The tall doors of the chambers where the noble pureblood rested—the dark father of the immortals of the shadows—burst open, stirring the wind without showing the slightest respect for his formidable presence. The solid wood crashed against the interior walls with a dry thud that echoed in the high vaults. The curtains shook violently, breaking the gray harmony of the elegant room. The dust suspended in the faint rays of light dispersed with the sudden current.
The vampiress Elek, her hair red as freshly spilled blood, curled her lips at the sight of the intruder. Her eyes gleamed with contained amusement at the audacity of the moment. Belzblehem's blue eyes—cold as eternal ice—intensified their brightness, piercing Hellery, the only one in the castle with the nerve to arrive unannounced.
The atmospheric pressure in the room increased. But, as it was her and only her, there was no anger in the pureblood's heart. His tolerance for impulsive acts was known to be zero, yet he remained seated on the throne of shadows, motionless as a statue of black marble.
—My lord.
Hellery's voice trembled slightly, due to the weight of the petition she came to make. Her head was bowed, her white hair falling like a veil over her face.
—Rise —the vampire ordered. But she leaned further toward the floor, prostrating herself even more.
Her knees pressed into the dark carpet, seeking contact with the cold ground. The resistance in her back was tangible, a physical refusal to stand straight.
—My lord, during the Day of Calamity, I wish to be the one in charge of the Prime Minister's protection.
Every word from the saint resonated loudly to the Dark Father, vibrating in the sepulchral silence that followed. Only the sigh of resignation escaping from Elek was heard. A brief sound, a hiss between teeth that betrayed her disapproval.
—I am the most capable of doing so.
Hellery kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her hands clenched on her lap. The flow in Belzblehem's breathing betrayed a silent laugh. His shoulders moved barely, a spasm of cold amusement. Hellery knew it without looking at him, still on her knees, prostrated and pleading. She felt the vampire's gaze in every fiber of her being.
—Are you asking me to send you to die? —the pureblood asked with gelid calm, leaning slightly toward her—. Or perhaps... do you speak of Lucieno?
The name fell into the room like a judicial sentence. The temperature dropped several degrees upon its pronunciation. With a gesture, he extended his hand toward Elek, who understood immediately and helped the saint to stand. Elek's touch was firm, pulling Hellery upward with a strength that admitted no resistance.
Hellery's expression eclipsed the darkest corners of that place, so pitiful and empty, sunken in her own torturous reflections. Her eyes were glassy, focused on an invisible point beyond the walls.
Lucieno.
That different and superior creature, the very demon among the vampiric demons, subdued her and led her to an evident hopelessness. The name alone evoked a presence that expanded over those present.
Hellery had been the only one to accompany the hybrid in his learning of the world since he first opened his eyes within it. She knew everything about the predator: from his development to the horror he caused even among the most ruthless vampires. She remembered every lesson, every moment of calm before the storm.
Superior to the purebloods, his species was genuinely destructive. And even with that nature, Hellery managed to make that being coexist with other vampires. He respected and obeyed her... in a sense. However, one day something warped: Lucieno became stubborn and capricious, distancing himself from the coven and developing a profound hatred toward the saint who had raised him. The change was gradual, like an internal rot that finally broke the surface.
Belzblehem knew it. He had witnessed that rejection in every encounter. But he never considered it a problem of his concern, unless it altered the balance of the congregation. For him, emotions were irrelevant variables in the equation of power.
—Since he returned, he has avoided you completely, despite the fact that you have sought him with desperation —he said, crossing his legs with quiet indifference—. You should not be depressed by such a thing. Besides, no one can save the pagan minister from his destiny with death.
His words were spoken without malice, simply as incontrovertible facts. Belzblehem treasured the saint's existence, but he did not consider her irreplaceable. Although he governed their lives, he had no power to prevent their deaths. Mortality was a risk even for the immortals when facing greater forces.
—In any case, I want to go; then the congregation will not have to assume the consequences of having abandoned the council that allows us to reign in this city.
The determination in Hellery's voice was absolute, a rock before a raging sea. Her hands stopped trembling, closing into fists at her sides.
—I see —Belzblehem tilted his head a little and laughed to himself again. She was not so foolish as to sacrifice herself for a politician—. If that in which you have faith fails, you will be utterly unfortunate, but... I grant you permission to act with full freedom.
The laugh was low, vibrating in his chest. The authorization was given with the lightness of one signing an execution warrant. Hellery bowed again, prostrating herself once more.
The movement was fluid, a deep reverence that hid her expression under the cascade of white hair.
Only Elek remained rigid, her face hardened. Her muscles tensed, revealing the tension she refused to show verbally. She knew what that decision meant; she knew the risk and the arrogance of the saint in wagering her eternity. She wished to stop her, but she remained silent. Some choices—even for the immortals—were irrevocable. Elek's silence was the only farewell Hellery received before turning toward the open door.
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