Chapter 11 — The Council of Hunger
The council chamber of the Crimson Court was carved entirely from obsidian stone, polished so dark that it reflected the lamps like pools of blood. The air hummed with ancient magic, old as the first night itself.
At the head of the crescent-shaped table sat King Zephyrion Morvane, his presence filling the room like a storm pressing against fragile glass. His hair fell long and black around a sharp, aristocratic face, and his eyes—silver tinged with faint red—glowed with a hunger he didn't bother to hide.
His fingers drummed against the armrest. "Begin."
The six councilmen straightened.
High Lord Phineas Draegor, deceptively young with pale blond hair and mismatched eyes—one blue, one crimson—leaned forward. "Your Majesty, our borders are thinning. The wolves have joined with the humans by marriage. We expected this, but the alliance strengthens them more than projected."
Across from him, Lord George Rathmore, whose skin was dark like polished earth and whose fangs were longer than most, hissed softly. "The wolves are fools. But the humans… they breed hope quickly. Annoying creatures."
A chuckle came from the older vampire beside him. Lord Cole Windsman—white-haired, face smooth yet eyes ancient—rested both hands on his cane. "Hope isn't the issue. Numbers are. Their marriage pact doubled their armies."
King Zephyrion tilted his head slightly. "And what of the harvest?"
Silence flickered through the room.
Finally, General Clayton Pierce, skin pale as frost and jaw marked with an old battle scar, answered. "The last human transport arrived yesterday."
Zephyrion's gaze sharpened. "Healthy?"
"Mostly," Clayton replied. "One or two… touched in the head." His mouth twitched. "But the rest are suitable."
Zephyrion rose slowly from his throne, and even the ancient councilmen instinctively bowed their heads. A ripple of power moved like cold fingers through the chamber.
"I do not care if the wolves ally with humans," he said. "I do not care if humans cling to hope like children clutching toys. Let them. It changes nothing."
He stepped forward, the hem of his dark coat brushing the floor.
"Our people are starving."
The words dropped like stones into a deep well.
Lord Varos Thale, thin and long-fingered with red tattoos circling his neck, cleared his throat. "What do you propose, sire?"
Zephyrion smiled faintly—sharp, cruel, inevitable.
"We increase the harvest."A murmur of approval followed.
But Zephyrion lifted one finger, silencing them at once.
"And… we observe the newest arrivals carefully. There is a scent among them."
He inhaled once, eyes narrowing.
"A spark that should not exist among humans."
Phineas shifted uneasily. "A threat?"
Zephyrion's gaze glinted. "Or an opportunity. I will decide once I see her myself."
The council chamber fell still.
Outside, night thundered against the palace walls.
Inside, six powerful vampires bowed as their king—Zephyrion Morvane, the one born from the eclipse of a dying star—turned away, already sensing the trembling heartbeat of a girl locked somewhere deep beneath his feet.
A heartbeat that did not know it had already caught the attention of a monster.