balconies. The sight brought a bitter taste to my mouth.
Remembrance Day. A time to honor those lost in the Long War, to remember the sacrifices made and the lives torn apart. But for me, the holiday was a cruel reminder of everything I had lost. My cousin Ariella had been among those taken, her life extinguished in that fire two years ago. Her laughter, her quick wit, her unwavering belief in me. All of it was gone. I reached into my pocket, pulling out the old locket watch I always carried. Its smooth, worn surface felt cool in my hand as I opened it. Inside was a tiny picture of us together, a snapshot of a simpler time. I stared at my own younger face, so different from the man I had become. But Ariella—she looked timeless. She had been fourteen then. If she were alive now, she'd be sixteen.
Next to her was another girl. A human. Lilith. Her dark hair fell across her face, her smile hesitant. She had been Ariella's protector, her best friend. A human bodyguard among the royal guards. It had seemed so strange at the time, but Ariella had seen something in her, something none of us understood. I hadn't trusted her. I'd felt an unshakable unease around her, a deep, primal fear that I couldn't explain. And yet, she had stayed at Ariella's side—until the end. No one knew if she had survived that night. If she had, she had failed her duty. But she had also been Ariella's closest confidant. For that, I had mourned her.
"Director, we've reached the gate station," Steph said, pulling me from my thoughts. I closed the locket with a soft click, slipping it back into my pocket as the car slowed. A tall white gate loomed ahead, flanked by guards in crisp uniforms. The driver flashed his credentials, and one of the guards waved us through. The gate parted, revealing the gateway ahead: twin pillars of ancient stone standing in a perfect circle, etched with runes that glimmered faintly even in the daylight.
I stepped out of the car as my guards opened the door for me. The sunlight was harsh, glinting off the polished stone of the courtyard. I retrieved a pair of sunglasses from my coat and slipped them on, the tinted lenses shielding my eyes from the glare. Steph joined me, walking close behind as we approached the gateway. The guards at the pillars stood at attention, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. One of them nodded to me before activating the controls. The runes began to glow brighter, and a faint hum filled the air. A flash of light cut through the space between the pillars, and the gateway shimmered into existence—a dark, swirling void that seemed to pull at the edges of reality.
I took a deep breath and stepped through. The sensation was disorienting, a momentary loss of balance and a strange, twisting pressure in my chest. But it passed quickly, leaving me on the other side. The palace grounds stretched out before me, pristine and orderly, the towering spires reaching into the sky. A cluster of servants in violet uniforms waited at the edge of the platform, bowing as I stepped forward. The woman at the front, Sevika, greeted me with a warm smile, though her eyes were wary. I returned her nod and let my sunglasses slide down my nose slightly, taking in the imposing grandeur of the palace.
For all its beauty, this place had become a den of vipers. The power struggles that had erupted after the King's death still lingered, festering beneath the polished veneer. My next meeting would be no different—a room full of scheming aristocrats and power-hungry ministers. I straightened my jacket, adjusted my cuffs, and prepared myself for the subtle daggers and veiled threats that awaited me.
"Prince Elijah, His Majesty is awaiting your presence in the cabinet chamber," Sevika said, her voice smooth but taut with formality.
"Thank you," I replied curtly. The sun's relentless glare vanished as we entered the shaded corridor leading away from the E-gate courtyard. Its cool, quiet atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the world outside. I turned to my guards with a dismissive gesture. "You're dismissed," I said. There was no need for them here. Within these walls, the threats were far more subtle—and far more dangerous.
I felt the weight of their gazes the moment I crossed the threshold. Twenty-two pairs of Vampiric eyes locked onto me, their scrutiny as sharp and unrelenting as a pack of wolves sizing up a wounded deer. These were not the eyes of allies. These were the eyes of political predators, each seeking the slightest tremor of weakness, the smallest hint of vulnerability.
The room was austere, dominated by a long rectangular table of dark, polished mahogany. The stark white marble walls reflected the artificial sunlight streaming through high windows, casting stark shadows that seemed to dance uneasily across the chamber. At the far end of the table, seated on a monumental throne carved from a single block of gray-veined marble, was my father, Nehemiah Ashtarmel.
He was an imposing figure. His chestnut-colored skin and thick brown hair stood in sharp contrast to the traditional Ashtarmel features of silver-blond hair and indigo eyes. He lacked the ethereal beauty of the Old-blood lineage, his appearance instead bearing the rugged mark of a life before his transformation. That difference was a constant reminder of his origins as a human, long before my grandfather turned him into a Vampire. He bore it like a badge of defiance, a symbol that New-bloods could rise to heights that many Old-bloods considered unthinkable.
