The wax seal cracks beneath your fingers with a satisfying snap, the scent of old blood and iron rising from the parchment. You unfold the message, your eyes scanning the elegant, looping script—ink so dark it seems to pulse against the page. The words are few but weighted: 'The Court demands your presence at the next full moon. The Thorned Seat stirs. Come alone.'

A cold stillness settles in your chest. The Thorned Seat—your father’s old rival, a vampire lord who vanished decades ago after the last great war between the courts. If he has returned... You crush the parchment in your fist, the edges biting into your palm. The raven lets out a low, guttural sound, as if sensing your tension.

From below, the distant echo of laughter rises—a group of revelers stumbling through the streets, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. Your fangs prickle at the sound of their heartbeats, a rhythmic, tempting pulse. But the hunger is secondary now. The Blood Court does not 'demand' lightly. And the thought of the Thorned Seat's return coils like a serpent in your mind.

You step back inside, the heavy drapes swaying in your wake. The fire in the hearth gutters as you pass, the flames shrinking as if in deference. Your chambers are opulent but cold, every surface polished to a mirror sheen. In the reflection of a gilded frame, your eyes gleam like chips of ice. The decision is already forming, but first, you need answers—answers Valen might not willingly give.