The explosion of the mechanical bird in the Council Chamber had done more than just claim the life of a traitor and scorch the marble floors; it had shattered the last remnants of peace within the High Palace. The air in the corridors, once filled with the busy hum of reconstruction and the hopeful chatter of servants, had curdled into a thick, stagnant soup of paranoia. Every shadow was now a potential assassin; every footstep behind a closed door was a heartbeat of a killer.
The High Palace was no longer a home. It was a fortress under siege from within.
Lucien did not sleep. Since the mark of the serpent appeared on the Elder's neck, the Sorcerer of the Void had become a ghost haunting his own halls. His recovery from the basilisk bolt had left him lean and lethal, his violet eyes glowing with a cold, predatory light that made even the bravest Lycan guards avert their gaze.
