Chapter 3 — Chapter 2

Kael

I stride into the Assembly meeting room, the familiar scent of ancient power and whispered intrigues enveloping me. The air is heavy with tension, a silent current that grates against my nerves. The chamber itself is a cavern of history, its cold stone walls etched with centuries of clan sigils, flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the pale, ageless faces of the vampire elders. Some nod in deference as I pass, others watch with veiled suspicion, their eyes glinting like polished obsidian. My chair at the Assembly table looms ahead, a throne of burden carved with Clan Sanguis’ crimson emblem—a coiled serpent dripping blood. As I lower myself into it, the weight of my secret presses harder than the wood beneath me. The bitter irony stings: I, Kael Drake, high elder of Clan Sanguis, harbor the very affliction we’ve gathered to condemn.

*A lie I cannot abide.* I push the thought aside, though doubt gnaws at me. The incident at The Crimson Abyss six months ago has replayed itself too many times—each human I’ve fed from leaving me doubled over in agony, a hunger clawing at my insides that no blood can sate. I’m starving, and I know it. Unless… No. I force my focus outward, schooling my features into the impassive mask I’ve worn for a millennium. Weakness is a death sentence among my kind.

“Silence!” a voice slices through the growing murmur of the room. “Our lady approaches.”

Grand Elder Arabella Ravenscroft enters, her presence a command in itself, silencing the chamber without effort. Her crimson robes sweep the floor, and her gaze—sharp as a blade—carries a fleeting shadow of grief, a personal stake in the crisis we face. With a gesture both regal and unyielding, she calls the meeting to order.

“Esteemed members of the Blood Assembly,” her voice resonates through the hushed space, “we gather tonight to address a matter of grave concern. Just last week, Lord Cedric of Clan Umbra succumbed to the Bloodbane after centuries of strength—a loss that underscores our urgency.”

I shift forward, almost imperceptibly, my fingers tightening on the arms of my chair. My own clan must be shielded from reckless decisions tonight; I cannot let fear drive us to ruin. *Here it comes.*

“The Bloodbane,” Arabella continues, her eyes sweeping the gathered elders, “spreads among us at an unprecedented rate. Legends speak of Veyra, an ancient elder who wasted away despite all efforts, her name now a curse whispered in fear. We must find new perspectives. As is custom, I open the floor to debate this scourge.”

A ripple of unease stirs the room. I force stillness, though cold dread pools in my gut. Behind me, Theron’s presence shifts—a subtle tension I feel rather than see. A brief, steadying hand on my shoulder conveys his loyalty, his shared anxiety over the secret we guard. *Hold fast, Theron.* We’ve kept darker truths hidden over the years, but none as damning as this.

“This is not news, Lady Ravenscroft,” Elias Stone, high elder of Clan Ferox, interjects. “The Bane has always haunted us.”

“Yet it worsens,” Isabella Montague counters, her hands fluttering in distress. “Two of my seasoned vampires show signs—strong, long-standing members, not fledglings. How can this be?”

“We’ve known for centuries that the affliction spares no one,” Elias replies, turning to her. “My clan’s research shows it strikes elders more often than the young. There is no pattern, no mercy.”

“It defies reason,” Isabella mutters, her expression darkening.

The debate intensifies, civility fraying as voices rise. I remain silent, jaw clenched like stone, watching the Assembly unravel. Victor Valmont slams a fist onto the table. “Enough! We must take what we need from the witches!”

Agreement surges, matched by fierce opposition. I sit motionless, every muscle coiled to act, yet I cannot. My secret is too raw, too close to spilling. Arabella’s voice cuts through the chaos like a scythe. “Quiet!” The room stills. “Centuries of conflict with the witches—broken treaties, blood feuds—have left us with no easy alliance. Their blood offers a cure only through a rare match, a compatible bond. Without it, starvation awaits: a slow decay, loss of power, unending hunger. Yet force is no answer. There must be another way.”

Her words strike like a blow, the bleak future I face made stark. Theron tenses behind me; he feels it too. Victor scoffs, “Compatibility be damned. Any witch’s blood can dull the thirst temporarily.”

“Barely,” Arabella counters. “And only with a constant, unwilling source—an unsustainable path. We must dig deeper.”

“Then we act decisively,” Victor insists. “Secure sources, test matches by any means.”

A dry laugh echoes nearby. “The witches will never agree.”

“Unless they’re given no choice,” Victor says, his tone cryptic.

Anger flares through the Assembly. “We are vampires!” someone snarls. “Why grovel to witches?”

I want to retort, to rage, but I remain outwardly calm while my mind races. How long can I hide this? How long before Clan Sanguis sees their leader falter? My gaze shifts to a new voice, cold and calculating, silencing the rest.

Lucien Marlowe. Even after lifetimes, his presence grates like a blade on bone. His lean frame seems to draw the shadows, pale gray eyes glittering as he surveys the table. “My esteemed colleagues,” he drawls, “why do we hesitate before the obvious?”

I tense. Whatever he offers, it serves only him. “We’ve tried diplomacy, coexistence,” he continues. “And where are we? Watching our kind waste away while witches guard their blood like treasure. Why settle for survival when we could dominate?”

