Princess Elara stood before the throne, her posture rigid and her face a carefully composed mask of diplomatic neutrality. To her right, Prince Darion scowled, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. Queen Lyra occupied a smaller seat to the left, her eyes sharp and watchful.
The great doors swung open with a resounding creak, and a chill seemed to sweep through the hall. Lord Draven entered, flanked by two of his vampire courtiers. Their steps were silent on the stone floor, their movements so fluid they appeared to glide rather than walk.
Elara's breath caught in her throat as she took in the full impact of the vampire delegation. Lord Draven cut an imposing figure in his midnight-black attire, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that seemed to writhe and shift in the torchlight. His pale skin had an almost luminous quality, and his dark eyes glittered with ancient intelligence.
