Chapter 196

Chapter 196

Alaric

Byron's expression shifted, cycling through surprise, annoyance, and finally settling on a look of exaggerated confusion. "Forgotten something? What could I have possibly..." He paused, then snapped his fingers as if suddenly remembering. "Oh! Yes, of course. How silly of me." He turned to address the room. "I almost forgot to mention—we have a special vintage being served for dessert. A rare AB-positive from the Carpathian mountains. You'll all want to save room."

The casual dismissal hit me like a physical blow. I felt my hands clench into fists, felt the rage that I'd been carefully containing begin to slip its leash. When I spoke again, my voice had dropped several degrees.

"That's not what I meant." I locked eyes with Byron, letting him see the fury I could no longer fully hide. "I'm talking about the rewards. About recognition for service. You missed someone."

"Did I?" Byron's smile never wavered, but something predatory flickered in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. Had planned this humiliation down to the last detail. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Me." The word came out flat. Hard. "You missed me."

The laughter started immediately, rippling through the assembled vampires like a wave. But this time, it felt different. Sharper. More deliberately cruel.

Byron's smile widened, taking on a quality of false warmth that made my skin crawl. "Oh, Alaric. My dear boy." He set down his wine glass and spread his hands in a gesture of paternal affection. "You're a man of action, not politics. You don't need titles and territories weighing you down. Besides, you have so many important tasks still ahead of you. What use would you have for an estate when you're constantly on the move?"

He picked up his glass again, raising it toward me. "What matters isn't land or titles—it's the bond we share. The trust between us. That's the real reward, isn't it?"

"To Alaric," Byron declared, his voice carrying across the hall. "To loyalty. To service."

"To Alaric!" The princes echoed, raising their own glasses with smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Every single one of them was enjoying this. Watching me be put in my place, reminded of my station, kept firmly beneath their boots where I belonged.

As they lifted their glasses to drink, as their throats worked and the wine flowed down, I felt something inside me finally, irrevocably break.

My hand moved before I'd consciously decided to act. The blood-forged blade materialized in my palm, drawn from the reservoir of power I'd been carefully hoarding for months. It was a weapon designed specifically to kill our kind—to bypass our regeneration, to make wounds that wouldn't heal, to end immortal lives with surgical precision.

The first prince didn't even have time to lower his glass before I was on him. The blade sang as it opened his throat, arterial spray painting the white tablecloth crimson. He dropped without a sound, eyes wide with shock that would never fade.

I moved like liquid death through the assembled nobility. Another throat opened. Another ancient bloodline ended. The screams started then, high and panicked, as the vampires who'd been laughing at me seconds ago scrambled to get away from the suddenly very real threat in their midst.

In less than ten seconds, five of the highest-ranking princes in the family lay dead or dying at my feet. The rest had fled to the edges of the room, pressed against the walls, staring at me with expressions that ranged from terror to disbelief.

Only Byron remained at the head table, frozen in his throne. His wine glass had slipped from his fingers, red liquid spreading across the marble floor like a pool of blood. When he finally found his voice, it came out strangled.

"What the fuck—" He couldn't seem to finish the sentence, his usual composure shattered. "Alaric, what are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

I turned to face him fully, letting him see the blood dripping from my blade, letting him see the cold certainty in my eyes. When I spoke, my voice was perfectly calm.

"I'm taking what's mine."

"Yours?" Byron's shock was giving way to rage now, his power beginning to manifest as shadows writhed around his throne. "You have nothing! You've never had anything! You're a mongrel who should be grateful we let you exist at all—"

"No," I interrupted, taking a step toward him. "I'm taking your place."