Chapter 63: Gala arrangements

Chapter 63

The silence that followed the closure of the grand hall doors was not peaceful, it was filled with the suffocating perfumed arrogance of the High Council that had sat only moments before.

Lucian remained standing at the head of the table, his palms pressed flat against the polished surface.

The wood was cold, yet beneath his touch, he felt the vibrations of the seven seats that had just been vacated.

They had smiled as they rose—a collection of bared fangs and predatory warmth that never reached their eyes.

Lord Cyrus had been the last to stand, his crimson gaze lingering on Lucian with a weight that suggested he was peeling back the layers of the King’s skin to see the rot beneath.

“The date is set, then,” Cyrus had whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering over a grave. “A celebration of your return. A gala to remind the Unholy Kingdom that its sun has risen once more.”

Lucian hadn’t smiled back. He had simply watched them, a predator observing the scavengers who had grown fat in his absence.

Marco, ever the silent shadow, moved to guide the delegation toward the main foyer. Lucian stayed behind for a heartbeat, his chest tight.

The air in the room was stagnant, choked with the scents of ancient dust, expensive lavender, and the underlying metallic tang of seven high-born vampires who had spent three days trying to find a crack in his armor.

They hadn’t found the girl. Not yet. But they had sensed the tension, the way Lucian’s focus was pulled, like a compass needle toward the North Wing.

With a low exhale, Lucian shoved away from the table. He moved toward the door, each footstep on the stone floors felt like a drumbeat in a war march.

He exited the study and began the long ascent up the grand staircase, Marco fell into step half a beat behind him and Lucain already anticipated his words.

“Sire,” Marco began, his voice low, pitched only for Lucian’s ears. “You shouldn’t have agreed to their demands. The timing… it is a tactical nightmare.”

Lucian didn’t slow his pace. He didn’t look back. “I am aware of the date, Marco.”

“The eighteenth birthday,” Marco pressed, his tone urgent. “The very night the girl reaches her Awakening. You have spent three days funneling your blood and presence into her just to keep her heart from stopping. If you are at a gala, surrounded by the High Houses, you cannot sustain her. You know what the ’Void’ will do if it is left unfed on the night of its peak.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened until the bone felt like it might snap. He knew. He knew with a crushing certainty that made the blood in his veins feel like liquid lead.

The Council had arrived with a singular, sharp intent: to draw him out. They had proposed the gala as a tribute, a formal recognition of his sovereignty, but their hidden agenda was as transparent as glass.

They wanted him visible. They wanted to see if the rumors of his instability were true. They had even suggested the venue—this very fortress.

They wanted to bring the entire nobility of the Unholy Kingdom through his front gates, to fill these halls with the sharpest senses in the world.

If he had allowed it, Isabella would have been found within the hour. No amount of stone, no thickness of velvet, and no alchemical scent-blockers provided by a powerless witch could hide the pulsing, violet hum of a King’s mark on a wolfless vessel.

To a house full of hungry vampires, Isabella would have smelled like the most exquisite, forbidden feast ever prepared.

They would have smelled the ’Silence’ in her soul and the Sovereign’s fire in her blood, and they would have torn her apart just to see how the two forces tasted together.

So, Lucian had pivoted. He had accepted the date—the curse of her eighteen years—but he had demanded a change of venue.

The gala would be held at the Blackspire Estate, two hours to the east. It was a neutral ground, a fortress of glass and iron that belonged to the Council.

It was a sacrificial play. He would be away from her during the most important hours of her life, but he had bought her the one thing she needed most: silence.

By moving the circus away from his home, he had ensured that no prying eyes or twitching noses would be near the North Wing when the Moon reached its zenith.

When Isabella finally would get her mate and rid them this cursed bond. “If I had refused the date, they would have stayed,” Lucian said, his voice a lethal rasp as they reached the landing of the second floor.

“I have traded my presence for her invisibility. It is a gamble I will have to win.” He didn’t wait for Marco’s rebuttal.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he dismissed his severnt, the heavy silence of the North Wing swallowing the sound of Marco’s retreating footsteps

Lucian was alone now, the shadows of the vaulted ceiling stretching toward him. His hand went to the collar of his coat, loosening the fabric that suddenly felt like a noose.

For three days, he had been a ghost in his own council chambers, his mind tethered by an invisible, agonizing cord to the room at the end of this hallway.

He could feel her—a constant thrumming against his ribs that wasn’t his own heartbeat. It was weaker today, a flickering candle in a drafty cathedral, and the desperation to reach her was a physical ache that made his predatory instincts scream.

He reached the heavy oak door of the master suite. His room, well now Isabella’s..since her arrival.

He didn’t knock. He was the King of the Unholy Kingdom; he did not ask for entry, even into a sanctuary of his own making.

Lucian pushed the door open, the hinges silent and well-oiled. He expected to find the room bathed in the dim glow of the fireplace.

He expected to see the bed linens tangled around her small, sweating frame, her hair a mess against the pillows as she drifted in the half-life of her transition.

He expected the stillness of a sickroom but he found none of it. The heavy velvet curtains, thick enough to block out a midday sun, were being pulled back a bit by a pair of trembling, pale hands.

Isabella was standing. She looked like a wraith, his shirt hanging off her sharpened collarbones, her body swaying as if caught in a wind only she could feel.

She was pressed against the glass, peering out toward the main entrance of the estate where the Council’s black cars were only just disappearing into the mist.

He watched her gasped before falling backwards “Isabella,” he growled. Lucian was across the room before she hit the floor.

His movement was a blur of violence and grace, his coat billowing behind him like the wings of a crow.

He caught her just before her head cracked against the polished marble, his large hands bracketing her waist and shoulders, hauling her upward even as she scrambled for purchase in a blind panic.

“What do you think you are doing?” His voice boomed, vibrating through her chest, a thunderous roar that shook the very glass she had been spying through.

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