Damien stared at him, incredulous. "So... you... my father... sit and gossip about my sexual activities."
Luciver raised a brow, completely unbothered, even pleased. "I need to know my son is not disappointing the Dragos name."
A dry laugh escaped Damien before he could stop it. "What, you want a weekly report? Should I send you charts?"
The king’s eyes glinted. "I’d appreciate the effort. Maybe include a rating system."
"Look, Damien," Luciver added after a pause, his tone softening. "I make jest, but the truth is—you’re not just my son anymore. You’re the king-to-be. Every whisper in this castle, every breath you take, matters. The lords will judge you not just for your strength, but for your discipline. Your control. And yes—your ability to keep a queen satisfied. This realm, both vampire and wolf, is watching."
Damien nodded, some of the humor fading from his features. "I know."
"I believe in you," Luciver said, with a rare sincerity. "But I won’t lie to you. This isn’t a fair world. You and Luna...you’re rewriting what’s possible. That makes you a target."
"Thank you. For staying."
"Come on, go get ready. Today you become king."
Damien held his father’s gaze a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for a hidden truth in his eyes. But he found only the pale reflection of himself—proud, burdened, doomed.
Damien nodded, masking the flood of emotions tightening his throat with a smile. "Thank you, Father."
He turned on his heel, leaving the castle.
Damien’s stride was steady at first but just as he passed the threshold of the gates, something sharp and invisible seized him.
It was a pull. No—more than that. It was an ache. A violent, all-consuming tug in his soul.
The world blurred, as though the magic of the kingdom itself had warped around him. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His hands trembled. His pupils dilated. Every nerve in his body screamed in one direction. He should have turned right—toward his castle.
Instead, he turned left.
His body moved without thought, guided by something ancient and terrifyingly instinctual.
Something—or someone—was calling him.
He walked out of Blood Castles and past the Royal Empire, ignoring the stares of nobles and guards as he passed.
He passed the gilded boundary stones and entered the heart of the city proper—where vampire dignitaries mingled. The city was alive with festivities for the coronation.
He did not feel part of it.
And then, he stopped.
Standing before him, towering in elegance and opulence, was the Ebonhart Hotel—a vast structure of glass designed to house foreign royalty and visiting lords.
He didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t understand what force had brought him to this threshold. But his body knew. His soul knew. Somewhere in that building, something waited for him.
He stepped into the hotel lobby, and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
The interior was breathtaking—vaulted ceilings with floating crystals that danced to silent music, marble floors, walls adorned with portraits and exotic art.
Behind the reception desk stood a young woman in uniform, her expression frozen the moment she saw him.
"Your Highness!" she gasped, eyes wide with reverence. She immediately bowed low, trembling slightly at the presence of the vampire prince. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Her voice echoed in the silence. But Damien didn’t answer right away. He was frozen—mind foggy, instincts screaming.
He frowned in confusion. "I don’t know," he muttered, voice distant as if even he was unsure whether he was speaking to the receptionist or to himself. Every breath he took felt heavier, as if the very air had become a compass pushing him forward.
The receptionist was clearly concerned, but trailed behind him anyway.
Damien got on the elevator, hands trembling slightly as he pressed the number for the next floor. As the lift hummed upward, the sharp, invisible frequency in his head intensified, a high-pitched note that made his jaw clench and his fangs twitch beneath his lips. Still, when the doors opened, it didn’t feel right. The sound... the pull... it was higher.
He pressed the button again.
Another floor. Same pull.
Until finally, the elevator jolted to a stop at the topmost level. The air shifted, heavier, more saturated with whatever energy had been calling to him. This was it. He stepped out slowly, as if each footfall on the carpeted hallway was leading him toward a new fate. Curtains framed the wide glass windows at the far end, and distant mountains cast long shadows over Blood City’s horizon.
His feet carried him toward a door—number 356.
"Who occupies this room?"
"Lady Sharona. From the Obsidian City in the west."
Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Lady Sharona." The name meant nothing to him. No face came to mind.
He had never met her.
Inside Room 356, chaos brewed.
A fiery slap echoed through the suite, followed by a shocked gasp and the trembling whimper of a girl.
"How dare you?" Lady Sharona snapped. Her eyes blazed with fury, her dark curls spilling down the back of her robe. "I told you to get here this morning! It’s almost midday!"
The young maid recoiled, her cheek blazing red where Sharona’s hand had met her skin. "I’m sorry, my lady," she stammered through tears. "The seamstress wasn’t done with the fitting of your dress. I had to wait."
"Excuses! If I arrive at the coronation late, I will have your head. Inconsequential idiot."
Her eyes glowed with restrained rage. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror: hauntingly beautiful, haughty, and dangerous.
Sharona took a seatr. "Stop standing around and get on with my makeup," she snapped.
The maid trembled as she opened the cosmetics case. Her hands were shaking so violently. Her lower lip quivered, tears glistening in her lashes.
"Yes, ma’am," the girl mumbled quickly, fumbling with the brushes as she moved to stand behind her mistress.