LUCIEN

The throne room was a cathedral of shadows, and black glass marble floors stretched endlessly beneath a ceiling lost in darkness, and crimson light leaked from veins in the stone like trapped blood.

Everything was cold, calculated, and silent—the kind of silence that echoed long after footsteps faded.

I stood in front of my father. The room was dead silent, but his fury crackled like lightning beneath the surface. His hands rested behind his back, his posture composed—too composed. That was how you knew he was angry.

Beside me, my twin brother Viktor shifted, unable to contain his smugness.

“Father,” he said smoothly, “I told you I could’ve handled this job better—”

“Quiet.”

The word struck the air like a whip.

Viktor fell silent instantly, jaw clenched, pride wounded. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to.

Our father’s gaze was locked on me—cold, heavy, unreadable.

“Why didn’t you bring her to us?” my father demanded, each word laced with fury. “If she wasn’t aware of her kind, she wouldn’t have resisted.”

My jaw tightened. “Because that wasn’t the witch’s order.”

My voice rose—just enough to betray a sliver of anger.

“I followed protocol. She’s not ready to be taken. If we bring her in now, she’ll break before we can use her.”

He stepped forward slowly, menace in every stride.

“You speak of strategy like a king, Lucien…”

A pause. A cruel smirk.

“Then act like one.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“You have to prove to me that you’re worthy of this throne,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper of warning. “Or I will pass the crown to Viktor.”

One of the servants appeared, silent as a shadow, and leaned in to whisper something into my father’s ear.

He made a faint cough and tried to hide it behind a sharp breath. But I noticed. We all did.

The king was slipping.

And she was the solution.

His hand trembled slightly as he waved the servant away.

“I will summon you later,” he said curtly, his voice gravel-thick and worn.

And then he exited the chamber without another word, the servant trailing behind him like death dressed in uniform.

I turned my back to leave.

But of course—he couldn’t resist.

“I knew you’d mess this all up,” came Viktor’s voice, soaked in spite.

My twin. My brother.

My worst nemesis.

“Father thinks you’re better,” Viktor sneered, stepping into my path. “But he’ll be in for quite the shock once he finally sees you for what you are.”

He smiled—a serpent’s curl.

“You can’t even handle a simple task.”

I stared at him, unmoved.

He’d always been like this—bitter, jealous, and desperate to rise by stepping on my neck. It was nothing new.

Ever since I could remember, Viktor had hated me. Not just rivalry—not the harmless kind that passes between brothers. His hatred was deliberate. Cold. Premeditated.

Once, just once, my mother tried to explain it. I was at her bedside. She was pale, her breaths shallow, her eyes flickering like candlelight about to go out.

“She never meant for it to be this way,” she whispered. “Viktor… he—”

But death had been impatient.

It took her before she could finish.

And Viktor? He never mourned her. Just sharpened his knives.

I made my way to my room.

“Baabe, you’re back,” came Elara’s voice—syrupy sweet and grating, laced with enough venom to make my temples throb.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, lost in thought, already strategizing the cleanest way to bring Valeska here… without breaking her too early.

Elara swept in like she owned the place. “Why didn’t you send the servants to inform me you’d returned?”

“Because now isn’t the time to see anyone,” I said flatly, standing up with my back to her.

“But babe, I’m your betrothed,” she pouted, trailing her hands around my waist. “We’ll be together the moment you climb the throne…”

“That’s not new information, Elara.”

Her hands drew lazy, imaginary circles across my chest, a performance she’d practiced a hundred times.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she whispered.

I didn’t respond.

Elara was the daughter of my father’s closest friend. They thought pairing me with her was a brilliant political move.

Old fools.

“How did it go?” Elara asked, her hand already roaming over my chest, fingers trailing like silk.

Her touch was skilled—too familiar—but I wasn’t in the mood.

“The summary will come when the mission is complete,” I said coolly, gently moving her hand away before it wandered further.

A flicker of disappointment passed through her eyes.

“My mother is slipping away, Lucien,” she whispered.

I turned to face her fully, eyes flaring crimson. “Are you trying to pressure me?”

My voice was sharp and low—dangerously close to a growl.

“N–no,” she stammered, instinctively stepping back. She knew better than to test my temper.

“You need to leave,” I said, trying not to sound cold. —

But it was already in my nature.

She rose slowly, her eyes lingering on me as she sauntered toward the door, hips swaying with deliberate grace.

At the threshold, she cast me one final glance and left.

Finally… serenity.

At last, I had the quiet I needed to reflect on my prey and decide the most efficient way to break her.

How could she be nineteen and still not know? What kind of chemicals were in those pills?

My thoughts raced in a dozen directions. I didn’t want to follow Father’s orders, not exactly. I was supposed to break her in, train the wolf out of her, and deliver her to our people.

A simple task.

And one I could easily accomplish.

Spilling blood had always been one of my favorite pastimes, after all.