The disguise was an insult, a rough cloak of shame draped over Draven's immense pride. His commander, Vorlag, had been brutally efficient, stripping him of anything that screamed 'Dragon Prince.' His usual thick, dark leather and segmented iron armor were replaced by the rough, ill-fitting tunic and trousers of a Half-blood stable hand... the kind of lowly laborer the Vampire court barely registered as alive.
They had used a strong, thick ash stain to darken his bronze Fire Dragon skin several shades, covering the subtle, powerful sheen that usually marked his lineage. Vorlag even filed down his fingernails until they were blunt and raw, forcing him to keep his powerful hands constantly clenched to hide their size.
The worst part was the small, almost pathetic scar painted crudely across his left cheek, it was meant to suggest a low-caste, drunken brawl, an identity easily dismissed.
"You look like spoiled meat, my Prince," Vorlag stated, inspecting the final product.
"Untrustworthy, but forgettable. Perfect."
Draven's true hair... thick, wild mahogany, was tucked under a simple, greasy cap. His war hammer, the massive steel extension of his soul, remained hidden deep in the armory.
He felt hollowed out, but the emptiness was instantly filled by the cold, deep rage he reserved for the Vampires who killed his mother.
"The delivery is set for the outer perimeter gate," Draven said, testing his voice. It was low, roughened by a fake accent he'd practiced for two days... a crude, slurred speech pattern that sounded like it belonged to a man who spent his life hauling garbage.
The cover story was simple... 'Kael,' a new replacement stable hand sent from a small, subservient human village near the northern border, delivering supplies to the Ebon Citadel's inner stable yard.
The journey was slow and agonizing. Draven walked alongside the cart, forcing himself to move with the slumped, defeated gait of a peasant. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to smash the walls, to unleash the searing molten golden fury of his power. Instead, he maintained the slow, shuffling sham.
Entering Noctis proper was a violation. The city was a world of cold marble, violet-blue light, and suffocating silence. It pressed down on him, every stone radiating the power of the Vampire hierarchy. The air felt heavy, dead, an atmosphere meant to extinguish the life of any fireborn creature.
At the massive outer gate of the Ebon Citadel, Draven was stopped by two guards. They were tall, but noticeably less refined than the inner royal guards... likely Lesser Vampires serving low duties. Their eyes were a dull, flat dark hazel, holding no spark of royal power.
"Clear the cart. Name and purpose," one guard ordered, his voice flat and bored. He looked through Draven, not at him.
Draven forced the crude accent. "Kael. Delivering grain to the inner yard. New assignment." He dropped his gaze immediately, feigning humility and fear.
The guard waved a hand, and the second guard ran a long, thin rod over the piled sacks of grain, checking for illegal Dragon-made weapons. The metal touched Draven's disguise, and he had to fight the urge to rip the rod and the guard's arm from his body.
The guard with the dark hazel eyes then scanned Draven from head to toe, pausing slightly on the crude scar. "You smell like furnace ash and sour milk. Get in. And keep your noise to the stables. The Purebloods don't tolerate human smells in the main halls."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Draven mumbled, picking up the heavy ropes and pulling the cart forward.
He passed through the outer walls and into the stable yard... a sprawling, dark complex carved into the lower levels of the Citadel. It was filled with dozens of black-coated, massive horses used by the Vampire cavalry. The yard smelled strongly of horse sweat, manure, and damp stone... a far more honest smell than the perfumed, cold air of the upper courts.
The stable master was a stocky, efficient Vampire with grey eyes and a face that looked permanently tired. He didn't waste words.
"You're Kael? You'll take care of the eastern wing's mounts. Clean stalls, fresh feed, water, and you keep your mouth shut. The Princess Isolde's guards keep their horses here. You report only to me. If I hear one complaint, I'll feed you to the winter stock."
"Yes, sir," Draven grunted, accepting the dirty, heavy bucket and brush.
He spent the next few hours in a furious, controlled haze of physical labor. Cleaning stalls, hauling hay, and scrubbing dirt from the marble floors. It was humiliating, mind-numbing work, the exact opposite of the brutal, honest combat he was trained for. But the labor allowed him to observe.
He noted the patrol routes of the Lesser Vampire guards. He cataloged the position of the heavy doors leading to the interior human and staff access tunnels. He watched the horses of the high-caste Purebloods... sleeker, more vicious mounts than the standard cavalry stock.
He saw the guards attached to Isolde's wing. They were distinct, larger, more alert, and always moving in pairs. Their eyes were a colder silver-grey, denoting a slightly higher status than the stable yard crew. They stabled their horses in the farthest, most private stalls, constantly wiping them down and treating them with an almost fanatical care.
Draven worked near those stalls, deliberately moving slowly, radiating the required subservience. He didn't look at the guards, just at the rough stone floor he was scrubbing. But he listened.
He heard the silver-grey guards complaining about the new schedule, about the "delicate human Princess" who demanded an early breakfast, and about the "volatile presence" of the Dragon Prince at the ceremony, which had disrupted the court's routine. The casual cruelty in their voices made Draven's grip tighten on his brush until his knuckles went white.
He was here. He was inside. The cold, crushing weight of the Citadel was everywhere, but beneath the rough, false skin of Kael, the stable hand, the raw, burning heat of the Fire Dragon was already planning its escape... and Isolde's. He had to get closer to the human wing. He had to find a way to make contact with the Princess without triggering the alarm that would bring Damon and his cold-blooded court down on him. The real work of vengeance had just begun.