Chapter 12
The great hall of Dragov Castle stood as a monument to legacy.
Power had been carved in stone and sealed by blood.
Towering obsidian pillars veined with silver reflected the low gleam of antique sconces.
Overhead, a vaulted ceiling bore a fresco of the first Firstblood rulers, crimson-stained, gold-shadowed. Eternally conquering.
At the hall’s center, beneath a cold iron chandelier, stretched a long ebony table. Around it sat the War Council. Firstbloods draped in gilded robes held ageless poise that masked the blades of inherited cunning. Every gaze was grave. Every silence was edged.
At the head of the chamber, upon twin thrones of blackened iron and gold, sat Yori and Raphael Dragov. They were brothers bound not only by blood but by the weight of a dying empire.
Yori Dragov bore the stillness of a ruler shaped by restraint. Silver streaked his dark hair. Fine lines softened his sharp features. Unlike those before him, he governed through reason instead of fear. He had learned to bend without breaking.
Beside him, Raphael Dragov sat as his darker echo. He shared the same bone structure, but his presence was forged in steel. His hair appeared tousled, not from carelessness, but through calculation. He had once stood beside Yori in hope of reform, but now he understood: Mercy cost too much.
Together, they presided over a kingdom unraveling. Lines had been drawn. Loyalties were spent. And Eris—daughter of one, niece to the other—had become the perfect spark to let it all burn.
To Yori’s left sat the purists, robed in the sigils of ancient houses.
At their centre, Lord Gavriel Morayne sat rigid, his eyes glowing with the fanaticism of old blood.
For them, this meeting was not about strategy but retribution.
They had never accepted the legalization of vampirism, a policy Yori and Raphael had championed to modernize the monarchy and prevent its collapse.
To the purists, immortality was a sacred inheritance, not a gift to be distributed.
Turned vampires were abominations. And now, a Dragov princess had done worse than dilute her bloodline; she had consorted with Lycans.
To them, Eris was a stain. So, too, was the Obsidian Order, for daring to lay hands on a Dragov. Their fury burned in both directions.
To Raphael’s right, the reformists sat with brittle composure.
They had once supported the legalization of vampirism, not as indulgence but as a means to preserve the monarchy in a modern age, advocating synthetic blood over slaughter, survival over conquest. But even they could feel the fracture spreading.
On that one point, the purists were right.
The Obsidian Order was watching. They were dangerous because they had never been tame.
No bloodline bound them. They possessed no magic-laced blood, no ancestral tie to the Dragov line.
No compulsion to kneel, only the will to survive.
And that made them deadly. While the Firstbloods fractured, the Order advanced, silent, lethal.
Now, with Eris Dragov in Avaristo’s grasp, they held their sharpest weapon. If the Firstbloods faltered, the world would not see rulers. It would see them broken.
The chamber had seen centuries of war councils and betrayals. Tonight, it prepared for another battle. Its weapons were words.
Stephan Dragov sat cloaked in silence. High Commander, uncrowned prince, powerless until sworn.
Every heartbeat echoed with Eris’s pain.
His jaw was clenched, and his fists were curled tight.
Adrian, Theon, and Cassiel, his lieutenants, stood beside him with unmoving resolve.
They watched and waited. Stephan was one breath away from breaking.
Across from them, the council splintered.
A voice sliced through the charged silence. “Disgrace.”
The word landed like a blade. Lord Gavriel Morayne—skeletal, sharp in crimson robes—leaned forward, silver-ringed fingers coiled against the table’s polished edge. His eyes burned with the cold, righteous fury of the old blood.
“A Dragov consorting with Lycans.” He let the words hang, savoring their weight. “This council should not be debating how to rescue Princess Eris. We should be discussing how to strip her of her title for the shame she has brought upon us all.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the purists. Then came a sudden crack. Heads turned.
Stephan’s hand clenched the armrest; splintered wood crumbled beneath his grip. His breath came fast, fury etched into every line of his body.
“Stephan.” Cassiel whispered beside him. Don’t lose yourself here.
Adrian reached across and subtly brushed his wrist with his fingers to ground him. “Do not let them bait you,” he murmured.
Then Theon: “Save your rage for the ones who deserve it.”
