Chapter 195

Chapter 195
Alaric

The words pierced through every layer of composure I'd built. My hands had been trembling—just slightly, imperceptibly to everyone else in this room. The fear of what I was about to do, the weight of crossing that final line, had been leaking through despite my best efforts to contain it.

And he'd seen it. This supposedly mindless puppet had looked past my mask and spotted the terror I couldn't quite bury.

Yet his words weren't mockery. They were permission. A push toward the edge I'd been circling for decades.

I didn't respond. Couldn't risk it with so many eyes on us. Instead, I simply smiled—a real smile this time, not the careful political mask I usually wore—and walked forward to claim Silas's abandoned seat.

The chair was still warm. I settled into it with the kind of casual confidence that suggested I'd always belonged here, that this was merely a correction of a long-standing oversight rather than a dramatic breach of protocol. Around me, I could feel the weight of dozens of stares, the unspoken questions, the growing unease.

Byron's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he raised his wine glass in a gesture that was clearly meant to redirect attention. "Let the feast begin," he announced, his voice carrying just a hint of strain.

As servants began bringing out the first courses, I allowed myself a moment to savor the victory. Small as it was, temporary as it would prove to be, it felt good to sit here among the princes and dukes, to force them to acknowledge my presence as something other than a useful tool.

The feast progressed with all the empty pageantry these gatherings always entailed. Courses came and went, each more elaborate than the last. Blood wine flowed freely, loosening tongues and lowering guards. Conversations rose and fell in waves, the usual mix of political maneuvering and casual gossip that passed for high society among our kind.

I participated where necessary, playing the role of the grateful servant who'd finally been granted his due. But inside, I was counting down the minutes. Waiting for the perfect moment. The knife hidden in my sleeve felt like it was burning against my skin, eager to taste blood.

It was during the seventh course—some absurdly ornate preparation involving rare AB-negative blood and gold leaf—that Byron rose to his feet. The conversations died immediately, all attention shifting to the Patriarch as he cleared his throat with theatrical precision.

"My dear family," he began, his voice warm with false affection, "tonight we celebrate not just the success of the Ascension Plan, but the beginning of a new era. An era in which we will rise above the petty limitations that have constrained us for centuries." He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled vampires. "And as we stand on the threshold of godhood, it is only fitting that we recognize those who will help us cross it."

My pulse quickened despite myself. This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for, even though I knew better than to hope for anything real. Years of disappointment had taught me that lesson well enough.

"First," Byron continued, "the Blackthorn Estate in Romania, along with all its holdings and territories, shall pass to Duke Marcus, in recognition of his family's long service."

Applause rippled through the room. Marcus stood, bowing with practiced humility that fooled absolutely no one.

"The Crimson Towers in Prague," Byron went on, "and the associated businesses, shall be awarded to Duchess Valentina."

More applause. More false modesty. The pattern repeated itself as Byron worked through his list of rewards, each one more generous than the last. Estates, territories, titles—all handed out like candy to children, with no regard for who had actually earned them.

I sat perfectly still, my expression carefully neutral even as something cold and hard began to crystallize in my chest. With each name that wasn't mine, with each reward granted to vampires who'd done nothing but exist with the right bloodline, that coldness spread.

Finally, Byron reached the end of his list. He raised his glass in a toast, smiling benevolently at his assembled court. "To family," he declared. "To the future. To—"

I stood up.

The movement cut through his speech like a gunshot. All eyes turned to me, and I could see the mixture of confusion and irritation on Byron's face as he tried to figure out what I was doing.

"Patriarch," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the sudden silence, "I believe you've forgotten something."