My father's scarlet eyes burned like embers beneath heavy brows, and his expression was unreadable—an impenetrable mask that betrayed neither approval nor condemnation. But the tension in the air told me enough. This meeting was not called for trivial matters. The Mircalla House was behind the current unrest, their defiance of the crown a thorn that had festered for too long. This meeting would determine how far my father was willing to go to maintain his grip on the kingdom.
The Ashtarmel House was still the most powerful of the seven noble houses, even after the chaos that had erupted two years ago. The Varnae and Mircalla Houses, the next most influential within Ashtarium, could not match the strength and reach of our family. The Ashtarmels had survived assassination attempts, political machinations, and even open rebellion. A year ago, we had sent the head of a Mircalla assassin back to their lord as a grim reminder of who held the power. Despite their hatred of my father's New-blood status, the other noble houses had no choice but to bow—if not out of loyalty, then out of fear.
I took my place at the table, my gaze steady as I slid into the chair between the Directors of Defense and Energy. My father's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, a silent question in his eyes. Did he suspect my involvement in last night's incident? I prayed silently to the Divine Mother that he didn't. I kept my face neutral, my posture composed. If there was one thing my father detested, it was weakness, and showing even a hint of hesitation in this room would only add fuel to the fires smoldering in the minds of those present.
The Director of Transportation resumed his report, his voice steady but his shoulders tense. "…and with the continued closure of the Zellux region, our supply of Barium has reached critically low levels. Without immediate action, we're looking at a full depletion of reserves within eight months."
Barium was not merely a resource; it was the lifeblood of the kingdom's stability. It fueled the Dome that enveloped the thirteen regions of Ashtarium, ensuring the existence of an artificial sun, continuous daylight, and life-sustaining warmth. Without it, the carefully cultivated balance between the human populace and the vampire elite would begin to erode. Yet Father's lack of concern for the kingdom's human citizens was clear. Kettlia's struggles, the riots, and the resistance against his rule served as glaring evidence of his indifference. Even now, the empty seats at this meeting raised unsettling questions. The Representative of the Human Council and the Regional Lord of Zellux were conspicuously absent. Countess Mircalla's absence was no surprise—she had long been a thorn in my father's side, a symbol of resistance. But Tilman's absence hinted at something worse: that Kettlia's unrest was far more volatile than I had assumed. Had relations with the Grand Duke crumbled beyond repair? My eyes scanned the other Regional Lords, their holographic forms flickering with an almost ghostly presence. Their expressions were inscrutable, offering no insight into what plots might already be unfolding.
The only physical figures in the room, aside from Father and myself, were the Executive Directors—and the Enchantress. She stood to my father's right, an unsettling specter draped in black robes, her braided hair adorned with crow feathers. Her dark skin was marked with runes that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive. Her eyes, fathomless and black as the void, fixed on me. They seemed to pull at my very soul, threatening to unravel every secret I had ever kept. I remembered the first time I saw her, the raw menace she exuded. The stories of Witches from the Long War had not done her justice. Her presence was living proof of why the vampires had emerged victorious, and it was unclear how or where Father had acquired her loyalty. But with her at his side, his authority had become almost unassailable. Her very existence was a message to all who opposed him: tread lightly, or face the wrath of the arcane.
"We might as well let it run its course," Father declared lazily, reclining in his marble throne. His voice carried a faint trace of amusement, as though the current crisis were no more than a minor inconvenience. "If the Countess believes cutting our supply of Barium will cripple us, then she is as foolish as I always suspected." A collective tension rippled through the chamber. The silence that followed his insult was deafening. Even though the Mircalla family's rebellion was an open secret, the gravity of his disdain was not lost on anyone. Countess Patricia Mircalla was ancient, far older than my father, and her power was legendary. Yet Father dismissed her as if she were no more than an irritating fly. "We vampires are creatures of darkness," he continued. "Children of the joyful night. For centuries, we've let the Merciful Light lull us into complacency. But it is a lie. The true light is still merciless, still waiting beyond the Eternal Night. It is time we reclaim our place in the shadows."
"But my Lord," Director Bathory interjected carefully, "even if we can do without the Dome, we cannot do without the resources it provides." Dr. Christopher Bathory, the lone human at the table, was the head of the most influential scientific and technological family in the kingdom. Though my father disdained humans, he knew the Bathory name carried enough weight to demand respect, and thus, the doctor was allowed a voice—albeit a cautious one.
