The storm that battered the exterior of the High Council's sanctuary was nothing compared to the silence that waited within.
Caelan stood at the heavy oak doors, rainwater dripping from the hem of his greatcoat to pool on the ancient stone floor. Every drop sounded like a gavel striking a sounding block.
His leg was screaming.
The magical burns he had sustained tearing through the wards of Viregate Prison were not merely physical injuries; they were insults to his blood, a constant, gnawing reminder that even a pureblood vampire could burn if he flew too close to the sun. Or, in his case, if he took a gout of fire from a Sentinel for a girl who smelled like silk and defiance.
He adjusted his grip on the silver-headed cane, forcing his spine straight. He would not limp. He would not falter. If he was to be executed tonight, he would die standing up, preferably with a sneer on his face that would haunt Valerius for the next three centuries.
