The message arrived at dawn — sealed in black wax, bearing the sigil of the former Lord. Nickolas had been expecting it, though not this soon. The night of the ball still lingered in his mind — the human girl, the strange pulse that had drawn him to her, the faint whisper of something ancient beneath her skin. He had told no one of it, not even the Council. But somehow, they already knew.
He entered the great hall of the old citadel alone. The air was colder here, thinner, as though the stone itself remembered the weight of older kings. At the far end stood the former Lord — his father — tall, austere, wrapped in robes of shadow and mourning gold. Around him, members of the Council waited in silence, their faces half-veiled, their intent unmistakable.
"Nickolas," the former Lord said, his voice a calm echo that carried through the chamber. "You were at the mortal ball."
Nickolas bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord. I was sent to oversee the mortal exchange, as the Council requested."
The eldest councilor, Lord Aedric, leaned forward, voice smooth as oil. "And you met her."
Nickolas stilled. "I met… many."
A faint smile curved Aedric's lip. "Do not insult us, child. We felt the resonance. The prophecy speaks true — the bloodline of Alexander stirs again. You found her, didn't you?"
Nickolas hesitated. The memory flashed before him: Shyla's eyes, the strange familiarity in them, the bond he couldn't explain. He had felt something ancient pull at him, a whisper in his veins — mine. But he wasn't sure if it was real or something crafted by fate's cruel hand.
"Yes," he said at last, his voice steady. "I met her."
The Council erupted in soft murmurs — approval, greed, satisfaction. The former Lord said nothing. Only his eyes moved, studying Nickolas with a calm too deep to be natural.
"So the bond forms," said Lady Serath, her tone laced with false warmth. "Then it is settled. The empire will have its heir — a Lord bound to Alexander's blood, as the prophecy decrees."
Nickolas frowned. "Bound? She's human."
"Not for long," Serath replied smoothly. "The blood can be turned. The prophecy demands the union of old and new — the heir must bridge both worlds. You, Lord Nickolas, are destined to fulfill that."
Nickolas's jaw tightened. "You mean to use her."
Aedric's eyes flashed. "We mean to secure the future. The mortal girl carries the bloodline the empire needs. And unlike others," — his gaze flicked briefly toward the former Lord — "you have proven obedient."
The tension in the room sharpened like a drawn blade.The former Lord's voice broke the silence. "Enough."
All turned toward him. He rose slowly, shadows bending to his will. "If the prophecy is true, then let it unfold without your schemes. The empire will not force a bond."
Aedric's smile didn't waver. "With respect, my lord, it already has. The veil reacted. Her blood has chosen."
Nickolas's breath caught. "Chosen?"
"Don't feign ignorance," Serath said. "You felt it. The pull. The vision. She saw you, and the veil sealed the thread. The girl is yours now — by fate's decree."
Nickolas turned sharply toward the former Lord. "Is that true?"
The old vampire's gaze was unreadable. "Fate is fickle. Prophecies lie as easily as men."He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Be careful what chains you accept, Nickolas. The Council does not always tell the whole truth."
Nickolas held his gaze, confusion shadowing his composure. "And what truth do they hide?"
For the briefest instant, something flickered in the former Lord's expression — sorrow, guilt, perhaps even fear. "The first prophecy was not about you," he said quietly. "It spoke of my blood. My true blood."
Nickolas froze. The words struck like lightning. Before he could respond, Aedric's voice cut through, silken and sharp. "Enough riddles. The empire stands at a turning point. Prepare the ceremony. The mortal girl must be brought to the keep within the week."
Nickolas stepped back, voice low and cold. "She's not yours to summon."
"Everything born of Alexander's blood belongs to the empire," Serath said. "You will bring her, or we will."
The Council turned and swept from the hall, their robes whispering like serpents. When they were gone, Nickolas turned back to the former Lord — but the old man was already walking away, his cloak trailing shadows that seemed to tremble with restrained power.
"My lord," Nickolas called. "Who is this true blood you spoke of?"
The former Lord paused at the doorway but didn't turn. "A ghost," he said softly. "One the Council tried to bury."
And with that, he was gone.
Nickolas stood alone in the hall, the weight of a destiny he did not understand pressing on his shoulders. He could still feel her — Shyla's heartbeat faintly echoing in his veins — but beneath it, something darker pulsed, something that didn't belong to him.
A whisper crawled through the shadows behind him, faint but familiar.
"You were never meant to be Lord."
Nickolas turned sharply — but there was nothing there. Only the flickering torchlight, and the lingering echo of a voice he didn't yet realize belonged to Valerian. As if laughing at him and silently waiting for everything that is meant to be his without any struggle.