Maybe people never changed.
I had felt different ever since Nyaxia restored the power of the Rishan heir line. I’d felt something change in me from the moment Neculai died, but I’d been able to stifle that power, subdue it into something easier to control and less likely to draw attention. But ever since that night, my magic had surged back with an uncontrollable force, like Nyaxia’s gift had ripped open a new vein of it.
It was actually something of a relief to use it at full force again.
I let it go.
Asteris was both exhausting and exhilarating to use. It felt like the raw power of the stars bursting through my skin, tearing through my body.
It tore through Martas’s, too.
The room went white, then black, then snapped back into an unpleasant sharpness.
Warmth spattered over me. A dull THUMP cut through the silence, as a broken, crushed body fell to the floor in a pile of silk.
The light faded, revealing a sea of shocked, silent faces. I held Martas’s head, the features twisted into satisfying confusion. Now, that was a new expression for him.
A few people near the front of the crowd took several quick steps back to avoid the pool of black blood spreading over the marble. There was no screaming, no hysterics. Vampires, even vampire nobles, were well accustomed to bloodshed. They weren’t horrified, no, but they were surprised.
Maybe it was unwise to murder the brother of my most powerful noble.
In this moment, I didn’t care. I felt nothing but satisfaction. I wasn’t built for this bullshit—the preening, the parties, the politics. But this? The killing?
I was good at that. Felt good to give it to someone who deserved it.
I glanced over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure why—I did it without thinking.
The look on Oraya’s face struck me.
Satisfaction. Bloodthirsty satisfaction.
The first time in weeks I’d seen something that looked like fight in her eyes. Goddess, I could’ve fucking wept for it.
There she is, I thought.
And something about the way she stared at me, right in the eyes, speared through my costume and my performance. I could practically hear her saying it, too: There he is.
I turned back to the crowd, stepping backwards up the dais steps.
“I am the Nightborn King,” I said, voice low and deadly. “Do you think I’m going to beg for your respect? I don’t need your respect. Your fear will do. Bow.”
And I let the head fall with a sickening wet thump, rolling down the stairs right into his former body. Fittingly, the position it had fallen into did indeed resemble a bow of prostration.
The nobles stared. The world held its breath.
I held my breath, and tried desperately not to show it.
I was walking a very thin line here. Vampires respected brutality, but only from the right people. I wasn’t one of the right people. Maybe I never would be.
If one or two refused to bow, I could handle that. But Heir Mark or no, I needed some loyalty from my nobles, especially if I ever wanted to get out from beneath Bloodborn control. If all of them refused—
The door burst open, the slam against the walls splitting the silence like a sword through flesh.
Vale stood in the doorway.
I never thought I would be relieved to see that man. But Ix’s tits, I had to physically stop myself from letting out a sigh of relief.
He took in the scene—me, the crowd, the advisors, Martas’s bloody body—and immediately strung together what he’d just walked into.
He strode purposefully into the room, so fast his long dark waves flew out behind him. The crowd parted for him. A woman followed him, then lingered at the back of the crowd, looking around the throne room with wide, curious eyes, curly chestnut hair piled atop her head.
“My king,” Vale said, as he approached the dais. “I apologize for my tardiness.”
Before me, he immediately dropped into a smooth kneel—right at the center of the crowd, right into the pool of Martas’s seeping blood.
“Highness.” His voice boomed through the throne room. He knew exactly what he was doing—knew to make himself as visible as possible. “You have my sword, my blood, my life. I swear to you my loyalty and my service. It is my greatest honor to serve as your Head of War.”
A strange echo of the past in those words. The last time I’d heard Vale say them, it was to Neculai. Inwardly, I cringed at hearing them directed at me.
Outwardly, I accepted them as if they were nothing but what was expected.
I lifted my gaze to the others, waiting.
Vale was a noble. He was respected. He’d just tipped some precarious scale.