The lights of the towers of the Pale Castle were lit one by one, while the mist turned the moon into a sepulchral ghost in the sky. The yellowish glow fought against the thick haze, creating diffuse auroras that barely illuminated the white stone beneath their feet.
Astilbe's dead eyes were lost in the firmament. The more time passed since Isaiah departed for the Hand of the Forest, the more a corrosive restlessness grew within him. His undulating hair swayed with the frigid breath of the night, until a voice tore him from his thoughts.
The sound emerged from the shadows of a nearby pillar, dry and respectful.
—My lord, should I summon an official meeting?
Astilbe did not turn, keeping his gaze fixed on the darkness outside. Belzblehem appeared in the threshold of the hall, his silhouette etched against the interior light.
—It is not necessary —Belzblehem responded, his deep and steady tone filling the solemn room with respect—. What I have to tell you now is urgent. Afterward, the others may spread it.
His voice required no volume to impose itself; it resonated with a physical authority that vibrated in the chests of those present.
The exchange of words between Elek and Belzblehem stirred something in Astilbe's chest. He turned slowly, advancing toward the council table.
Upon the long stairs that guarded the great main hall, the pureblood descended. Every step Belzblehem took imposed absolute silence; his mere presence was a decree. The sound of his shoes upon the carpet was rhythmic, implacable. Tall, impeccable, with hair black as obsidian and eyes of a deep blue. He moved with the lethality and elegance of an absolute king. He was the protector of the Children of the Night, the one who dictated the laws, the one who offered territory and blood, and at the same time, the one who could snatch it all away. A living cult, and at the same time, a condemnation of his own kind.
He stopped in the center of the room, letting the silence settle upon the shoulders of the attendees.
—On the Night of the Devil, we shall be left disarmed, forced to lock ourselves in our dark prisons, as the prophecy dictates and as it has always been. —His hypnotic voice, of a sensual gravity, resonated with clarity—. The Prime Minister's enemies take advantage of the occasion to trade with lesser demons. Offerings of souls multiply throughout the city.
His eyes swept the room, stopping for an instant on each face, evaluating loyalties.
Astilbe remembered the twisted bodies piled near the government palace. The image came to him vivid, bloody. Those times of darkness were approaching, difficult times for demons, vampires, humans, and angels... for all those who dwelt in the low heavens and the universal lands.
The atmosphere in the room grew thick with the weight of the prophecy.
The clergy, with their Temples of Light, advanced with implacable fervor. They burned heretics, razed villages, and every new territory was devoured under the pretext of purification. The vampires could not coexist with them. They could not even pact. Both pursued humanity: the temples to enslave it, the Children of the Night to survive upon it. The incompatibility was absolute, a war of mutual extinction.
—If we are unable to protect the Prime Minister, we will lose everything —sentenced Hassis.
His voice emerged from the gloom of an armchair, quiet but firm. Belzblehem tilted his head slightly, while his lips drew a barely perceptible smile.
—Those who protect him might not return. The Night of the Devil is the time when mortals seal their doors with flowers of holocaust. There will be no blood for us. Only death waits outside.
The warning fell direct and real. In recent years, matters had complicated to that point. The Prime Minister held an alliance with the Levi clan, enlightened priests who protected him for years, but the pact was broken when he was unable to expel the vampires and was designated as the "son of the devil." Political betrayal had sealed his blood destiny.
And it was then when another voice, powerful and devastating, tore through the air like thunder.
—The fight for an insignificant land is completely absurd.
The floor vibrated with that sound. The glasses upon the table tinkled slightly. The shadows parted at the entrance of the hall, revealing a figure that seemed to have been there from the beginning, invisible and patient. His steps were slow, heavy, and elegant. Every time he took a step upon the marble, an echo devoured the entire room.
No one had noticed him. No one had felt his silent vigilance. The atmospheric pressure changed instantaneously, becoming dense, difficult to breathe.
But everyone understood it was too late to flee. Only the instinct of survival screamed in alarm within them.
It was Lucieno.
The Consecrated Predator.
He emerged from the threshold with a toxic calm and an almost glorious smile. His eyes burned, and around him, the gloom was subjected to his will. The darkness of the night recognized a king.
♱⏾⋆.˚