The faint clatter of dishes echoed through the grand hallway as Azazel carefully balanced the tray of food in her hands. She walked with measured steps, the weight of her disguise pressing down on her shoulders. Around her, the maids moved in synchronized precision, their faces impassive as they prepared for what seemed to be an important event—a burial ceremony, followed by a ball.
Azazel stole glances at the vampires around her. Most of them were dressed in black, mourning garb that added a heavy air to the already suffocating atmosphere. The burials were for the family members of the Crown Prince who had died in some battle she neither knew nor cared about. All Azazel needed was an opening to escape.
Yet, her luck seemed to take a cruel turn.
A tall vampire soldier approached her, his crimson eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You, maid," he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
