Chapter nine

Golden rays spilled over the rooftops of the grand estate, warming the marble statues in the garden and glinting against the polished windows of the manor. Birds chirped faintly in the hedges, and the air smelled faintly of citrus and fresh-cut herbs. Even the gravel on the wide path that led to the mansion sparkled faintly beneath the sun.

It was a perfect day. Too perfect. Too still.

Crimson stood at the edge of the path, her hands clenched tight in front of her, lined up beside the other servants in two neat rows. Every inch of the grounds had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The silver polished. The chimneys cleaned. The windows gleamed. The head cook had spent the morning snapping at anyone who walked too hard on the floors, and the butler, the steward, like a coiled serpent ready to strike.

She'd never seen him like this before. Tense. On edge. As if the arrival of this particular vampire unsettled even him.

She flicked a glance toward Lara, who stood a few paces to her left. The girl's cheeks were sallow, her posture slumped with exhaustion. Dark circles dragged under her eyes like bruises, and her lips were chewed raw. Crimson had heard the whispers from the other girls who shared a room with Lara, how Lara cried herself to sleep each night, how she barely spoke, how she muttered names in her sleep. They'd called her annoying, exhausting, but Crimson knew better.

They didn't understand what it meant to watch your entire world fall apart. She felt really grateful to Lara's brother.

Crimson's heart clenched as she straightened her spine.

A faint rumble echoed down the road.

The carriage.

Everyone stiffened.

The coach came into view like a shadow cutting across the golden sun. It was jet-black and gleaming, with intricate silver etchings that shimmered faintly with old, old runes. The wheels were silent despite the gravel, and two large brown horses, massive, strong creatures with thick manes, pulled it steadily forward. A single coachman sat up front, faceless beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

The butler's spine, impossibly straight already, went rigid.

Crimson held her breath.

The carriage slowed to a halt directly in front of the waiting lines of servants. Time seemed to hover.

The coachman hopped down and moved toward the door, but before his hand could reach the handle, it opened on its own, an elegant swing, smooth and deliberate.

From the dark interior, a man stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Pale as frost. His hair was black as onyx, slicked back from a sharp, aristocratic face. Eyes the color of spilt wine, blood-red, fathomless and unreadable. He wore a fitted black coat lined with silver thread, the high collar casting part of his face in shadow. His expression was like a carving, cold, elegant, lifeless.

The steward bowed deeply. " Lord Azrael."

Azrael. So this was the master?

Crimson peeked upward from beneath her lashes. He looked every bit the villain from the stories the priest used to tell. Noble. Immaculate. Distant. And yet, he didn't feel like the one everyone had been fussing about.

A moment later, a second figure stepped from the carriage.

His first gesture was a sigh, fingers raking through his equally dark hair, though his was messier, softer, slightly tousled by the breeze. His cloak was of midnight blue velvet, open in the front to reveal a deep maroon vest with gold buttons and a sword strapped to his side.

This one walked like he ruled the world.

His crimson gaze swept the estate lazily before it landed on the butler, who bowed again.

"My Lord," the steward said.

That was the true master of the manor.

Crimson bowed quickly with the others, keeping her head down, heart thudding. She could barely make out his features, but she felt his presence, heavy and suffocating like warm smoke coiling into her lungs.

As the two Lords began to walk forward, all the servants stayed frozen, heads bowed low.

They passed slowly down the line, their boots nearly soundless on the gravel. The only noise was the distant birdsong and the faint creak of leather as their cloaks shifted.

Crimson held her breath.

And then... he stopped.

Right in front of her.

Time ground to a halt.

She didn't dare lift her head at first, though she felt the weight of his gaze on her, heavy, deliberate. Every hair on her body stood on end. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

He said nothing. Just stared.

And before she knew what she was doing, her chin lifted.

Their eyes met.

It was like being slammed beneath a wave.

His eyes were the color of old blood, yet gleamed with something far older, something ancient, and dangerous, and all-consuming. She realized that he was young, at least in appearance, but his eyes... his eyes had seen centuries.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that seconds? minutes? It felt like an eternity.

He tilted his head, studying her as if she were something on a table in a lab. Something curious. Something to be dissected.

Crimson swallowed.

The butler cleared his throat awkwardly. "We recently acquired a few new thralls, My Lord. As you instructed. The northern regions had... losses."

Thralls?

Her gut twisted.

"I see," the vampire murmured, voice low and velvety.

Then, just like that, he turned and continued walking.

Azrael followed.

Crimson didn't move until she was sure they were far enough that they wouldn't notice how her knees had buckled slightly.