Stephan forced breath into his lungs. In. Out. In. Slowly, he released the shattered armrest and straightened. His gaze, locked on Gavriel, burned with restrained promise.
Gavriel shifted in his seat. His voice resumed, though something in his posture had changed.
Raphael Dragov exhaled, his gaze sliding from the ruined armrest to his son, then back to the chamber. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged. “The matter of Eris’s actions will be investigated appropriately. But let us not forget: She is a Dragov. Her loyalty is not in question.”
Gavriel scoffed. “Not in question? She is rumored to have taken a Lycan as her—”
“Careful, Lord Morayne.” The words were not loud. They didn’t need to be. Yori Dragov’s voice, usually measured and mild, had shifted into something unmistakably dangerous.
The room fell still.
His gaze, once contemplative, now held iron. “Eris is my daughter,” Yori said. Each word was deliberate and unshakable. “And she is still a Dragov. I will not hear her name dragged through the dirt in this chamber.”
Gavriel, for all his bluster, did not respond. To insult Eris was one thing. To challenge Yori, a ruler bound by ancient blood-oaths, a man who had commanded respect long before he had ever demanded it, was something else entirely.
Raphael leaned forward, candlelight catching in the silver at his temples. “This council is not here to judge Eris,” he said. His voice was final. “We are here to answer Avaristo’s insult.”
Another murmur passed through the room, this time one of agreement. Yes. This was no longer just about Eris. This was about power.
A figure rose with sudden force. Lord Valcairn, broad-shouldered and still clad in armor despite the safety of Dragov Castle, stood tall at the edge of the chamber.
“We should be discussing nothing but war.” His palm struck the table with a thunderous crack, sending goblets rattling across its surface.
“Avaristo has crossed a line that cannot be ignored. A Dragov princess, imprisoned. Humiliated. Treated like a criminal. We march. We make an example of him.”
A surge of voices followed, rising like a tide.
“Yes!”
“This is an act of war!”
“Bring him to his knees!”
But then, a single voice silenced them.
“We will not act recklessly.” Yori’s words cut through the uproar like tempered steel. “Every soldier we send is a life we weigh against our judgment. Our warriors are strong, but strength alone does not win wars.”
Raphael inclined his head. “This is a trap,” he said. “A provocation designed to draw us into a war on his terms. If we move without precision, we fall into his hands.”
Debate burned; some demanded retaliation, others urged restraint.
And then Raphael spoke again. “It is decided.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“We will open negotiations,” Yori confirmed. “But if Avaristo mistakes diplomacy for weakness…then he will learn that Firstbloods do not kneel.”
A slow ripple of nods passed through the council. The decision was political, meant to prevent bloodshed, but Stephan felt no peace. Every second of waiting was a second Eris endured. His nails dug into his palm.
Yori rose, and the air shifted. He turned to the attendants stationed along the chamber’s edge. “Prepare the line.”
A polished comm-orb was brought forward. Dark glass threaded with silver alloy, its surface vibrated faintly with stored signal energy. It connected to a twin device buried deep within the Obsidian Order’s command network.
Yori inhaled once. Then the orb darkened, and the call was made.
The war council chamber of Dragov Castle was still, tension suspended like a blade, waiting to fall.
Firstblood leaders watched the orb pulsing darkly at the table’s head.
Kings Yori and Raphael Dragov stood side by side, composed, though seething beneath their stillness.
Stephan sat rigid, fists clenched beneath the table.
Then, the orb flickered.
Avaristo’s face emerged, framed by shadow and silken excess.
Reclining in a throne-like chair, his coat black silk trimmed with gold, Avaristo radiated unbothered arrogance—the kind only the truly dangerous could wear without effort.
He swirled a glass of aged blood lazily in his hand, letting the silence stretch until he could feel their impatience like a grin across his face. Then he spoke.
“Ah…” A long, theatrical sigh. “Your Graces. What a privilege it is to see you again.”
His voice dripped false civility, with something sharpened underneath.
Yori’s jaw tightened. Raphael’s fingers twitched.
“You know why we have called,” Raphael said, every word edged and surgical. “This ends now.”
Avaristo chuckled, setting his glass down with casual disdain. “Oh, but of course. Princess Eris. What an unfortunate business, this whole affair.”
Stephan’s body tensed like a drawn bow.
Unfortunate.
The word made his blood curdle.