The Weight of the Bond

Cyrus remained frozen, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and sheer confusion. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. Draven searched his face, looking for anything—understanding, judgment, even mockery. But Cyrus was simply... speechless.

Draven's voice dropped to a whisper. "Say something."

Cyrus took a staggered step back as if needing distance to process what he had just heard. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply before locking eyes with Draven again. "Are you certain of what you’re saying?"

Draven gave a slow, solemn nod.

A dry chuckle left Cyrus, but it held no humor. "What are the damned chances of this happening again?"

Draven inhaled sharply, already knowing exactly what Cyrus meant. His gaze dropped, and for a moment, he was elsewhere.

Flashes of memory struck him like a blade to the gut. His father, ferocious and unyielding, locked in a brutal struggle with his older brother. Bloodied fists. Snarls of rage. His father’s final, merciless strike. The moment his brother’s body crumpled, life stolen by the very man who had raised him. His father’s own death, claimed by the very battle he had begun.

Draven clenched his fists.

His brother had died because of a vampire. And now the fates had twisted their claws into him, binding him to the very thing that had shattered his family.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping the strands as he struggled to keep his composure. But the truth was, he was unraveling. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as he forced the words out. "I don’t know what to do. And it’s killing me."

Cyrus watched him carefully, his usual ease replaced by rare seriousness. Draven stepped forward suddenly, his hands gripping Cyrus by the collar. His voice was low, firm. "No one can find out about this."

Cyrus met his eyes, searching. And then, finally, he gave a small nod. "You have my word, Draven."

Draven didn’t release him immediately. He stared, needing to be sure. And then, without another word, he pulled Cyrus into a crushing embrace, holding him tight. He muttered, "I knew I could always trust you."

Cyrus let out a nervous laugh, shifting uncomfortably. "Do you mind putting on some clothes before hugging me this tight? Your dick is pressing against me."

Draven stiffened—not like that—and immediately stepped back. Silence fell between them before they both let out short, awkward laughs.

After a moment, Cyrus rolled his shoulders and asked, "So… what are you going to do about the bond?"

Draven said nothing at first. He knew what was at stake. If the pack discovered the truth, they could turn on him, see him as unfit to lead. And if the wrong people learned of it, there wouldn’t just be whispers of doubt—there would be calls for his head. But none of that mattered in this moment, because something inside him ached for her.

His eyes lifted, determination hardening his features. "Help me. I need to find her. I need to know who she is."

Cyrus held his gaze, weighing the weight of his request. "Do you realize what you’re getting yourself into? This could cause a war—hell, there's already tension. If this goes wrong, it won’t just be you who suffers."

Draven nodded, his expression unreadable. He understood. He truly did. But none of that changed the way the bond was sinking its claws into him, refusing to be ignored.

His jaw tightened. He grabbed Cyrus’ shoulder, voice rough with unshakable resolve. "I need to find her.”

—

The grand hall of the vampire court was a cathedral of shadows and opulence. Tall, arched windows framed the night beyond, the moonlight barely daring to filter through the heavy crimson drapes. Candlelight flickered across the obsidian floors, reflecting in the polished silver of the noblemen’s attire.

Azrael stood among them, poised and silent, her expression unreadable as the news of her mission was delivered. The words carried across the chamber like a blade being drawn from its sheath—sharp, deliberate, and dangerous.

“The Lycans struck first, and the princess simply returned the favor.”

A murmur of approval rippled through one side of the court.

"As it should be," one noblewoman said, her voice smooth as velvet. "They slaughtered our kin without provocation—now they know what it is to bleed under our fangs."

"Indeed. It was a warning." Another nodded in satisfaction. "One they will not soon forget."

Yet, not all were as pleased. A different voice, measured but edged with concern, rose above the murmurs.

"Princess Azrael’s actions may have satisfied our thirst for vengeance, but at what cost?"

A few murmured in agreement. Another scoffed.

"The cost was already set when the Lycans dared to bare their teeth at us first."

"This will lead to war," the dissenting noble pressed, ignoring the scoffs of his peers.

"War was inevitable!" another countered. "The moment the first drop of vampire blood was spilled, peace became a fantasy."

The hall was quickly descending into debate—raised voices, whispered agreements, bitter accusations. It was always this way, even among their kind. But then, with the faintest movement, the tension was silenced.

Valerion had risen.

His presence alone commanded obedience. He did not raise his voice, yet the court obeyed as if the weight of his will pressed against their throats.

"Enough!"

The entire court went silent.

The Vampire King’s crimson gaze swept over the court, sharp as a blade gliding over skin. His expression was unreadable at first—composed, collected. But then his lips parted, and the weight of centuries bled into his words.

"Have you all forgotten what the Lycans are?" His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the hall, cold as the grave. "Have you forgotten what they did to my wife? To your queen?"

A solemn hush fell over them. Azrael felt the shift, the unspoken tension that came whenever he spoke of her mother.

"Centuries ago, she was carrying my child when they struck. They did not grant her mercy. They did not allow her to plead. They tore her apart, limb by limb, and let her blood soak the earth beneath them."

His fingers curled over the armrest of his throne, the polished wood groaning under his grip. His next words were softer, but no less lethal.

"That is what they are. Savage, mindless beasts!"

There was no great outburst from the court—only a quiet, simmering rage. Some nodded, eyes burning with renewed hatred. Others remained silent, refusing to look up.

"If it is war they want," Valerion said at last, "then war they shall have!"

A slow murmur of agreement swept through the room. Some in quiet satisfaction. Others in hesitant resignation. Azrael watched them all, taking in each subtle reaction.

After the court settled, Valerion leaned back in his throne, his expression shifting to something almost pleasant. “Enough of war talk—for now,” he declared. “There is another matter to address. A more joyous occasion.”

The tension in the chamber lessened, though some remained wary.

“In a fortnight, we will celebrate a grand milestone,” Valerion continued. “The thousandth year of my heirs, Azrael and Raphael.”

A shift of interest ran through the nobles. Their earlier tensions dulled by the prospect of the grand event.

“All nobility is expected to attend,” Valerion said, his tone making it clear that attendance was not optional. “Let word spread across the land. This shall be an event worthy of our kingdom’s legacy.”

Some members of the court exchanged knowing glances. It was tradition for such an occasion to be extravagant, but there was also the unspoken tension of what it meant. A thousand years was the age of ascension, the age where succession loomed on the horizon. And with two heirs, the question of who would rule remained an ever-present shadow.

Raphael, who had been lounging in his chair with a self-assured smirk, finally straightened. “A grand celebration,” he mused, his voice carrying amusement. “I do love the sound of that.”

Valerion’s crimson gaze swept over the court. “Make the preparations,” he ordered. “This will be a night to remember.”

Despite the announcement, Azrael kept her expression neutral, her mind remained fixed on the conversation before.

War.

No matter how much wine was poured at the coming feast, no matter how lavish the celebration, the truth remained.

Bloodshed was coming.

And the court had just welcomed it with open arms.