Alexandro, the White Death, sat motionless upon his throne, his pale eyes gazing across the Grand Assembly Hall. Yet when his gaze settled upon Vlad, standing calmly on the pillar to his left, there was a faint flash of approval.
That single nod shook the chamber.
The Emperor of Graecia was not known for kindness, nor for bestowing recognition lightly. His standards were beyond ruthless—worlds had been judged and annihilated for less. For the White Death to acknowledge someone meant that they were truly exceptional, a warrior or sovereign standing on the same stage as the greatest beings of the universe.
Vlad, the True Depravita of Wrath, did not flinch under that gaze. His aura radiated like a red sun, his presence embodying wrath itself—a flame that never dimmed, that only grew stronger with each wound, each battle, burning brighter until all who stood before it were consumed.
The silence ended when the Emperor's voice echoed like law through the chamber.
