Alaric's POV
The blood was still warm when it touched my tongue. Thick, rich, alive. I let it sit there for a moment before swallowing, savoring the way it burned down my throat like aged wine. The taste of fear always lingered faintly—sweet, coppery, indulgent.
I leaned back against the throne, tapping my finger on the armrest. The hall was quiet, silent enough that I could hear the faint drop of liquid in the goblet when I tilted it. One could say I was at peace, but peace was a poor word. I was never at peace. I was only waiting.
"Report," I said, my voice breaking the silence.
From the corner of the vast, candlelit chamber, a shadow detached itself and stepped forward. I didn't need to look to know who it was. The air around him always carried a faint trace of smoke and wet stone—Rion, my right hand. Loyal, precise, and as cold as I needed him to be.
He bowed slightly. "My lord," he began, "we have gathered the latest information on Evander and his pack."
