You crumple the parchment in your fist, the brittle sound of it folding in on itself lost to the wind. The raven's message is dire, but the council's unrest is immediate. Turning from the balcony, you stride into the great hall, the heavy sweep of your cloak stirring the dust on the marble floor. 'The Blood Court will wait,' you say, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. 'Our people come first.'

Your advisor hesitates, his skeletal fingers twitching at his sides. 'My prince, the First—' 'Is not yet awake,' you interrupt. 'And if he does stir, it will not be tonight.' The advisor's lips purse, but he dips his head in acquiescence. You can almost taste his unease, bitter as old wine.

The castle halls are dimly lit as you descend to the council chambers, the torches flickering as if in warning. The council members are already assembled when you enter, their murmurs ceasing abruptly. Lord Veyne, a broad-shouldered vampire with a jagged scar across his throat, stands first. 'You kept us waiting,' he growls. The accusation hangs thick in the air.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. 'And yet here you are,' you reply, your tone glacial. 'Speak your piece, Veyne. Or do you only know how to whine?' The chamber falls deathly silent. Veyne's fists clench, but he does not rise to the bait. Instead, Lady Seris, her dark hair coiled like a nest of serpents, leans forward. 'The humans grow bold,' she says. 'They whisper of witch hunters in our midst.'

A murmur ripples through the council. Witch hunters—fanatics who burn even the suspicion of vampirism at the stake. You exhale through your teeth. This is not the time for such distractions. 'Then let them whisper,' you say. 'And when they dare to act, we will remind them why the night belongs to us.'