CHAPTER 63
The silence that followed the closure of the grand hall doors was not peaceful, it was filled with the suffocating perfumed arrogance of the High Council that had sat only moments before.
Lucian remained standing at the head of the table, his palms pressed flat against the polished surface.
The wood was cold, yet beneath his touch, he felt the vibrations of the seven seats that had just been vacated.
They had smiled as they rose—a collection of bared fangs and predatory warmth that never reached their eyes.
Lord Cyrus had been the last to stand, his crimson gaze lingering on Lucian with a weight that suggested he was peeling back the layers of the King's skin to see the rot beneath.
"The date is set, then," Cyrus had whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering over a grave. "A celebration of your return. A gala to remind the Unholy Kingdom that its sun has risen once more."
