Chapter 194

Chapter 194
Alaric

The throne room held its breath as my question hung in the air.

Byron's eyes, which had been lazily surveying his assembled court like a king bored with his own opulence, flickered with something darker. He shifted slightly in his throne, the movement so subtle it might have been missed by anyone less attuned to the predatory instincts of our kind. When he spoke, his voice carried that particular brand of aristocratic indifference that the truly powerful wielded like a scalpel.

"Alaric?" He drew out my name, each syllable dripping with manufactured confusion. "Pardon me, darling, but I'm afraid your voice didn't quite carry. These nobles were being rather... boisterous. What was it you said just now?"

Around me, I could feel the shift in attention. The princes seated nearest to Byron's throne—those ancient parasites who'd done nothing but drain resources and congratulate themselves on accidents of birth—turned their heads with the synchronized precision of carrion birds spotting fresh meat. Their expressions ranged from mild curiosity to poorly concealed amusement. This was entertainment to them. A minor lord forgetting his place always made for good theater.

I didn't let my smile falter. Instead, I let my gaze sweep across those smug faces before settling back on Byron with the kind of casual defiance that would either establish my position or destroy me entirely. No middle ground. Not anymore.

This question—I needed to hear their answer. Needed them to spit in my face one last time, to silence that old, trained reflex screaming that good servants don't question their masters, that survival meant swallowing pride and bowing lower.

"I said," I repeated, my voice carrying clearly through the sudden quiet, "where exactly are our seats? All the good tables seem to be occupied." I paused, letting the implication settle like poison in wine. "Surely the greatest contributor to the Ascension Initiate—the one who was there for every critical moment, who personally ensured its success—deserves something slightly more dignified than a corner table meant for servants?"

The laughter started immediately. Not the polite chuckles of courtiers trying to curry favor, but genuine, mocking amusement. These bastards actually found it funny.

"Come on, Alaric!" One of the princes—Marcellus, I think, though all these ancient fucks started to blur together after a while—leaned back in his chair with the kind of theatrical disbelief usually reserved for bad comedy. "You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think? You just happened to be the one who completed the task. It's not like you were the only one capable of doing it."

"Exactly!" Another voice chimed in, this one belonging to a female vampire whose name I'd never bothered to learn. "And let's not forget how many times you failed before this. The plan should have been completed years ago. The Patriarch has been remarkably patient about your constant delays." She paused, her smile sharpening. "You should be grateful he hasn't held you accountable for the wasted time, rather than demanding to sit with your betters."

More laughter. More casual dismissal of years of work, of risks taken, of sacrifices made. I'd known this would happen. Had prepared myself for exactly this reception. But knowing something intellectually and experiencing the reality of it were two very different things. The rage that bubbled up inside me came with something sharper—a bitter ache that whispered I would always be this to them, no matter what I achieved. Lesser. Disposable. Unworthy.

Byron, throughout all of this, remained silent. Watching. Waiting. This was a test, I realized. He wanted to see if I would fold under the weight of their contempt, if I would slink back to my designated corner and accept my role as the family's useful tool.

Well. Fuck that.

I let my expression settle into something cold and calculating, even as that old instinct screamed at me to bow, to survive. These arrogant fools had just confirmed everything I'd suspected—that they would never see me as anything other than lesser. Good. It made what was coming easier.

I was about to concede, to retreat to my corner and finalize the details—who to kill first, how to position Draken for maximum impact—when the dragon's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

"Duke Silas." The dragon's tone was conversational, almost friendly, as he addressed the vampire seated closest to Byron's right hand. "You look rather vacant today. Distracted. Almost as if you're unwell." A pause, perfectly timed. "If you're not feeling up to the festivities, perhaps you should offer your seat to Alaric. I'm sure you'd be more comfortable somewhere... quieter."

The effect was immediate and electric. The vampires seated near Silas erupted into fresh laughter, this time tinged with genuine delight at the absurdity of the suggestion.

"Fuck!" One of them actually slapped the table. "Alaric, is this the level of intelligence your controlled dragon possesses? Did you scramble his brains along with his will?"

"Seriously," another added, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "everyone knows Silas is the most obsessed with bloodline purity among us. He despises mongrels like you on principle. The day he voluntarily gives up his seat to someone of your... questionable heritage... is the day the sun rises in the west."

Even Byron couldn't resist joining in. "Alaric," he said, his voice carrying a warning edge beneath the amusement, "control your pet. This is a family gathering. I allowed him here as a trophy, as a demonstration of our triumph. I did not give him permission to speak."

But then Silas stood up.

The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that the laughter died mid-breath. The duke's face was expressionless, his eyes slightly unfocused in a way that sent alarm bells ringing through the room. When he spoke, his voice had the flat, mechanical quality of someone reading lines from a script they didn't understand.

"Draken is right," Silas said, each word falling like a stone into still water. "Alaric has served our family faithfully for decades. Put his life on the line countless times. He deserves a seat that reflects his contributions." He paused, and for just a moment, something almost like confusion flickered across his features. "Besides, I'm not feeling well. I prefer somewhere... quieter. More isolated."

Without waiting for a response, Silas began walking toward the corner tables, his movements stiff and unnatural, like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings.

The shock that rippled through the assembled vampires was palpable. Conversations died mid-sentence. Wine glasses froze halfway to lips. Even Byron's carefully maintained mask of aristocratic boredom cracked, replaced by something that might have been genuine surprise.

I felt Draken's presence close to my ear, his voice pitched too low for anyone else to hear. "Draken, what the hell are you doing? If you expose Silas as my ace in the hole before I'm ready—"

"Well," the dragon interrupted, his tone carrying an edge of dark amusement, "this is your last dance, isn't it? Why spend it cowering in a corner when you could take center stage?"