The throne room of the vampire palace was cold.
Not in temperature, but in spirit.
Dim blue fire hovered in antique sconces, casting eerie shadows across the blood-colored marble floor. The walls were adorned with faded banners from a time when nobility still meant something. Now, the only thing that mattered here was power—and keeping it.
Valecar sat on the obsidian throne, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting lightly on the armrest as he stared ahead in silence. The tall figure of a vampire general stood near the base of the steps, head bowed, waiting to be dismissed. But Valecar wasn't listening anymore.
His mind was elsewhere.
He'd felt the pressure shift.
Something… had cracked.
He didn't need anyone to tell him it was Lucifer's doing.
But not the one he knew.
