The Blood Feast began at midnight.
It always did.
The candles burned blood-red.
The air smelled of clove smoke, wine, and silver-dusted meat.
The nobles gathered in ritual garb—leathers dyed in ancestral hues, gowns stitched with beast-hide, bone jewelry clinking softly with every movement.
Kael stood at the head of the hall, flanked by the five oldest elders and their sworn blades.
But Elara was not beside him.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she had been offered.
"Tradition demands grace," they told her.
"Unity through performance."
"It is the way of old wolves."
And so—
Elara stood in the center of the feast hall in her bleeding thorn-gown, face blank, fingers curled loosely at her sides.
Across from her stood Lysandra.
In pure white.
As always.
Her hair bound back with silver pins.
Her dress a replica of the one Elara had seen in the ice cellar—the one worn by the girl on the slab.
A ghost waltzing through the present.
A slap in silk.
The drums began.
The ballroom parted.
The court leaned forward.
Lysandra moved first.
Slow.
Elegant.
A mocking bow.
Elara returned it—barely.
Then stepped into the rhythm.
Their hands met.
Palms pressed together.
Like a prayer.
Or a trap.
"You bleed well," Lysandra said as they turned. "He always liked his toys a little broken."
Elara's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"You're confusing affection with control."
"And you're confusing obsession with love."
Their fingers twisted.
Turned.
Bodies curved around each other.
"You know nothing about him," Elara said.
"Oh, I do," Lysandra whispered. "I'm the only one who ever saw him lose control."
"He loses control every time he looks at me."
"No," she said sweetly. "When he looks at you, he fights to stay sane. When he looked at me, he surrendered."
The drums quickened.
The room buzzed.
The tension was visible—like heatwaves in winter air.
Elara's next step landed sharper than it should have.
Lysandra flinched.
A break in form.
A misstep.
Elara smiled.
Small.
Deadly.
"Guess that's what makes me different," she said. "He chooses me even when it costs him everything."
Lysandra's nails dug into her hand.
"You're just a reflection of what he couldn't save."
"And you're what he refused to keep."
The drums stopped.
The music stalled.
A pause.
A breath.
Kael stepped down from the throne.
Walked slowly across the floor.
Every noble turned to watch.
Every guard stiffened.
He didn't acknowledge them.
Didn't blink.
Didn't falter.
He stopped at the edge of the floor.
Held out his hand.
"Elara."
It wasn't a request.
It was a claim.
Elara let go of Lysandra.
Stepped into his arms.
He didn't speak.
Didn't explain.
Just pulled her against him.
Bent his head.
And pressed his mouth—
—to the mark on her collarbone.
Not gently.
Not politely.
But with fire.
His fangs grazed the edge.
Not enough to pierce.
But enough to say, She is mine.
And not quietly.
In front of them all.
Gasps filled the hall.
The elders stood.
The flames flared.
Kael didn't care.
He raised his head.
Stared down the room.
And said, "She walks with me. Bleeds with me. Rules with me."
Lysandra's face was unreadable.
But her eyes—
Her eyes burned.
Elara stepped back from Kael.
Turned to the hall.
Let them all look.
Then faced him again.
Met his molten-gold gaze.
And whispered, just loud enough for those closest to hear:
"You kissed me. Was it for love… or just to win?"
Kael didn't answer.
Didn't move.
But his jaw clenched.
His hands curled at his sides.
And his eyes—
His eyes said, yes.