Chapter 197

Chapter 197
Alaric
 
The silence that followed my declaration was absolute. For one heartbeat, two, the hall held its breath—and then the laughter erupted.
 
It wasn't nervous laughter. It wasn't uncertain. It was the kind of deep, genuine amusement that comes from witnessing something so absurd, so impossibly stupid, that you can't help but find it entertaining.
 
"Did he just—"
 
"The mongrel thinks he can—"
 
"Has he lost his fucking mind?"
 
I stood there, blood still dripping from my blade, and let them laugh. Let them think this was some kind of breakdown, some desperate last gasp of a cornered animal. Byron's expression had shifted from shock to something approaching genuine mirth, his lips curling into a smile that showed just a hint of fang.
 
"Alaric." His voice cut through the noise like a knife through silk. "Fuck, I actually thought you had some kind of plan. Some preparation. Something that would justify this... display." He gestured lazily at the bodies of the princes I'd just killed, as if they were nothing more than spilled wine. "But now I see you're just insane. Delusional. You want my position?" He laughed again, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Go have it in your dreams, mongrel."
 
He stepped back from his throne with theatrical grace, moving to lean against the wall with calculated casualness. "Honestly, fighting you myself would be an insult to my dignity. You're not worth the effort." His eyes swept across the assembled princes, those who'd been laughing moments ago now straightening with predatory interest. "So here's what we'll do. Whoever kills this idiot gets promoted to Duke. Immediately."
 
The effect was instantaneous. Four, five princes lunged forward, their civilized facades cracking to reveal the monsters beneath. Fingernails lengthened into claws. Fangs descended. Eyes went black with bloodlust. They surrounded me in a loose circle, each one eager to claim the prize Byron had dangled before them.
 
I didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just let my lips curve into a cold smile as I raised my blood-forged blade into a defensive stance.
 
"Well then." My voice was steady, almost bored. "Come on, you high-born fools. Been a while since you actually had to fight for something, hasn't it?" I tilted my head, studying them with the same detached interest they'd shown me for decades. "Let me educate you. Let me show you exactly how fucking stupid you've all become."
 
The first one lunged before I'd finished speaking—predictable. They always were. All that power, all that ancient blood, and not an ounce of actual combat experience between them. They'd spent centuries giving orders, manipulating politics, letting others do their dirty work. They'd forgotten what it meant to bleed.
 
I reminded them.
 
My blade sang as it met the first prince's claws, turning his momentum against him. He stumbled past me, off-balance, and I didn't waste the opening. A quick slash across his hamstrings sent him crashing to the marble floor. The second came from my left—I ducked under his wild swing and drove my elbow into his ribs, feeling bone crack even through his supernatural resilience.
 
"Is that it?" I taunted, dancing back as the remaining three tried to coordinate their assault. "This is what passes for strength in the upper ranks?"
 
They snarled, attacked again. I moved through them like water, my blade finding every opening, every moment of hesitation. Fingernails shattered against my guard. Claws scraped harmlessly across my coat. Within seconds, all five were bleeding, furious, and no closer to landing a solid hit than when they'd started.
 
Byron's expression had shifted from amusement to annoyance. "Idiots!" he barked. "Stop trying to fight him like animals. Use your fucking magic!"
 
Oh. Right. Magic.
 
The princes stepped back in unison, their eyes beginning to glow with gathered power. I felt the air thicken as they pooled their strength, weaving complex patterns of blood magic and ancient curses. The pressure built, built, built—and then crashed down on me like a physical weight.
 
My body locked. Muscles froze mid-motion. Even my lungs felt constricted, each breath a struggle against invisible chains. The blood-forged blade slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the floor.
 
Byron pushed off from the wall, his smile returning as he watched me struggle futilely against the magical restraints. "You see?" He addressed the room like a professor lecturing particularly slow students. "This is the difference blood makes. Power you're born with versus power you steal. There's no comparison. No way to bridge that gap. The low-born will always be—"
 
"Draken!" I roared, cutting through his monologue. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
 
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Byron's smile widened, probably thinking I was grasping at straws, calling for help that wouldn't come. The princes holding me closed in, fangs bared, ready to tear me apart.
 
Then the dragon roared.