••{SERAPHINE'S POV}••
I have lived for nearly two thousand years. Two millennia of seeing empires rise and fall, of watching generations of humans and vampires alike scuttle through life thinking themselves clever. I have commanded respect, demanded obedience, and wielded fear as deftly as a blade. And yet… last night, a human girl dared to look at me with insolence, to defy me so openly in my own home.
I would've had her head rolling across the floor if it weren't for one simple reason.
Azrael.
She is under his protection, and because of that, I held my composure.
That alone saved her from my wrath.
Rest assured, I will have a long conversation with my son. I will speak some sense into him and he will send her back to wherever it is she came from. I'll make him understand that no one, no matter how noble, insults me with impunity.
But that, I tell myself, will have to wait. Tonight, the matters of the Empire take precedence. Azrael has summoned not only the court of Darkholme, but the rulers of the other eight kingdoms. They have all arrived. The corridors of Darkholme stretch endlessly before me, lit by flickering braziers casting tall, dancing shadows against the obsidian stone.
The doors of the throne room tower before me, flanked by the usual guards. They bow as I approach, their eyes briefly flicking toward the other arriving dignitaries, then to me.
"Your Majesty," they murmur. I nod slightly, allowing them to open the doors.
The moment my foot crosses the threshold of the throne room, every pair of eyes rises to acknowledge me. Lords and ladies, knights and ministers, the kings and queens of the Empire of Night—all bow their heads in respect. I raise my chin with the weight of centuries in my posture, and walk past them, settling into my place beside Azeria. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment; I see the flicker of uncertainty there.
"Mother," she says. "Do you know why Azrael has summoned the court?"
"No, my dear," I reply softly. "You know how your brother can be sometimes. We'll just have to wait and see."
The doors open once more, and the murmurs of the court drop to hushed whispers.
Azrael enters.
Every soul rises to their feet. The air itself seems to hold its breath as he walks toward his throne. A golden crown studded with rubies glints on top of his head. His black and gold attire is flawless, and a deep red cloak trails behind him like blood spilled across the marble floor. His presence demands attention, and it is given without hesitation.
He ascends the dais with an almost casual grace and sits on his throne. The court seats themselves again, and the throne room falls silent.
Azrael begins, his deep voice echoing through the hall. "Vassal Kings and Queens of the Empire of Night," he begins, acknowledging the rulers individually, and then sweeping his gaze across the assembled court. "My honored council, my advisors, my loyal servants… you are here tonight because I have summoned you for an important matter."
I arch an eyebrow, curiosity pricking beneath my composure. My mind races—what could he possibly have planned that required the attendance of the nobles from all nine kingdoms?
"I have news to share," he continues.
"Four nights from tonight," he declares, "I will be getting married."
The hall erupts with applause, cheers, whispers of speculation, murmurs of astonishment. And amidst it all, I remain frozen, my fingers clutching the arms of my chair. My eyes flick to Azeria, and she mirrors my shock.
I stare at Azrael, my mind racing.
Who? Who is this bride? Why has he not introduced her to me, his own mother, before proclaiming his intentions to the entire court? Why am I learning of this… like this?
My pulse quickens with a mixture of outrage and disbelief, but before I can demand answers, King Valerion of Gravenmourn rises, his voice smooth and measured. "Your Excellency… tell us of this bride. Who is she? Which kingdom does she come from?"
I glance at my son, narrowing my eyes. The court falls silent, all attention on his response.
Azrael's golden eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, glinting with something unreadable.
"My bride," he says, "is a princess from a faraway kingdom. Rhiannon of Astragarde."