"The Doctor is correct, Your Majesty," the Director of Treasury added. "Barium is one of the most sought-after minerals on the continent. Our trade agreement with Grigori depends heavily on it. Losing that relationship would devastate our economy."
Father waved a dismissive hand. "The feather king should understand that the time of the sun has long since passed," he said with a smirk.
"King Morningstar is no ordinary ruler," the Enchantress said, her voice a chilling whisper that carried effortlessly through the chamber. "As a member of the Paragons, it would be unwise to provoke him." Her words were met with silence. Even I felt my breath hitch at the mention of the Paragons, the most powerful beings from each Etherborn race. Their authority was unmatched. King Morningstar was not only the leader of the Paragons, but also the head of the Ranger Force—an elite organization tasked with maintaining global stability.
"Wasn't the boy considered a pacifist?" Lord Noxus Varnae asked, his tone dripping with arrogance. The smug Regional Lord of Adornia and Nexia enjoyed testing boundaries, and his words carried a thinly veiled sneer.
"Yes," the Enchantress replied coolly. "A pacifist who stood by as his cousin's people faced extinction to end the Long War. At least, that's what the history books say." The room fell silent again, her words a sharp reminder of the war's dark legacy. The Long War had been a cataclysm that nearly destroyed the world, and its scars lingered even now, millennia later.
"She isn't wrong," Father said. His tone softened, just slightly, as he leaned back. "I remember the Nephilim from the war. Their strength was... formidable." Sometimes, I forgot that my father and my uncle Rafael had both fought in that ancient conflict. "If the Paragons hadn't agreed to the Eternal Night, who knows how it all would have ended."
Director Bathory's voice carried a weight that could not be dismissed. "Part of that agreement was the invention of the Sundome," he said, his tone cautious yet firm. "Without a steady supply of Barium, Grigori will run dry. That would not only cripple our economy but risk provoking the wrath of King Morningstar."
Father leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the armrests of his grand throne. "So, how do we resolve this Zellux situation?" he asked, though I could sense he wasn't particularly interested in my opinion. His question felt more like a formality than a genuine request for advice.
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps we should consider reopening negotiations," I suggested, deliberately keeping my tone even, measured. But before I could finish, Isaiah cut me off.
"The time for negotiations is long past," my older brother declared sharply. His voice carried that grating tone he always used when he wanted to assert himself. Seated on Father's right hand, he radiated self-assured arrogance. "We know what the Mircalla House is after—independence."
"And is that so terrible?" I countered, shooting him a hard glance. "Zellux was once a sovereign nation before we annexed it. Their desire for independence is not without merit."
Father's gaze turned cold, his tone curt. "My father, Alexander Ashtarmel, brought Zellux into the fold," he said. "That is part of his legacy. I will not allow it to be stripped away from our House."
I clenched my fists under the table, biting my tongue. He spoke of legacy, yet he showed no concern for preserving my uncle Rafael's memory or the Sundome that had been his crowning achievement. But challenging him openly would lead nowhere.
The Enchantress's voice slipped into the conversation, smooth and deliberate. "Perhaps Zellux requires a more…precise approach. Something that can be handled quietly, with little trace." The faintest hint of a smile played on her lips, though it didn't reach her fathomless black eyes.
Murmurs rippled through the room. The idea of covert action against the Mircalla House wasn't just dangerous—it bordered on madness. If word ever spread that we had resorted to such tactics, the entire kingdom could fracture.
"What are you suggesting?" Father asked, his interest piqued. I noted the sharp glint in his eyes. He was considering it, which unsettled me deeply.
"El Mawet and his crew," the Enchantress said calmly, as if discussing the weather. My blood ran cold at the mention of that name. I fought to maintain a neutral expression, but my mind raced. Not him. Not his squad. They were notorious, a shadowy force of elite assassins who operated with surgical precision—and with no regard for collateral damage.
Father chuckled darkly, sitting back in his chair. "My brother's old crew," he mused. "They've handled worse. But if they fail…"
"They won't fail," Isaiah interjected. "If there's any team capable of infiltrating Zellux and neutralizing the Countess, it's El Mawet's."
"And what of the aftermath?" I challenged. "What if her death turns her into a martyr? The people of Zellux might rise against us en masse."
Isaiah's smirk was infuriating. "Since when did you care so much about the people of Zellux? Oh, I see—you're just worried about the extra work it'll bring you."
