Valen freezes mid-step at your command, his silhouette stiffening against the torchlit archway. Without turning, his voice comes thin and wary. "My prince?"

You uncurl your fingers, letting the Blood Court's sealed message dangle carelessly between them. "You've served this court for centuries," you say, stepping forward until the chill of your presence makes his aging muscles tense. "Yet now you play messenger for those who question my rule?" The parchment crinkles as your grip tightens. "Speak plainly. Who leads this discontent?"

A shudder runs through Valen's hunched shoulders. When he faces you, his lips are drawn back from yellowed fangs in what might be a grimace or a plea. "Lord Malrik," he confesses. The name hangs between you like a struck bell. "He gathers the eastern lords—whispers that you're too young, too... human still in your hungers."

Moonlight glints off your smirk as you recall Malrik—a bloated leech who'd voted against your ascension. "And my nocturnal habits trouble him?" you purr, tracing a nail along Valen's wrinkled cheek. "How ironic."

The advisor's breath comes shallow. "They plan to challenge you at the council. Demand you take a consort from the pureblood lines to... steady your nature."

A growl vibrates in your chest. The raven, still perched nearby, ruffles its feathers nervously. You snap the Blood Court's seal with a twist of your wrist. The parchment unfurls, revealing a single line of script in dried blood: The Thorned Rose blooms at the witching hour.