The city was restless, caught between disbelief and awe. Taverns filled with gossip, street corners buzzed with rumors, and even the back alleys where criminals ruled fell into uneasy silence. The impossible had happened. A noble house had bent its knee to Lucius Draxion. Not to the crown, not to rival nobles, but to the Devil himself.
For generations, nobility had been untouchable, their bloodline a shield, their pride unshakable. Yet now, with their signatures inked in Lucius's hand, the illusion of their supremacy shattered. Whispers spread like wildfire across the city. Some called him a tyrant. Others, a savior. But one word stuck in every mouth, whether spoken with dread or reverence. King.
In the underworld, hardened gangsters sat speechless. No gangster, no mafia lord had ever made blue bloods bow. Lucius had not needed a sword, an army, or even bloodshed. He had only needed fear, the fear that turned pride into dust and forced silk to kneel on stone.
Victor Draemont listened to the talk with a smile that revealed his satisfaction. "They understand it now," he said to the council. "Lucius is not merely a lord of shadows. He is shaping something greater. A throne that stands above gold, blood, and law. Let them whisper king, for whispers always grow into truths."
Silvio Marcellus traced lines on a map with cold precision. "Rival houses are already stirring. Some are trembling, afraid they will be next. Others are scheming, wondering if they can defy him before his shadow spreads too far. They do not yet understand that every move they make has already been calculated."
Ravenna Veyra leaned forward, her grin sharp and hungry. "Let them squirm. Their fear is sweet, but their screams will taste sweeter. I can silence their doubts before they spread too far."
Lucius, seated at the head of the long table, raised his hand, and Ravenna fell quiet. His voice, low and commanding, filled the chamber. "No. They must speak. Fear must have time to grow, and doubt must have time to fester. Let them debate, let them hope. And then, when hope becomes unbearable, I will take it from them."
Darius Veylan leaned back, his brutal frame casting a long shadow. "Then the first house is bait. Their desperation will mark them as weak, and the wolves will circle. When they do, we strike both prey and predator, and the rest will learn submission without question."
Adrian Crowe adjusted his spectacles, his tone coldly amused. "The courts will be vital. The nobles still believe in their laws, their charters, their protections. I will twist those laws until they choke on them. When they turn to the courts for salvation, they will find only Lucius staring back."
Cain Mortalis said nothing, only resting his axe on the table, the blade reflecting candlelight. His silence spoke louder than words, reminding everyone that if laws failed, blood would follow.
Selene, kneeling close to Lucius's seat, bowed her head. "Master, the nobles already send spies into the streets, hoping to gauge your strength. Shall I bring them to you broken, so their lords understand what crawling truly means?"
Lucius's eyes gleamed crimson in the dim light. "Not yet. Spies are threads. Pull too soon and the fabric tears. But let enough of them dangle, and the entire cloth unravels in my hands."
The council exchanged glances, each recognizing that their master's patience was more terrifying than any blade. Lucius never struck too soon. He always struck when the enemy had no ground left to stand on.
Outside, the city buzzed with restless fear. Merchants wondered if their patrons would be swallowed into Lucius's shadow. Soldiers whispered of desertion, unwilling to fight a man who commanded both underworld and nobility. And the crown itself grew uneasy, sensing that its grip on power was slipping with every whisper of his name.
Rival nobles convened in secret halls, their voices hushed yet trembling. "He cannot be allowed to rise further," one said. "If he makes kings of criminals, he makes corpses of us." But even as they spoke, none volunteered to be the first to strike.
The Devil's shadow had grown too long, and none dared step into it willingly.
Victor laughed when the reports reached him. "They are trapped. Pride will not let them crawl, but fear will not let them strike. That is the perfect prison, and Lucius holds the key."
Lucius rose from his seat, the air tightening as though the walls themselves bent to his will. His words fell like a decree from something greater than mortal. "They will see soon enough. The underworld whispers, the nobility trembles, the crown quakes. They call me Devil. They call me King. Let them. What matters is not the name they speak, but that they all bow."
The council fell silent, each member drinking in his presence, their loyalty unshaken, their devotion absolute.
That night, the nobles slept uneasily, their dreams haunted by crimson eyes watching from the dark.
And as dawn broke, one thing became clear. This was no longer just the reign of a mafia lord. The city was watching the birth of something beyond crime, beyond power.
The Devil was no longer content with shadows. He was shaping the throne itself.