The Hall of Crimson Judgment had been built for death.
Every stone in the chamber reeked of centuries-old blood, seeped so deep into the black granite that the floor itself seemed to pulse faintly when torches were lit. Red banners hung like flayed skins, stitched with the sigils of bloodlines long extinguished. They swayed in the airless chamber as though they breathed, whispering the stories of those who had been condemned here.
At the far end, the throne of Lord Marcus loomed high upon the dais, carved of obsidian veined with veins of pale bone. Steps bled down from it, each worn by the tread of the condemned. Tonight, those steps waited for me.
And for him.
The iron doors screamed open, and the Court surged to its feet. Vampires pressed close to the railing that separated them from the execution floor, a tide of pale faces gleaming in the torchlight. Their eyes burned crimson, their fangs catching sparks of fire as they hissed and laughed, hungry for blood. Their hunger wasn't just for flesh — it was for spectacle, for Marcus's judgment, for the ritual destruction that bound them together in fear and obedience.
The chain jerked at my throat. Kaylan dragged me forward like a dog into the ring. My knees hit stone, hard enough to send pain ricocheting up my spine, but I refused to fold completely. My hands were bound, the silver collar still burning its mark into my skin. The taste of metal flooded my mouth as I bit back breath.
Above, Marcus rose from his throne. His cloak of shadow spilled outward like a sea, drowning the dais. He didn't raise his voice — he didn't need to. The hall itself seemed to hush at the parting of his lips.
"Tonight," he said, and the word spread like smoke, curling into every corner of the hall, "law is tested. Loyalty is measured. Blood is weighed."
The crowd hissed, a chorus of devotion.
I tried not to shiver. The torches seemed dimmer here, their light swallowed into the great pit of his shadow.
"Bring him," Marcus commanded.
The doors opened again. Chains rattled.
Liam.
He was dragged into the circle by two guards, each twice his size. His wrists were raw where manacles dug into flesh, his lip split, one eye darkened with bruise. He stumbled once, nearly fell, but then straightened. His chest rose with deliberate steadiness. And his gaze — gods, his gaze — found mine across the sea of jeering mouths.
It steadied me. And broke me.
A roar of laughter went up from the Court. Some shouted for blood, others hissed for mercy only to mock the word. Their voices slammed against the stone until it felt as if the chamber itself screamed for his throat.
Marcus descended one step, then another, each footfall echoing like a funeral drum.
"This boy," he said, each syllable cutting deeper than the next, "has defied the will of my Court. He has lied to me. He has shielded a traitor. He has mocked law, mocked loyalty, mocked me."
His eyes burned into me at that last word.
"And so, Aria," Marcus continued, "you will cut him down. Not tomorrow. Not someday. Here. Now."
The roar that followed was deafening.
Kaylan shoved something into my hand. A blade — curved, its edge blackened with ash. Ritual steel, forged only for executions. Its weight nearly dragged my wrist to the ground. She curled my fingers around the hilt, her storm-grey eyes burning down at me.
"Do it," she whispered, her voice sharp enough to slice flesh. "Prove yourself. Take his heart, and the Court may yet keep you."
I shook my head. The blade trembled.
"No."
Her grip tightened over mine until the edge bit into my palm. Blood beaded, dripped down the blade's curve. She smiled, cold and cruel. "You don't have a choice."
The Court leaned forward like a single predator waiting to pounce. Lucian sat sprawled upon the lower steps, his golden eyes lit with savage delight, lips curled in mockery. Dorian scribbled furiously into his scrolls, capturing every word, every hesitation. Selene, veiled as always, tilted her head as if watching strings being plucked on some invisible loom.
Marcus descended the last step and came to stand in the circle. The air bowed beneath his presence. Shadows writhed at his heels, licking across the stone like hungry fire.
"Refuse," he said, his tone quiet as death, "and you will watch him suffer. Refuse again, and you will join him. Refuse a third time, and I will make sure your souls never find rest."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Liam lifted his head. His voice was hoarse, cracked, but it carried. "Don't," he said. "Not for them."
Kaylan slammed her boot into his ribs, silencing him with a grunt of pain. "He begs for death," she sneered. "Give it to him."
I couldn't breathe. The blade shook in my hand, my pulse hammering through the hilt. Shadows stirred along the edge of my vision, restless, whispering, their voices a hiss I couldn't quite understand. The crowd's chants blurred into the same rhythm: kill him, kill him, kill him.
And through it all, Liam's eyes on me — not begging, not condemning. Just steady. Just alive.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I lifted my head. My voice scraped raw from my throat.
"No."
The word rippled through the chamber like a stone cast into black water.
Gasps. Snarls. Laughter. The Court erupted into chaos.
Kaylan's face twisted, storm-dark and violent. She wrenched my wrist up, driving the blade toward Liam's chest. I fought her, my bound arms straining against hers, the steel hovering inches above his heart.
The hall became a storm of sound — jeers, screams, laughter, whispers, the pounding of my own heartbeat.
And Marcus?
He only watched.
His eyes gleamed with something that wasn't quite anger.
Something colder.
Something hungrier.
...
The chamber was a storm.
Jeers crashed like thunder, fangs gleamed like lightning, and the entire Court surged against the rails as if they could tear flesh themselves if Marcus did not allow it.
Kaylan's grip on my wrist was unyielding. The dagger's tip pressed against Liam's chest, the tremor of his heartbeat shivering along the steel. He did not flinch.
"Do it!" she hissed, her face inches from mine, her storm-gray eyes a furnace of fury. "Spill his blood and live."
"No," I said again, my voice breaking but louder, so it carried above the chaos.
The chamber answered with hatred. Vampires spat curses, some laughing in disbelief, others demanding both our throats. I heard one voice — high, shrill, eager — scream, Burn them alive! Another bellowed, Feed her shadows to the dogs!
Marcus raised his hand for silence. The Court fell into a quivering hush, the air electric, charged with bloodlust denied.
"Aria," he said softly. His voice was not loud, but it filled every inch of the chamber, seeping into stone and bone alike. "The Court has given you a chance to prove loyalty. And still you refuse. Do you truly think your shadows make you greater than law?"
My hands shook. The blade bit deeper into my palm. Blood smeared the hilt, running between my fingers.
"I think," I whispered, meeting his abyssal gaze, "that killing him would make me less than I already am."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Lucian laughed. He leaned forward from his step, golden eyes glinting with cruel delight. "Oh, exquisite. She dares wrap treason in poetry. Tell me, Marcus, is it rebellion… or entertainment?"
Kaylan snarled. Her strength surged, driving the dagger harder, until Liam's tunic split beneath the edge and a bead of crimson welled.
My heart snapped.
"No!" I screamed, twisting against her hold. My shadows writhed, frantic, biting at my skin like flames turned inward.