I leaned forward, fixing him with a glare. "Does Isaiah speak for you now, Father?"
Father silenced us both with a low growl, baring his razor-sharp fangs in warning. "Enough." He turned back to the Enchantress. "How do we ensure this doesn't lead back to us?"
"You can leave that to me," she replied without hesitation.
The tension in the room eased slightly as Father nodded. But my mind churned with unease. The decision to send in El Mawet could not be undone, and its consequences would be severe.
With the Zellux issue settled—or at least pushed into the shadows—attention shifted to the ongoing unrest in Kettlia. "Are we going to address the situation in Perium?" I asked, my voice steady, though my heart pounded. This was a sensitive topic, and I knew it.
Father dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Send in the Peacekeepers to maintain order," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "And remind the Council that I could rip their spines from their backs and replace them with humans who will obey."
I swallowed my frustration, carefully choosing my next words. "That might not be enough if the Grand Duke is involved."
The room grew deathly still. Even Director Bathory seemed to hold his breath. Father turned his smoldering gaze on me, his anger barely contained. But I pressed on. "Representative Tilman's absence today isn't a coincidence. The Grand Duke might have already given up on negotiations."
Fathers' growl rumbled like distant thunder. "The Grand Duke knows better than to defy me."
"Forgive me, Father," I said carefully, "but the only reason we have peace right now is because the Grand Duke allows it."
Isaiah erupted, his voice full of venom. "You insolent—"
"Again," the Enchantress interrupted, her tone calm but firm, "Elijah is correct. Kettlia's military resources are substantial. If we push the Grand Duke too far, the kingdom could plunge into chaos."
Father stared at me for what felt like an eternity. I held his gaze, willing myself not to flinch. Finally, he relented, his growl softening. "Fine. We will deal with Kettlia when the time comes." With that, the conversation moved on. Though I felt a small victory, I knew the storm was far from over. Each decision made in that room carried consequences that rippled beyond the palace walls. The kingdom's fragile balance teetered on the edge, and I feared it would soon come crashing down.
We shifted focus to the land far south of the western hemisphere: Xibalba. The mere mention of it set my teeth on edge, frustration mounting as I struggled to hold my tongue.
"How is the negotiation proceeding?" Father asked, directing his cold, deliberate gaze at Andrew Inez, the Director of Regions. Inez fumbled, his voice trembling as if already anticipating the wrath about to descend.
"King Gomez…has withdrawn fr-from nego—"
"Really?" Father cut him off, his growl echoing through the chamber. With a snap of his fingers, a band of crimson light coiled around Inez's throat. Before anyone could react, Inez was yanked off the ground and pinned against the ceiling. Every eye in the room was on him, and the weight of Father's fury was palpable.
"I made it clear I wanted that land," Father hissed, the glowing band tightening. Inez's neck strained under the pressure, blood seeping out and dripping onto the table below. I dared not move. The tension in the chamber had become so thick it felt like the air itself had been sucked away. Father could end him with a thought, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd made such an example of someone.
Inez managed to stammer through the constriction, desperation etched into his face. "But…my Grace…the former King signed a contract…with King Gomez. The land is…neutral…we can't—"
He didn't get the chance to finish. Father's hand flicked dismissively, and Inez's head separated from his body with a sickening snap. The room fell deathly silent. The headless corpse hovered in the air for a moment before crumbling into ash as Father's light disintegrated it completely. All that remained was the lingering scent of burned flesh and the stunned expressions of the vampires present. No one dared to move or even breathe too loudly. Father's demonstration was calculated, a grim reminder of the power he wielded and the consequences of failing him.
"It seems," Father said coolly, as though nothing unusual had occurred, "we'll need a new Director of Regions—someone capable of getting results."
The Enchantress stepped forward, her voice measured, steady. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
And just like that, the meeting was over, the finality of it ringing in the oppressive silence that followed.
*
After the meeting, I anticipated Father would summon me to his private reading chambers. I sent Steph back to the home office, leaving me to handle the family matters alone. Surprisingly, when I arrived, Father showed no sign of bringing up my earlier objections. I half-expected some chastisement, some veiled warning, but he was silent on the matter. Instead, we settled into a familiar routine: a small table set with Berlin pie, the maids carefully laying out the delicate slices and pouring blood-infused wine into crystal glasses.
