A hush fell over the grand ballroom, stretching unbearably into a silence so thick it smothered the very air. Every pair of eyes in the room—noble, soldier, and servant alike—was locked onto the tall, imposing figure of Seraphim of Norrix.
His words had landed like a thunderclap.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot marry your daughter."
Shock rippled through the crowd, stiffening backs, widening eyes. Goblets trembled in unsteady hands. A noblewoman gasped softly, clutching at her husband's arm, while another whispered fiercely behind a lace-covered fan. Valerion's Court had never witnessed such blatant defiance—especially not in the presence of their King.
And yet, Valerion did not move.
Seated upon his throne-like chair at the head of the long banquet table, he remained eerily still, his crimson eyes locked onto Seraphim like a predator evaluating prey. His fingers rested loosely around the delicate stem of his goblet, his expression one of absolute calm.
But the silence was unnatural. It was the kind of silence that came before blood was spilled.
Azrael, seated beside Seraphim, did not so much as blink. She merely lifted her glass of bloodwine to her lips, taking a slow sip, her movements measured. If his rejection affected her in any way, she did not show it.
The tension was excruciating.
Then Seraphim sighed. He set his goblet down with an audible clink, the sound like a hammer striking stone. He leaned back against his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with something sharp, something almost amused.
“You seem surprised,” he drawled, his voice smooth yet laced with derision. “Did you think I would take a wife who has been tainted by filth?”
A wave of horrified gasps swept across the room.
Raphael stiffened beside Valerion, his grip tightening around the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at his belt. He did not draw it—but the promise of violence simmered beneath his golden eyes, barely contained.
Across the room, noblewomen exchanged nervous glances. Some of the high-ranking men murmured amongst themselves, trying to determine whether they should intervene or let this spectacle play out.
Azrael, however, remained motionless. She slowly lowered her glass, tilting her head just slightly. “Tainted?” she echoed, her tone unreadable.
Seraphim gestured lazily toward her neck. “The mark,” he said.
Azrael felt her blood run cold.
Seraphim smirked, his gaze locked onto the faint but undeniable mark just above the hollow of her throat—the imprint of Draven’s claim. “A Lycan’s mark,” he continued. “I had heard whispers before, but I assumed it was mere rumor.” He leaned in slightly, studying her, as if fascinated by what he saw. “Now I see the truth. And I must say, I expected better from House Blackthorne.”
The whispers in the hall grew louder, frantic.
Azrael’s spine remained rigid, her expression schooled into practiced indifference, but a flicker of unease curled in her stomach. She had been so careful to keep it hidden, yet Seraphim had noticed in an instant.
Her fingers twitched toward her throat instinctively—
But before she could shield the mark, Seraphim caught her wrist.
“Don’t,” he said smoothly, his grip firm but not forceful. He tilted his head, studying her reaction with a mix of amusement and something else—something colder. “You can hide it all you want, but the truth remains.” His smirk widened. “The Alpha of the Bloodmoon Pack has marked the Princess of House Blackthorne.”
A murmur of disbelief swept through the nobles. Some of the nobles who had no knowledge of this, looked at Azrael with barely concealed fascination; others with disgust. The older, more traditional vampires visibly recoiled.
Seraphim released her wrist, exhaling as if thoroughly disappointed. “I sought this union because of your bloodline,” he continued, leaning back against his chair. “House Blackthorne is one of the last noble lines to carry the blood of The First—the original vampires, the ones who walked the earth before empires, before time itself bent to our kind.”
His gaze flickered toward Valerion, as if expecting a reaction.
But Valerion remained still, his unreadable gaze locked onto Seraphim like a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Seraphim scoffed softly. “But I see now that your bloodline is not as pure as I had hoped.”
The murmurs swelled into an uneasy chorus.
From his place beside Valerion, Raphael exhaled harshly, shaking his head. His voice was low, deadly. “You dare insult House Blackthorne in its own halls?”
Seraphim barely spared him a glance. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Prince Raphael. I do not insult House Blackthorne—I merely state the facts.” He turned back to Valerion, his lips curling into something like a smirk. “And you… I believed you to be a ruthless ruler, feared across the lands. But you allowed this?” He gestured toward Azrael once more. “A Lycan’s claim upon your daughter? And yet you sat on your throne and did nothing?”
The air in the room turned razor-sharp.
Even the musicians, who had been playing softly in the background, hesitated.
“You disappoint me, King Valerion,” Seraphim said, shaking his head. “I came here expecting power, expecting a family that ruled with an iron fist. Instead, I find weakness.”
More gasps.
Seraphim picked up his goblet once more, twirling the bloodwine lazily before taking a slow sip. Then, in a voice like steel wrapped in silk, he delivered the final blow.
“House Blackthorne is pathetic.”
Silence.
A silence so vast, so complete, it was as if the entire hall had been sucked into a vacuum.
A noblewoman seated across the table visibly flinched, her eyes darting toward Valerion in absolute terror. Others shifted in their seats, waiting—dreading—his response.
Azrael’s fingers curled around the stem of her goblet. She willed herself to remain composed, to keep her face neutral, but something inside her burned.
Seraphim, seemingly unbothered by the suffocating tension, lifted his glass once more, as if making another toast.
And then—