# Chapter 30: The Rival's Report
The air in Lord Valerius's office was old, a carefully curated blend of antique leather, polished mahogany, and the faint, metallic tang of preserved blood. It was the scent of authority, of power that had weathered centuries. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panorama of Manhattan's glittering skyline, the city lights a sprawling, obedient constellation at his feet. Valerius himself sat behind a desk of black obsidian so polished it mirrored the room like a placid pool of night. He was motionless, a statue carved from alabaster and shadow, his fingers steepled before him as he listened.
Standing before the desk, Julian Vance felt the weight of that silence like a physical pressure. He was a creature of impeccable breeding, his suit a charcoal-gray second skin, his features sharp and aristocratic. But in Valerius's presence, he felt like a nervous page boy reporting to a king. He had rehearsed this speech, polishing each phrase until it gleamed with insinuation, but now, under the Regent's unnervingly still gaze, the words felt clumsy, crude.
"My Lord," Julian began, his voice a carefully modulated baritone, "I have completed my preliminary audit of the Sanchez Biotech resource allocation for the current quarter. The findings are… concerning."
Valerius did not respond. His eyes, the color of winter ice, remained fixed on Julian, offering no encouragement, no condemnation. It was a classic tactic, a way to make the speaker fill the void, to reveal more than they intended. Julian knew the game, but knowing it didn't make him immune.
"Pres has diverted significant funds—untraceable, of course, through a series of offshore shell companies that even my analysts had difficulty penetrating," he continued, stepping closer to the obsidian desk. He placed a thin, transparent data slate on its surface. On it, a complex web of financial transactions glowed with a soft blue light. "These funds were not used for corporate acquisitions or R&D, as the official ledgers suggest. They were funneled into the procurement of a secure, off-grid property in Brooklyn. A warehouse."
Julian let the statement hang in the air. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Furthermore, the Sanctus team you dispatched to track the alchemical signature. Their pursuit was… curtailed. They received an anonymous tip, a high-priority distress signal from a Concordat-owned blood bank in the Bronx. A false alarm, as it turned out. A diversion. It cost them precious hours, and by the time they returned to the primary search grid, the trail had gone cold."
He paused, allowing the pieces to click into place in the suffocating silence. The timing was too perfect. The diversion too convenient. Only someone with Pres's level of authority and access to Concordat communications could have orchestrated such a maneuver with such precision.
"The authorization for that diversion," Julian said, his voice now sharp with accusation, "came from her office. She used her own security protocols to reroute your hunters, my Lord. She is protecting the target."
The only sound in the room was the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the city's energy grid far below. Valerius's gaze finally shifted, dropping from Julian's face to the glowing data slate. He stared at the intricate web of deceit for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The ice in his eyes seemed to deepen, to grow colder still. He did not look surprised. He did not look angry. He looked… analytical. As if Julian had simply presented him with a complex mathematical equation that required solving.
"Loyalty is a currency, Julian," Valerius said at last, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the floorboards. It was devoid of emotion, a simple statement of fact. "And like any currency, it can be spent, counterfeited, or devalued. You have always been a sound investor."
He lifted a single, pale finger and tapped the surface of the data slate. The glowing web of transactions vanished, replaced by the Concordat's crest—a stylized raven perched on a globe. The slate went dark.
"Your diligence is noted. And appreciated," Valerius said, the words a formal dismissal. There was no warmth in them, only the finality of a closed door. "You may go."
Julian felt a surge of triumph, sharp and intoxicating. He had done it. He had planted the seed of doubt, exposed Pres's treachery. He bowed his head, a gesture of profound respect that masked his smug satisfaction. "I live only to serve the Concordat, my Lord."
He turned and walked toward the door, his steps light, confident. He could already feel the shift in the power dynamics. With Pres disgraced, her influence waning, his own star would rise. He would be the one Valerius trusted. He would be the one to inherit the true power.
The heavy, soundproofed door clicked shut behind him, and Julian Vance was gone.
