Chapter 255: We Must Remain Vigilant
Lord Bishop stood stiffly, his hands folded, though his eyes never stopped watching. He had lived long enough to recognize deceit when it slithered into a room. And right now, deceit had the face of Lord Richard.
Richard was speaking with unusual calm, his silver tongue sliding across words as easily as wine poured from a jug. "We must remain vigilant," he said. "The king’s health... well, he weakens by the day. I suggest we take Lord Gabriel into hiding, begin preparing him for the throne. It is the wise course."
Bishop’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. Everyone with half a brain knew Richard despised Gabriel. He had made no effort to hide it for decades. His hatred was an open wound. And now suddenly, he spoke as if the man were his prized jewel?
Bishop had always been a man of quiet survival. No side was ever truly his side; loyalty was a currency he hoarded until it was obvious which way the wind blew. For him, safety lay in stillness, in the illusion of neutrality. He had built a long and prosperous life on this rule: remain in the middle, keep your head down, and when the battle is won, align yourself with the victor. It was wisdom. And wisdom had kept his head firmly attached to his shoulders while stronger, brasher men had lost theirs.
Which was why Lord Mason irritated him beyond reason. Mason was a man built like a barrel—thick-necked, red-faced, and always too loud. A man so eager to prove his devotion to whatever cause he thought noble that he practically painted a target on his chest. Tonight, he puffed himself up like some barnyard rooster, declaring for all to hear, "I stand with Lord Gabriel. He is our future!"
Bishop nearly groaned aloud. A dangerous idiot. "What did Gabriel promise him?" Bishop muttered, lips barely moving. "A chair at the head of the council table? A crown of gold?" He clicked his tongue.
The lord beside him smothered a laugh. Mason, of course, heard nothing—too busy puffing out his chest like a man convinced that loyalty equaled immortality. Bishop shook his head. Courage, he thought again, was for fools.
The council was still droning on, debating—arguing—about where to take Gabriel into hiding. Richard, smooth as oil, pressed for a distant keep, far from Blood City. Then the air shifted.
Gasps spread like wildfire. Heads turned. Hands stilled. And Bishop found his gaze drawn upward.
The moon.
It moved.
It slid across the sky with intent until it devoured the last sliver of the setting sun. Daylight vanished. And then, as if mocking the natural order, the moon swelled—full and bright, a perfect silver coin—though the full moon was still three weeks away.
"By the goddess—" someone choked.
"This cannot be—" another stammered.
Mason, for once, had no words.
Bishop leaned back, lips curling faintly. "Well," he murmured, "either the goddess is angry... or she’s bored." His dry humor earned him another strangled laugh from the lord beside him, though this time it rang hollow with unease.
Across the realm, everyone saw it. In Blood City, every vampire poured into the streets, their pale faces upturned, their crimson eyes gleaming in awe. Merchants abandoned their stalls, lovers froze in their embraces.
And in the werewolf kingdom, howls split the air. Wolves of every rank—from the smallest pup to the alpha king—threw back their heads as if pulled by some unseen force. This wrongness—was not natural. It was will. It was control.
*****
Thessa’s breath caught as she staggered backward, her eyes locked on the impossible sight before her. Morvakar stood rigid, arms thrust skyward, his fingers splayed wide as if he were physically gripping the heavens themselves. The veins in his neck stood out, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack. And above them—the full moon. Impossibly bright, as though the heavens themselves were being bent and shackled to his will. The silver light bathed the child’s lifeless body, turning his pale skin ghostly, almost luminous. It was breathtaking. It was terrifying.
She had never seen such power in her life. Each shuddering breath he drew seemed to cost him a lifetime.
"What are you doing?" Thessa whispered, torn between awe and horror.
Morvakar’s reply came through gritted teeth, his chest heaving with the effort. "Some...some part of him...is a werewolf, even if it’s...a tiny part."
Thessa’s heart lurched. She had almost forgotten. But this child was a true blood.
"But he is a true blood," Thessa protested, tears still streaming down her face. "He is no wolf."
"Well..." Morvakar let out a ragged laugh, bitter and wild, "let’s hope a little of his mother was left in there. The moon should enhance...his healing abilities."
"Morvakar!" she shouted, her sob sharp as a blade. "He is dead. This is not healing him anymore—it’s desperation."
"He cannot die!!!" Morvakar roared. His whole body quivered under the strain, muscles trembling as if he bore the weight of the moon itself. "Luna’s child cannot die by my hands. I will not allow it!!! Even if I have to defy the heavens!"
Thessa recoiled at his outburst, her hands flying to her chest. She realized with a start that she had been wrong about him all along. His motives might differ from hers, his methods might horrify her, but beneath it all, he wanted the heir to live as desperately as she did.
The realization rattled her.
Her hands shook as she dropped to her knees, gravel biting into her skin. At the risk of being useless, at the risk of looking foolish, she clasped her trembling hands together. She prayed.
The moonlight thickened. She had no words for the prayer—only a desperate plea. Please. Please, goddess, if you have ever listened. If you have ever spared mercy.
Beside her, Morvakar gave a ragged cry, his back arching as if invisible chains yanked at him. His body gleamed with sweat, his shirt plastered to his skin, muscles defined in stark moonlight. For a fleeting, shameful instant, Thessa’s eyes lingered on the raw physicality of him—the sheer beauty of power incarnate. It was wrong to notice, wrong to feel that pull in her belly when the air reeked of death, but she couldn’t help it. Perhaps desperation and desire were closer kin than she had ever realized.
And so she prayed harder. For the child. For herself. For him.
The night held its breath.