The blood of rebellion had not yet dried when the next threat emerged.
But this one didn't scream revolution. It whispered.
It did not wear crimson paint or carry silver swords.
It wore silk.
It kissed her hand.
It bowed at court.
The true enemy was not always the one charging at your gates.
Sometimes it sat at your table
He arrived under the banner of House Nyros—a quiet, obscure lineage from the coastal reaches. Their influence was small, their loyalty uncertain.
His name was Alaric.
His eyes were obsidian.
His smile, moonlight carved with precision.
"I come to pledge my house to the Flameborn," he said.
Seraphina studied him as he knelt. Not a tremble. Not a flicker of fear. Just grace… too perfect.
Lucien stood to her right. He didn't speak. But his body was coiled.
Seraphina gestured. "Rise."
Alaric did, slowly. "I bring gifts from the southern cities—ancient blood, weapons forged in dragon fire… and something rarer still."
"Oh?" she asked.
"A vow," he said. "Unbreakable."
She stepped down from her throne and walked a slow circle around him.
"And why would a man I've never met offer me such devotion?"
"Because you are the future," he said. "And I… am very good at surviving the future."
Behind her, Lucien exhaled like a wolf scenting rot.
That night, Seraphina walked the halls alone, robe open, the heat from her skin flickering candle flames.
She didn't trust Alaric.
But she didn't dismiss him either.
Some enemies were better kept close—long enough to taste their lies.
In the moonlit corridor, she felt the shift in air just before the blade came.
Fast. Silent. A dagger of dusk metal—poison-tipped, designed for one thing: to kill her without sound.
She moved faster.
The blade missed her throat by a breath. She caught the assassin's wrist, twisted, snapped it backward. He howled. Her fire ignited, glowing along her spine, her mouth—
But the assassin was no fool.
He bit down.
A capsule in his mouth burst.
He died foaming at the lips.
Lucien arrived moments later.
"He didn't come from outside," Seraphina said.
"No," he growled. "This wasn't Crimson Dawn. No banner. No cause."
"Then what?"
"A message."
They found Alaric in the garden at dawn, standing beside the obsidian roses.
He didn't run.
Didn't panic.
Only looked up at her with mild curiosity.
"You sent him," she said coldly.
"Of course I didn't," Alaric replied. "I would never send someone so incompetent."
Lucien slammed him against the garden wall, hand at his throat.
"One breath away," he warned.
Alaric just smirked. "And yet you hesitate."
Seraphina raised a finger—and flame surged up Alaric's sleeve, searing the silk from his arm, branding his skin.
He winced, but didn't scream.
"Who sent him?" she demanded.
Alaric met her gaze. "Someone who fears what you're becoming. Who believes that if they strike now, they can still stop your rise."
"Names," Lucien growled.
But Alaric shook his head.
"I don't know," he said. "And that is what makes them dangerous. They're not a faction. Not a house. Not a rebellion."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed. "Then what are they?"
"A circle."
The phrase echoed in her mind all night.
A circle.
It had no shape. No face. No leader.
But it had power.
Seraphina summoned the Council in secret and laid the truth before them. Most scoffed. Others paled.
Only Lady Mirell sat silent.
She leaned forward, voice low.
"There were rumors… centuries ago. A society of vampire elders who believed the Flameborn prophecy was too dangerous. They vowed to prevent it—at any cost."
Lucien's hand clenched around the hilt of his blade.
"They're still alive?"
"They live in shadows," Mirell said. "They have no names now. Only codenames. Masks. Secrets. Some say they hide inside other courts. Even inside this one."
Seraphina's eyes flared.
"They mean to kill me before I take the world."
Mirell nodded once. "And they may already be inside your bedchamber."
That night, she called Lucien to her quarters.
No fire this time. No heat.
Just silence.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped.
"Do you believe I'll lose control?" she asked.
Lucien hesitated. "No."
"Do you believe you could be turned against me?"
"No," he said again—but slower.
She looked up. "That's not certainty. That's fear."
He stepped forward. "If you doubt me—"
"I don't," she interrupted. "But I need to know… if the Circle comes for me, if they take my mind, my fire, my body… will you end me?"
Lucien dropped to his knees in front of her.
"Yes," he whispered. "And I will weep while I do it."
She leaned down, kissed his forehead.
"Good."
Then she whispered in his ear:
"I'd do the same for you."
In the depths of the castle, Alaric was kept under heavy guard.
But that night… he vanished.
No broken locks.
No blood.
Just an empty cell—and a single word written in ash on the wall:
"Soon."