Father's chambers were steeped in a heavy atmosphere, the scent of old parchment mingling with a faint metallic tang. The towering shelves brimmed with books, both ancient and modern, arranged with meticulous precision—philosophy, science, literature, and occult texts all clearly categorized. I glanced around, my gaze catching on the intricately carved spines of tomes that had once belonged to my uncle. As a child, this had been forbidden territory, a place Ariella, Lilith, and I had only dared to explore in stolen moments. I could almost hear Ariella's voice again, teasing me for my nervousness. She had been braver than I ever was.
Once the maids had finished pouring the wine, they performed their routine gesture, slicing their wrists with deft precision. The scent of fresh blood wafted through the room, warm and heady, stirring a primal hunger in the depths of my being. I fought it down, keeping my expression composed, and reached for the pie instead. Isaiah didn't bother with such restraint; he took a long sip from his glass, drawing a sharp glance from Father. He, too, picked up his fork, pointedly ignoring the wine at first. The maids finished their task, standing in quiet submission as Father handed each of them a vial of his own blood—a rejuvenating gift that would allow them to heal and return to their duties.
"So, Elijah," Father began, his tone deceptively casual. "How is your position treating you?"
I took a deliberate sip of wine, letting the fiery rush fill my senses before responding. "It's going well enough. Managing other people's lives has given me a new appreciation for how much you and Mother handled." It wasn't entirely a lie, though not the whole truth either. I was using my position for more personal reasons, far removed from the noble ideals of duty and legacy.
"At least you're finally pulling your head out of those old fairy tales," Isaiah muttered under his breath.
I opened my mouth to retort, but Father's sharp voice cut across the table. "Children."
Swallowing my irritation, I returned to my pie. Yet, as much as I focused on the simple act of eating, my mind drifted back to the meeting. The tension, the outright fear Father instilled—it lingered like a thick fog. I couldn't help but compare him to his brother, King Rafael. My uncle had ruled differently, with a measured hand and a focus on unity rather than dominance. He would never have resorted to the kind of brutal displays Father seemed to enjoy.
"Was it truly necessary to kill the Director?" I finally asked. I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.
Father's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of amusement in his crimson eyes. "Fear, my son, is a weapon. It reminds those around you who holds power and ensures their loyalty. If they see one of their own—someone supposedly immortal—fall, they remember how fragile their position truly is."
His voice took on a familiar cadence, the same sermon I'd heard since childhood. "We are blessed," Father continued. "Blessed to be stronger, faster, immortal. But that immortality brings its own curse: fear. Fear of death. Fear of losing what we have. And that fear, Elijah, is a tool."
I clenched my fists under the table. I'd grown weary of this refrain, this justification for every cruel action. "And what about respect?" I asked.
Father smiled thinly. "Respect comes second to fear. Respect without fear is weakness."
Isaiah, who had been quietly seething since the earlier meeting, spoke up. "Elijah insulted you in front of the entire cabinet, Father. And you're just going to let that slide?"
"Your brother did his job," Father said evenly. "As Director of R.E.T.U., it's his responsibility to maintain order, even if that means bringing up uncomfortable truths. Your role, Isaiah, is to prepare for war, to protect this kingdom from threats external and internal. Focus on that."
I almost smiled at Isaiah's scowl. Father's unexpected defense left him simmering with barely contained anger.
When the conversation finally shifted to other matters, I excused myself as quickly as possible. My patience was fraying, and every second in that chamber felt like a lifetime. Walking down the corridor, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Yet the ache in my chest remained, a dull, constant reminder of what had been lost.
As I wandered the palace halls, my steps took me toward Ariella's wing. The heavy doors were shut, the rooms untouched since her death. I stopped in front of them, one hand brushing against the polished wood. Memories flooded back—her laughter, her boldness, her unshakable belief in me. I wanted to open the doors, to see what lay inside, but I couldn't bring myself to. Some wounds never truly healed.
With a deep breath, I stepped back. This wasn't the time to indulge in grief. I had work to do, a target to find. I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket, its texture coarse and unfamiliar compared to the sleek, digital interfaces I usually relied on. The name written on it was plain, unremarkable. But to me, it was everything. It was the key to understanding what had really happened two years ago.
Holding that piece of paper, I felt a mix of determination and guilt. People had died to bring me this information, lives cut short by my pursuit of the truth. My hands trembled as I recalled their faces, fleeting shadows in the night. Soon enough, there would be an investigation, questions asked, consequences to face. But for now, I had what I needed.
Clenching the paper tightly, I let the weight of my resolve steady me. No matter the cost, I would find the answers I sought. And when I did, the one responsible for Ariella's death would pay.