Chapter 45: Silence

Chapter 45

Lucian stopped mid-step.

The mansion gates parted for him, the iron bars groaning open with a sluggishness that usually grated on his nerves.

Tonight, he barely noticed. His mind was an iron vault, yet even he couldn’t ignore the way the air felt… thinner.

He felt nothing from the bond. It wasn’t severed, nor was it strained. It was simply muted, pushed so far into the background of his consciousness that it barely registered as a flicker.

Lucian dismissed the sensation with practiced indifference. Silence, after all, was preferable to the chaotic noise of a wolfless girl’s emotions.

He didn’t dwell on it; in fact, he welcomed the quiet. It allowed him to be the King again.

That girl should be tucked away in Clara’s cabin, shielded by his warning and his protection. Wolfless, sharp-tongued, and stubborn—yes—but she wasn’t a fool. She would stay where he had left her. She would wait.

He had more pressing matters. The Council was already seated inside the mansion, and even from the foyer, he could hear the irritating sound of their voices.

Marco stepped forward from the shadows of the foyer. “My Lord.”

The young vampire’s eyes scanned Lucian’s mud-stained boots, the missing weight of his black coat, and the unfamiliar, rugged clothes he wore.

Marco was many things, but he was wise enough not to comment on the King’s disheveled appearance.

“The Council is already in the East Wing, Sire,” Marco continued, his voice cautious. He fell into step a respectful two paces behind Lucian.

“They’ve been pacing for hours. The weather phenomenon yesterday… the sudden darkness… it has them rattled. They’re demanding to know if your awakening has permanently fractured the regional climate, or if it was a—”

“A tantrum?” Lucian finished for him, his voice a dangerous rasp. He didn’t slow his pace as he crossed the marble foyer, the rhythmic strike of his boots echoing against the vaulted ceiling like a death march.

“Tell them I am not a child playing with clouds. If they want a meteorology lesson, they can find a scholar. I have no patience for their nerves tonight.”

“Of course, My Lord. But there is also the matter of the formal announcement. The Lesser Houses are hearing rumors. They know the King is awake, and they are hungry for a glimpse of their father.”

Lucian barely heard him. His gaze was fixed on the heavy double doors of the hall chamber, where the two-faced councilors waited.

His mind flickered back, just for a brief second, to the cabin. The silence in the bond was too perfect. It wasn’t just quiet; it was beginning to feel like a void—a hollow space where a heartbeat should be.

She’s sleeping, he told himself. The girl had been through enough today to exhaust a seasoned warrior, her fragile human frame had simply given in to the dark.

He pushed the thought away, annoyed by his own lingering focus. He had survived centuries without a bond.

He didn’t need the constant emotional feedback of a wolfless girl to function. He was the anchor, not the ship.

“Marco,” Lucian said, stopping abruptly just before the doors.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Find me a book about bonds.”

Marco froze, a look of genuine shock flickering across his face. He stared at his Sire’s back, wondering if this was truly the same King he had heard of.

The same one who had gone into the sleep loathing the very idea of fated connections. Marco could smell two females on Lucian’s skin—one human, the other something he had never smelt but he knew better than to pry.

“Immediately, Sire,” Marco said, bowing his head.

Lucian took a breath, settling his features into a mask of cold, unshakeable stone. He didn’t knock.

He reached out and shoved the doors open with enough force to make the heavy oak slam against the interior walls.

The room fell silent. Seven elders—the highest-ranking vampires in the known world—sat around the polished table.

They looked up, the electric bulbs reflecting in their eyes. He saw it all in a glance, the flickering embers of fear in some, and the poorly hidden greed in others.

“You wanted an audience,” Lucian said as he stalked to the head of the table. He didn’t sit. He stood, leaning his weight onto his hands and looming over them like a predator overlooking a pit of vipers.

“Speak. My time is not a gift I give freely.”

The eldest, Cyrus, cleared his throat. “Thank you, sire. A surge of power was felt from the east as far to the coast. There are whispers of an ancient ritual. We need to know if —”

“There wasn’t any ritual. I fought a …..” Lucian’s words cut off sharply, replaced by a sudden tightness in his throat.

It felt as if a cold needle had pricked his dead heart—just for a second—before vanishing back into the stillness.

“Sire?” Cyrus ventured, his brow furrowing as Lucian let out a dry, forced cough. The Council members shifted in their seats, looking at one another, exchanging uneasy glances.

Lucian never coughed. Lucian never faltered. To see him stop mid-sentence was like seeing a mountain crack.

Lucian ignored them, his hand tightening on the edge of the table until the wood groaned. His chest felt a strange pressure building behind his ribs that he couldn’t quite name.

It had nothing to do with the bond—he was certain of that. The bond was still a flat, unresponsive line in the back of his mind.

He stared at the far wall, his eyes unfocused. He was clueless. He had spent his long life mocking the poets who spoke of fated pairs, dismissing the bond as a leash for the weak.

He didn’t give a damn about mates or the spiritual bonding of souls. But even a wolfless human had a pulse. Even in sleep, there should be a rhythm, a faint warmth that signaled existence.

Right now, there was only… nothing. It was like reaching for a cup in the dark and finding only air.

Cyrus cleared his throat again, misinterpreting Lucian’s silence as simmering rage. He quickly abandoned the topic of the ritual, hoping to soothe the King’s temper.

“Regardless of the cause, Sire,” Cyrus said, his voice smooth, “perhaps we should focus on the future. The people are restless. We have discussed hosting a formal gala—a grand party to celebrate your awakening. It would solidify your return in the eyes of the Lesser Houses.”

Lucian didn’t hear a word. He was mentally shoving his consciousness into that dark corner of his mind, trying to force a reaction out of the bond.

Speak, abomination, he commanded silently. Flicker. Breathe. Something.

His own emotions hit the void and bounced back at him.

“A gala would allow the vampires of the all territories to pay their respects,” Cyrus continued, oblivious to the fact that his King was no longer in the room with him.

“We could schedule it for the next full moon—”

SLAM.

Lucian’s palm hit the table with the force of a falling star. The sound was deafening, the vibration rattling the crystal glasses in front of the elders.

Every council member flinched, some nearly falling back in their chairs. Cyrus went pale, his mouth snapping shut.

Another surge of emotion slashed through Lucian’s chest. It was gone before he could even grasp it, leaving him gasping for air he didn’t technically need.

“Sire?” Marco whispered from the door, his eyes wide as he sensed the shift in the air.

Lucian looked down at his hand on the table. He could feel the coldness of the stone, but his mind was elsewhere.

He wasn’t thinking about galas or Lesser Houses. He was thinking about the fact that for the first time in his existence, the silence wasn’t peaceful.

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