Morning in Nacrifa never arrived gently.
It didn't brighten.
It unfolded.
Like a secret being slowly revealed across black stone walls and stained-glass windows that filtered sunlight into muted shades of red and gold.
Inside the private chamber reserved for the royal lineage, silence rested heavily—yet not uncomfortably.
It was the kind of silence that had learned to behave.
At the center of the room, a low circular table had been set.
No guards.
No attendants.
Just two chairs, fine porcelain, and steam rising lazily from a teapot that looked deceptively ordinary.
But nothing in Nacrifa ever was.
The tea was not tea.
It was blood tea.
Refined.
Filtered.
Blended with herbs only vampires could safely process, served warm enough to carry scent, but not enough to awaken hunger into chaos.
This was control disguised as comfort.
Sebastian stood by the window when she entered.
As always.
Like he was deciding whether the world outside was worth acknowledging today.