A murmur of agreement surprises me. I fight to keep my face blank, though Theron’s rigidity behind me mirrors my alarm. Lucien’s lips curl into a chilling smile. “I say we claim what is ours. We are the greater power. Why beg when we can take?”

The room erupts—support and outrage clashing. I hold still, mind spinning. His proposal is madness, yet tempting to those gripped by fear. And I, of all, know that fear. *Never.*

“I don’t think we should be so hasty.” My own voice surprises me, cutting through the din. Eyes swivel to me, sharp as fangs.

“Hasty?” Lucien challenges, his gaze locking with mine. “You call strength hasty, Drake?”

“Don’t you?” I raise an eyebrow. “What you propose is war on the witches.”

“I’d call it necessity,” he smirks. “We take what we need.”

“By force?”

“By any means required.”

“Survival isn’t about conquest,” I counter, my voice low, weighted with my own unseen struggle. “It’s about endurance.” I lean back, forcing calm. I’ve no love for the covens, but I recall a betrayal centuries past—exposing weakness cost me an ally’s blood. I’ll not repeat that mistake.

“Endurance?” Lucien sneers. “Is that what Clan Sanguis calls cowering? I expected more from warriors.”

“Careful, Marlowe,” I growl, chin jutting forward. “A warrior knows when to strike and when to wait. This is about our future, not your ego.”

“Future?” His scoff drips venom. “We should rule, not hide. Some of us still can.” His eyes narrow, a glint of suspicion within them chilling my blood. *He suspects.*

My jaw tightens, barely perceptibly. I won’t play his game. “War isn’t the answer.”

Vireya Nightshade tries to interject, “Perhaps if we glamor them—”

“Quiet!” Lucien and I snap in unison, our stares unbroken. Arabella adds, “I’m inclined to support Lady Nightshade,” but Lucien’s taunt drowns her out.

“Glamors are useless,” he says, tossing dark hair from his face. “We need action.”

“You’d attack them outright,” I state, reading his shrug as confirmation. My voice drops, dangerous. “Risk all we’ve built for your bloodlust?”

“For our survival!” he snarls. “Or do you sympathize with witches over your own kind?”

“I care nothing for witches,” I hiss. “But I won’t see us destroyed by your recklessness. Humans see witches as their own; they’d view our attacks as a threat to their kind. Fear would turn them against us, and you know what humans do when afraid.”

Lucien snorts. “They adore us. I’ve a dozen willing humans waiting for me now. They’d care less if I chained witches for my clan’s use.”

My mind reels at his arrogance. “You’re blind, Marlowe. How long before that adoration turns to terror? We’re not invincible—sunlight, daylight vulnerability. Have you forgotten?”

“Then we strike at night!” His eyes burn with fervor.

“And then?” I press, but suddenly my vision fractures. A memory intrudes—six months ago at The Crimson Abyss, a human’s blood turning to poison in my veins, my body convulsing as if torn apart. Screams echo, mine or theirs, I can’t tell. Blue sparks flare in my sight. I blink hard. *What in the infernal depths?*

“You were saying?” Lucien’s voice pierces the haze.

“I said we can’t…” My thoughts scatter. I grip the table, cold wood grounding me.

“I think you meant you’d sacrifice your own to spare a few spell-weavers,” he mocks.

“That’s not it, damn you!” A teacup spins into my peripheral vision; I flinch instinctively.

*“Apologies, a minor disruption.”* A woman’s voice, disembodied, jars me. I twist, seeking its source, heart pounding.

“Are you alright, Lord Drake?” Arabella’s concern cuts through. I straighten, masking the tremor in my hands.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, though doubt gnaws deeper. Hallucinations aren’t a known symptom of Bloodbane. What is this?

Lucien pounces. “Look at him, Assembly. How can he lead his clan if he can’t even sit steady?”

A crackle dances over my fingertips; I curl them into fists. *This is madness.* Hallucinations, phantom sensations—I can’t endure this much longer. The room blurs, but I force focus on Lucien’s smug face.

“My esteemed colleagues,” he purrs, false sincerity dripping, “some among us are… compromised. Perhaps it’s time for those unafraid to act.”

My nostrils flare as I steady my breath. He’s not just pushing war; he’s making a play for power, and I’m his mark. “What exactly do you propose, Lord Marlowe?” Arabella demands.

His eyes gleam with triumph. “A task force, dedicated to securing our future.” Uncertainty flickers among the elders; Lucien’s manipulation plays on their dread.

“And who would lead it?” I ask, voice steadier than I feel.

“I’d be honored,” he replies, smile predatory. “For our kind’s good, naturally.”

*Naturally.* I suppress a scoff. This is about his hunger for control, nothing more. “And what would this task force do?” I press.

“Whatever necessary,” he says smoothly. “Identify key witch populations, then negotiate… from strength.”

“You mean abduct and coerce witches as blood sources,” I state flatly.

He waves dismissively. “If that’s what it takes.”

A tense silence falls. I lean back, mind racing. Lucien’s plan endangers not just witches, but all of us—a war could doom our kind. Yet as I scan the room, I see fear in their eyes: fear of Bloodbane, of a slow death, of losing more. Lucien offers false hope, and they’re tempted. I, above all, should crave hope. But not from him. His lingering smirk as he gauges the room chills me. He’s plotting something darker.

And whatever it is, it will draw blood.