You let the parchment curl back into itself, your mind racing with possibilities. The Blood Court does not make requests—they issue commands. But you are no mere subject to be summoned at their whim. With a flick of your wrist, you summon your personal messenger—a wraith-like creature of smoke and shadow, bound to your will. It materializes at your side, its hollow eyes fixed on you in silent obedience.

"Carry this to the Blood Court," you command, pressing the parchment into its insubstantial grasp. "Tell them their prince has pressing matters in his own domain. They will have their audience, but not before the full moon." The messenger bows its head, dissolving into the night with your defiance clutched tight. Your advisor lets out a slow breath, but says nothing. He knows better than to question you.

A distant scream pierces the night, sharp and sudden. You turn your gaze toward the city, where a plume of smoke rises from the merchant district. The scent of fire—and fear—reaches you even here. The wind carries another sound, too: laughter. Dark, melodic, and unmistakably vampiric. Someone is hunting in your territory without your leave. Your fingers tighten around the railing, the stone cracking beneath your grip.