Around her, the other servants began to breathe again.

Lara reached out and subtly squeezed her arm.

Crimson didn't squeeze back. She stared after him, eyes wide.

___

The manor was quiet, too quiet. The air inside was cooler than the sun-drenched South beyond the windows, the warmth failing to touch the stone-cold walls of Lord Samael's estate.

Inside his study, the curtains had been pulled back, and sunlight spilled faintly through the tall arched window, illuminating the dark wooden desk, the shelves of leather-bound books, and the carved obsidian raven figurine that watched from the mantle. But the real raven, a living one, perched now on Samael's gloved hand.

He stood near the window, still in his coat, the heavy fabric catching flecks of candlelight as he tilted his wrist, letting the bird shift its talons with a quiet shuffle. Its eyes, glossy black, blinked slowly, intelligently, as if it listened to the words unspoken.

Behind him, Azrael leaned against the side of a shelf. His complexion was no longer the deathly shade it had been just days ago, but his movements still carried a residual fatigue.

Azrael's voice cut through the silence. "Did you learn anything while in the castle? About the cult?"

Samael didn't turn from the window. "Nothing useful," he said, low. "Only whispers. The king's council avoids the topic like it's a plague, and the nobles pretend not to know what it means. It's the same old pattern."

Azrael scoffed. "That's not like them. They usually jump at the chance to gossip, especially when it involves ancient threats and treason."

"They're frightened," Samael murmured. "This isn't a scandal over blood taxes or an heir with a bastard child. This… is something darker."

Azrael's expression darkened."You think the rumors are true? That some of the Lords are working with them?"

Samael finally looked away from the raven, letting it flutter to a perch by the window. "I think they're working with something. And that something is beyond them. And when it turns on them, they'll burn first."

At that moment, the door to the study was flung open with an obnoxious creak, disturbing the heavy atmosphere like an ill-timed joke.

In stepped a man with tousled dark brown hair, his cloak thrown over one shoulder with no effort to appear proper. His smirk preceded him, broad, charming, and utterly insufferable.

"Am I interrupting a funeral?" he drawled.

"Nicholas."

"Still brooding, I see," Nicholas replied cheerfully. "Isn't it exhausting, carrying that scowl around all day?"

Samael remained motionless. "Must you enter like a drunk crashing a sermon?"

Nicholas spread his arms. "It's a gift. Vivianne will be thrilled to know you're back, Samael," he said, ignoring the tension. "She practically started dressing in black when you left. Not that it didn't suit her. Adds to the whole mourning widow of a man she never touched thing."

He strode into the room with the lazy swagger of someone born into power and thoroughly bored of it. The crimson in his eyes glinted with mischief, not menace, though he had enough bloodline in him to challenge most vampires in combat, if he ever took anything seriously.

Nicholas perched himself on the arm of a nearby velvet chair, crossing one leg over the other. "So, what are we whispering about this time? The slow death of the prince? This shadowy cult your birdie told me about? Or dear Azrael's unfortunate honeymoon?"

Azrael's gaze turned sharp. "Careful, Nicholas."

Nicholas placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "I only speak truths. It's what friends do. And I am deeply wounded you didn't invite me to the wedding."

"I would've invited you to the execution," Azrael muttered, "had it gone through."

Azrael moved toward the bookshelves, fingers trailing idly across the worn spines. "Heard anything useful from your... usual company?"

Nicholas grinned. "Which one? The tavern girl with the memory of a fish or the diplomat's son who squeals under pressure?"

Azrael shot him a look.

Nicholas sobered, slightly. "Only rumors. Something about an offering being readied. Blood of prophecy. That kind of thing."

Samael's jaw tightened. "They're preparing a vessel."

"That's the theory," Nicholas said with a shrug. "But you know how these cults are, always chanting about ancient beings and sacred blood. Half of it is theatrics."

Azrael turned to Samael. "If they're looking for a vessel... they must've already chosen someone."

Samael nodded slowly. "We just don't know who. Yet."

Nicholas let out a long, theatrical breath. "I miss when our biggest problems were arrogant half-bloods with rebellious streaks."

Azrael scoffed. "You mean like you?"

"Touché."

"I saw the little one," he said casually, swirling the drink. "Red hair. Pretty. Is that your new acquisition, Samael?"

Samael's expression darkened subtly. "She's a thrall."

"Thrall?" Nicholas laughed. "With a neck like that? Careful. You'll bite something you'll regret."

Azrael's voice was flat. "Don't you have some brothel to haunt?"

The raven croaked from its perch.

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