The Grand Hall of Vows had been transformed. For the wedding, it had been cold and ceremonial. For the court reception, it was a blinding display of Vampire wealth. The lighting had changed from violet to a cruel, bright silver that reflected off the hundreds of goblets, jewels, and the pale skin of the assembled crowd.
Isolde stood beside Damon, enduring the silent appraisal. She wore a high-necked dress of deep burgundy... the color of old blood...chosen by Damon's high-caste aides.
The material felt suffocatingly heavy. Her only defense was her stillness. She remembered the Queen's voice... Compliance is the first step. But she would comply only in action, never in spirit.
Damon stood tall, a monument of cruel elegance in his black-and-crimson jacket. He held her arm with a light but non-negotiable grip, the coldness of his skin a constant reminder of his claim. He introduced her to the high-ranking members of the court old families who had served his line for centuries, their eyes mostly silver or dark grey, all holding the same look of aristocratic boredom and cold evaluation.
Every gesture Damon made was a calculated display of ownership. He spoke little to her, only to give sharp, quiet commands, such as... "Look interested," or "Do not slouch, wife."
Isolde focused on the task Silvana had given her. Silvana stood a few respectful paces away, dressed in a muted blue that made her look fragile and easily missed. She had spent the last two hours with Isolde, giving her names, histories, and sharp insights into the court's hierarchy. Silvana wasn't teaching manners... she was teaching survival.
"The older gentleman with the dark hazel eyes is Lord Casimir. He controls the southern iron mines. If he smiles at you, he is lying," Silvana had whispered earlier. "The woman with the black diamond necklace is Lady Meridia. She is Nyx's most trusted informant. Never let her hear you breathe hard."
Isolde used her eyes, cataloging every face, every jewel, and every lie that passed between them. The court was not a gathering of friends... it was a lethal, silent contest for influence and position.
She saw Nyx across the room, already positioned with a small, powerful group of advisors. Nyx wore an emerald green that stole all attention. When her silver eyes met Isolde's, Nyx gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head... a signal of disapproval for Isolde's lack of spirit.
Damon leaned close, his voice a low, cold vibration against her ear. "Your silence is adequate, Princess. Your posture is not. They are looking for weakness. Give them none."
Isolde felt the familiar heat of her suppressed anger. She forced her body to relax, channeling the subtle, strange warmth the Queen's tonic had awakened deep in her chest. I will not be weak for him.
Then, the mood in the far side of the hall shifted. A high-caste Vampire aide in a simple black uniform entered from a side entrance near the kitchens... an entrance Isolde knew led to the staff and stable tunnels. The aide looked agitated, which was a startling lapse of control in this environment.
The aide went straight to Lord Cassian, Damon's close advisor. They spoke in quick, low whispers, and Cassian's face tightened with cold annoyance. Cassian then immediately excused himself and strode toward the main doors with two heavy-set guards.
A subtle, cold knot of fear tightened in Isolde's stomach. Something is wrong in the service quarters.
On the other side of the Citadel, deep in the dark, damp service tunnels, Draven was breathing hard, pushing a heavy cart full of refuse. His alias, Kael, was doing the work of two men to stay below notice. He had discovered that every hour, a small supply run was made through the lower human access path, bringing minor goods from the stable yard up to the kitchens that served the royal wing.
Draven had used a loose floor slate to intentionally jam the dumbwaiter that moved supplies. His plan was crude, simple, and risked everything... he would use the necessary confusion and the distraction of the court reception to deliver a heavy cart of something to the kitchen level, right beneath the Grand Hall.
He knew the service entrance to the kitchen was guarded, but he counted on the arrogance of the guards. They would be focused on keeping the perimeter clear, not on inspecting a lowly, stinking cart of used goods.
He reached the access path. The smell of human food mixed with the cold air of the stone. He could hear the faint, high sound of music from the main hall far above. The kitchen hallway was guarded by a single, bored royal guard with dull blue eyes.
"Stop, stable hand. No carts past this point," the guard said, not even looking at Draven, just at the polished stone of the hallway.
Draven forced his body to slump in exhaustion. "Kitchen ordered the empty barrels for the wine cellar, sir. The reception is taking all the storage. I was told to bring them now." He kept his voice rough, subservient, and slightly panicked.
The guard waved him past with a lazy hand. "Fine. Get them out of sight. Quickly."
Draven's heart was hammering... not with fear, but with the cold, surging power of his hidden strength. He pushed the cart quickly down the smooth tunnel. He was now just one floor below the Grand Hall.
He found the kitchen... a massive, cold space where numerous servants and cooks worked silently. The head cook, a sharp-faced, pale Vampire, looked at him with immediate disdain.
"You're late. Get those barrels out of my sight. And if you make noise, I'll have your skin removed, stable boy."
Draven grunted in reply, maneuvering the cart quickly. He kept his eyes sweeping across the room, looking for any access.
There. Near the ceiling, above the massive stone hearth, was a small, ornate ventilation grate. It was perfectly positioned directly below the floor of the Grand Hall of Vows.
The aide who had reported the issue was the first sign of trouble. Draven knew he didn't have much time. He quickly unloaded the barrels into a dark corner, his massive hands moving with surprising, concealed speed.
Back in the Grand Hall, Isolde was distracted by the noise and the absence of Cassian. She glanced toward the area above the kitchen access tunnels, her eyes catching the faint shimmer of the ventilation grate above the hearth. It was small, hidden by a heavy curtain, and easily missed.
That grate must lead to the staff tunnels.
Then, Isolde saw it. A tiny, almost invisible fleck of ash drifting down from the ceiling grate, landing briefly on the shoulder of Lord Casimir before being brushed away. Ash. The residue of Dragon fire, or perhaps the fine, dark dust of mountain stone.
She knew immediately what it meant. Draven was here.
She gripped Damon's arm tighter, her hands icy cold, her mind screaming a warning he couldn't hear. The air was colder than before.
Damon felt the slight, sudden tension in her body. He looked down, his Crimson Blood-Red eyes sharp. "What is it, Princess? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Isolde forced a slow, painful smile, channeling every bit of her suppressed Witch power to keep her face steady. "Just the cold, my Lord. The chill of the Citadel is still unfamiliar to me."
Damon's cold lips curved in a predatory smile. "You will grow used to the cold, Isolde. It is the nature of our kind." He didn't believe her. He saw the shift, but he couldn't pinpoint the cause.
Draven, now hidden back in the shadows of the kitchen, had made his first connection. He hadn't seen her face clearly, but he knew Isolde was directly above him. He had placed his sign. Now, he just had to wait for the court to finish its pointless gathering, and then he would make his move. He knew exactly where the Obsidian Suite was. He knew where the Princess slept.