For a full minute after his departure, Lord Valerius remained perfectly still. The panorama of New York stretched before him, a kingdom of light and shadow, but he saw none of it. His focus was internal, his mind a vast, cold chessboard, calculating probabilities and contingencies. Julian's report had not been a revelation; it had been a confirmation. Valerius had his own surveillance, his own methods of tracking the flow of power within his organization. He had known of Pres's unusual activities for days. Julian's report was simply a test, a way to gauge the ambition of his subordinate.
He reached for a small, silver bell that sat on the corner of his obsidian desk. It was unadorned, simple, yet it radiated an aura of immense age. He did not ring it. He simply touched it, and the air in the room seemed to thin, to grow heavy with anticipation.
A figure materialized from the shadows beside the bookshelf, not walking out of them but unfolding from them as if they were his native element. He was tall and lean, dressed in a simple, black tunic and trousers that seemed to absorb the light. His face was a mask of neutrality, his features sharp and severe, his eyes the color of a stormy sea. There were no lines on his face, no signs of age, only an impression of timeless, lethal purpose. This was Cassian, head of the Sanctus hunters, the Regent's personal instrument of will.
He did not speak. He did not move. He simply waited, a predator poised to strike.
"Pres Sanchez," Valerius said, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper, yet it filled the room with absolute authority. He turned his head slowly, his ice-blue eyes locking onto Cassian's. "She was my protégée. I saw in her the same fire, the same relentless ambition that defined my own rise. I believed she understood the fundamental truth of our existence: order must be maintained, at any cost."
He rose from his chair, a fluid, silent motion. He walked to the vast window, his back to Cassian, his reflection a pale ghost against the city's brilliant sprawl.
"Julian believes she is compromised by sentiment. That she has developed an attachment to the alchemist." Valerius's tone was laced with a profound, ancient disappointment. "A pathetic, human weakness. But I fear it is something worse. I fear she believes she can control this chaos, harness this… abomination… for her own ends. That she can rewrite the rules and place herself at the top of a new order."
He turned back to face the hunter, his expression grim, his features hard as granite. The disappointment was gone, replaced by something colder, more dangerous. The look of a king preparing to execute a favored general.
"Julian is a viper. Useful for striking at one's enemies, but never to be trusted. His report was self-serving, but the facts were true. Pres has actively obstructed the mission. She has used her knowledge of our systems to shield the target. This is no longer a matter of insubordination. It is treason."
Cassian's stormy eyes flickered with a glint of understanding, the only sign of emotion he had displayed. He knew what this meant. The mission parameters had shifted. The target was no longer the sole priority.
"I want you to forget the alchemist for the moment," Valerius commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a shard of glass. "Your new directive is Pres Sanchez. I want to know everything. Where she goes, who she meets, what she says. I want access to her private communications, her personal finances, the very thoughts in her head if you can find a way. I want to know the nature of her involvement with the target."
He stepped closer to Cassian, his presence filling the space between them, a palpable force of will.
"Be discreet. Be thorough. She is clever, and she knows our methods. She will be expecting an external investigation. Do not let her see you coming." Valerius paused, his next words hanging in the air with the weight of a death sentence. "I want to know everything she is doing. If she has compromised the mission, she will be treated as a traitor to the Concordat."
Cassian gave a single, sharp nod. There was no need for questions, no need for clarification. He understood the scope of his orders. He understood the consequences for Pres Sanchez. He was the instrument, and the will of the Regent was the hand that guided him.
Without another word, he stepped back into the shadows from which he came, his form dissolving into the darkness until there was no trace he had ever been there.
Lord Valerius was alone again in his sanctuary high above the city. He returned to his obsidian desk, his fingers tracing the rim of the silver bell. The game had changed. The board was more complex than he had anticipated. A rogue alchemist was one thing, a variable to be controlled. But a rogue vampire of Pres's caliber and intelligence, one who knew his secrets and his strategies… that was a threat to the very foundation of his power.
He looked out at the millions of lights below, each one a life, a story, a potential pawn. The Purge was coming. It was an inevitability, a necessary culling to usher in a new age of supremacy. He would not allow sentiment, ambition, or betrayal to stand in its way. Not even from the daughter he had once chosen to raise up beside him.
The city continued its relentless, glittering pulse, utterly unaware of the silent, deadly war being waged in its highest towers. A war that was about to claim one of its most brilliant, and now most treacherous, players.