Chapter 103: Whispers After The Sovereign Council
Below the grand chamber’s vaulted ceiling, the last of the vampire lords filed out in pairs or small clusters, their whispered farewells and curt nods fading into the cavernous halls. Their long cloaks trailed behind them, boots echoing against polished obsidian floors. Words were low and clipped—talk of troop movement, allies, and bloodshed. By the time the heavy oak doors creaked shut, only four figures remained.
King Valerion Blackthorne, seated on his obsidian throne; King Seraphim of Norrix standing calmly before him, and the royal twins—Azrael and Raphael—silent at their father's sides.
Seraphim inclined his head once to Valerion. “Your Majesty, I’d like a word. Alone.”
Valerion’s crimson gaze flicked to Azrael and Raphael. He gestured with a slow, deliberate motion. “You two may leave us.”
Azrael swallowed. Raphael’s jaw twitched—but neither dared to protest. They bowed once to their father, then slipped past Seraphim.
The heavy doors shut behind them with a deep, echoing thud.
Azrael stopped just outside the chamber and leaned her back against the cold stone wall. Her hand went to her chest, pressing lightly as if trying to slow her racing heart.
Raphael stood a few steps away, arms crossed tightly, face still. But she could tell—he felt it too. That quiet heaviness. Like a storm pressing in behind the castle walls.
He broke the silence first. “What do you think—what could Father and Seraphim want to discuss behind closed doors?”
Azrael closed her eyes and exhaled, the hush of the corridor amplifying her heartbeat. “I don't have even the faintest idea. But that—” she pressed a hand to her chest, “—isn’t what’s bothering me at this very moment.”
Raphael shifted, arms folding. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I feel it too. A… weight.” He tapped his fingers against the back of his hand. “In a fortnight, the council begins in earnest. Forces will be marshaled. Lines drawn. The war… it’s real now.”
They began walking slowly through the long corridor. The flames from the torches along the walls flickered over their faces, casting faint shadows.
“I can’t stop thinking about what’s coming,” Azrael said softly. “Everything is moving too fast. The armies, the alliances, the bloodlust. Everyone’s ready to kill. But no one is stopping to ask if this war even makes sense anymore.”
Raphael glanced at her, curious. “What do you mean?”
Azrael’s voice lowered. “Something’s wrong, Raphael. I feel it in my bones. It’s like we’re all being pushed—vampires, lycans, even the witches—toward something bigger than just old grudges.”
Raphael said nothing, so she kept going.
“During the war council… I kept thinking about Eva.”
His expression darkened. “She died horribly, Azrael. I know it hurts. But this isn’t the time for—”
“No—listen! I’m not talking about the grief. I’m talking about the wounds,” she said, stopping mid-step. “The ones the malformed lycan carved into her flesh… They weren’t normal. No Lycan could inflict such wounds, not even the alphas.”
Raphael blinked. “Go on.”
Azrael’s gaze hardened. “Do you remember when father sent me on a mission to investigate a massacre at the manor of Lord Calder?”
Raphael frowned, brows knitting. “That was before you executed an ambush on Bloodmoon… before Draven ever set foot in Blackthorne. Yes, I remember. Father said it was an attack by lycans. Brutal. One survivor.”
Azrael nodded. “That’s the one. The one vampire that survived said it was a single lycan. Bigger than anything she had ever seen. Malformed. Covered in uneven patches of fur. And its claws—she said they were long like spears. The victims all died because their wounds refused to heal—just like Eva!”
Raphael’s face drained of color as realization dawned on him. “You—” his voice cracked, “you mean it's the same… abomination?”
“Yes.” Azrael nodded, her voice urgent. “They thought it was a lycan pack strike. We struck back—Bloodmoon pack came, Draven marked me… But I was wrong. That… thing was unleashed twice—at Calder’s and in the sacred grove.” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Somebody used black magic to mutate a lycan into a weapon, and pin these atrocities on our people.”
Raphael closed his eyes, the corridor’s shadows shifting over his face. Finally he spoke, soft but fierce. “So we’ve been played from the start. Both sides were tricked into thinking it was each other?”
Azrael let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d held. “Yes.” She turned to face him fully, her golden eyes blazing. “We’re marching into a war built on lies and manipulation. The vampire race and the Lycan race—they’ll slaughter each other while the real puppeteer stays hidden.”
She leaned closer, her golden eyes searching his. “I don’t know how to stop this. And I’m scared, Raphael. Scared that I’ll be forced onto a battlefield where I’ll have to face Draven. Where I might have to kill him… or die by his hand.”
Raphael pressed his lips into a thin line. “I can’t bear the thought of harming Cyrus… it makes me sick.” His voice cracked.
Azrael stepped back, clenching her fists. “None of our elders see it. The vampires are too proud. The lycans are blinded with rage. The witches are still grieving. No one is thinking clearly. But I see it. I know it because I can feel it in my bones. Someone—something—is pulling strings behind all of this.”
There was silence between them, broken only by the soft crackle of torchfire.
Azrael looked to the end of the hall. “I can't wait to see Draven again tomorrow night. I’ll tell him everything. I just hope he’ll be able to think of anything at all that could help.”
Raphael nodded. “I can't wait to see Cyrus too.”
Azrael gave a small nod, her eyes hard with resolve. “I’ll find who started this. Even if I have to stand against our father, against every ruler sitting at that council table—I’ll uncover the truth.”
The weight in the air had shifted. It wasn’t fear now. It was purpose.
They didn’t speak again as they walked toward the far end of the corridor—closer now to war, yes. But also closer to something that might just stop it.