Valerion sat upon his elevated throne, his presence commanding as ever, wine-red eyes sharp as he observed Seraphim’s approach. He did not stand, nor did he offer a warm greeting—respect had to be earned in this court.
Seraphim strode forward, his heavy fur-lined cape trailing behind him. When he reached the base of the dais, he bowed—not too deeply, just enough to acknowledge the Vampire King’s authority without diminishing his own.
“Your Majesty.” His voice was smooth, confident, and carried easily through the vast ballroom. “It is an honor to stand in your court.”
Valerion tilted his head slightly, observing him as though he were some rare specimen. “King Seraphim. I trust your journey was comfortable?”
“The roads to your kingdom are well-kept. And your lands, as formidable as the tales say.” Seraphim’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Though I suspect the real spectacle of the evening awaits.”
His gaze slid past Valerion, settling upon Azrael.
A deliberate pause.
Azrael, dressed in black and gold, met his gaze with cool indifference. She was a vision—ethereal, untouchable—yet her presence carried a lethal edge. She did not bow, nor did she offer any pleasantries.
Valerion finally stood. “Come. There are introductions to be made.”
He gestured to Raphael first. “My son and heir, Prince Raphael.”
Seraphim turned to the Crown Prince, offering a nod of acknowledgment. “A pleasure.”
Raphael mirrored the gesture, though his expression was unreadable. “Likewise, King Seraphim. Welcome to our court.”
Then Valerion turned toward Azrael. “And my daughter, Princess Azrael.”
Seraphim extended a hand, an unmistakable challenge in his eyes. “Princess.”
Azrael hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her gloved hand in his. His grip was firm but not overbearing.
“You’re quite the spectacle yourself,” he mused, eyes flickering over her attire, the delicate crown of woven black thorns atop her head.
“Is that meant to be a compliment?” she asked, voice poised yet distant.
“An observation.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Though I must admit, I was curious to meet the woman whose hand is so coveted.”
She arched a brow. “And do I meet your expectations?”
Seraphim chuckled, low and deep. “The night is still young.”
The music swelled as the formalities gave way to the first dance of the evening. It was custom—an unspoken rule that Azrael would dance with Seraphim before anyone else.
He offered his hand once more. “Shall we?”
Azrael accepted, allowing him to guide her onto the marble floor as the assembled nobility watched with keen interest.
The moment his arm wrapped around her waist, she noted the controlled strength in his hold. He led effortlessly, moving with a precision that suggested he was as skilled on the battlefield as he was in courtly grace.
“I hope I don’t disappoint,” she murmured as they moved in perfect synchrony.
Seraphim smirked. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
Their dance was a battle of unspoken words, their steps measured, calculated.
“I must admit, your reputation precedes you,” he continued. “But I find myself intrigued by the real thing.”
Azrael’s golden eyes gleamed. “And what is the real thing?”
“Not someone who bends easily,” he mused. “Or one who enjoys being told what to do.”
“Correct,” she murmured. “So tell me, Seraphim. Why are you here?”
He twirled her effortlessly before pulling her close again. “To meet my potential bride, of course.”
“Potential,” she echoed. “Interesting choice of words.”
He leaned in just slightly, enough to make the onlookers wonder what he was whispering. “You’d prefer I say inevitable?”
Azrael’s lips curved slightly, but there was no amusement in her gaze. “I’d prefer you not assume anything at all.”
Seraphim chuckled, a genuine, deep sound. “Noted.”
Then, his gaze flickered to her neck.
He stilled.
For the first time that evening, his easygoing demeanor shifted into something sharper, something edged with knowing.
"Ah," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "So it’s true after all... I thought it was just a rumor.”
Azrael frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Seraphim tilted his head. “The Lycan mark on your neck.”
Her breath hitched. She suddenly became conscious of it, reaching instinctively to cover the mark—Draven’s mark.
But before she could, Seraphim’s fingers brushed over her wrist, stopping her.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “That only confirms it.”
Azrael stiffened, but Seraphim continued, his tone still light, but laced with meaning.
“News of the Alpha of the Bloodmoon Pack marking you spread through vampire territories like wildfire,” he mused. “A Lycan marking a vampire princess. That is an embarrassment. A disgrace. And yet your family did absolutely nothing.”
Azrael’s lips parted, but for the first time that night, she had no immediate retort.
Seraphim chuckled, savoring her silence. “Fascinating.”
The music ended. The dance was over.
The nobles took their seats, the grand banquet now beginning.
Valerion, seated at the head of the table, raised his glass. “To Azrael and Seraphim. To the future union of our houses.”
The nobles echoed his toast, lifting their goblets in unison.
Seraphim took a sip of his bloodwine, then slowly rose from his seat.
A hush fell over the room.
“I must thank His Majesty and all the noble houses of his great kingdom for welcoming me so warmly,” he began, voice smooth as ever. “I am honored to be here and to have met his beautiful daughter.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before he spoke up again.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot marry your daughter.”