The council chamber smelled like old money, old blood, and the faint metallic tang of fear.
It was buried deep in the heart of the Blackthorn Citadel—three levels below the main keep, behind three sets of rune-etched iron doors that could only be opened by a drop of Vesper's blood. Alex had learned that the hard way when the first door refused him until he pricked his thumb on the tiny hidden thorn and smeared crimson across the serpent sigil. The mechanism had hissed like a satisfied cat before grinding open.
Now he walked the final corridor alone, boots echoing on polished obsidian. Torches burned with unnatural purple flames that cast long, writhing shadows. Every few steps, stone gargoyles perched on pedestals turned their carved heads to watch him pass. Alex was pretty sure they were just statues.
Pretty sure.
The system hadn't commented yet, which was somehow worse.
He reached the last door—twice his height, carved with a coiling dragon whose eyes were set with actual rubies. Two Blackthorn guards in full plate stood sentinel. They snapped to attention when they saw him, gauntleted fists thumping against breastplates in perfect unison.
"Your Grace."
Alex nodded once, curt. Vesper's memories told him these men were loyal enough—for now. Loyalty in this place had an expiration date measured in weeks, sometimes days.
The doors parted inward with a low groan.
Inside, the chamber was circular, domed ceiling lost in shadow. A long table of black granite dominated the center, etched with a map of Aetheria in silver filigree. Tiny glowing motes drifted above the surface, marking troop movements, supply lines, border forts—living pieces on a demonic chessboard.
Seven figures waited around the table. They rose as one when Alex entered.
Seven vipers in silk and velvet, each one more dangerous than the last.
To his immediate right: Lady Seraphine Voss, mistress of spies. Mid-thirties, platinum hair braided with silver threads, eyes the color of winter frost. She wore a gown of deep indigo that shimmered like oil on water. Rumor said she could make a man confess his mother's maiden name just by smiling at him sideways.
Next to her: Lord Darius Kael, master of coin. Thin as a blade, perpetual smirk, fingers constantly moving over an abacus that never left his side. He handled the duchy's endless coffers—and the blackmail ledgers that kept half the nobility in line.
Then Baroness Isolde Thorne—no relation to Alex's old name, thank god. Vesper's cousin by marriage. Raven curls, blood-red lips, a necklace of black pearls that looked suspiciously like tiny skulls. She controlled the arcane academies and the flow of forbidden magic into the citadel.
The others filled out the circle: General Thorne (no, wait—General Varren, grizzled war-hound with one eye replaced by a glowing ruby prosthetic), High Alchemist Morgana (hooded, voice like dry leaves, always smelling faintly of sulfur), Lord Chancellor Elias Crowe (the oldest, the quietest, the one everyone feared most because he never raised his voice), and finally, sitting at the foot of the table like he owned the place despite being the youngest—
Prince Regent Cassian Blackthorn.
Vesper's younger half-brother.
Illegitimate, acknowledged only after their father's death, but ambitious enough to claw his way onto the council anyway. Golden hair, sky-blue eyes, the kind of handsome that made people forgive stupidity. He wore white trimmed in black—the only splash of color in the room—and a smile that didn't reach those perfect eyes.
Cassian spoke first.
"Brother." The word dripped honey and arsenic. "You look… rested."
Alex met his gaze. Vesper's memories supplied the context: Cassian had spent the last two years quietly positioning himself as the "reasonable" alternative to Vesper's tyranny. Half the council already whispered that the duchy would be better off under younger, brighter leadership.
Alex let the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable.
Then he smiled—slow, sharp, the same one he'd used on Liora.
"Rested enough to notice how many of you are still breathing my air," he said softly.
A ripple of tension went around the table.
Seraphine's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
Alex took his seat at the head—high-backed chair carved like a throne of bones. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, and steepled his fingers.
"Report."
Varren cleared his throat, the sound like gravel shifting.
"The hero's party crossed Eldrath Pass yesterday morning. Six of them confirmed: the Chosen One himself—Lorian Dawnblade—plus the saintess Aeloria, the dwarf berserker Grom, the elven archmage Sylvara, the rogue twins Kain and Kara, and… surprisingly, Princess Elara Voss."
Alex's pulse skipped.
Elara Voss.
In the original novel, she was the assassin princess—Seraphine's younger sister, betrothed to Lorian for political reasons, but secretly hating every minute of it. Deadly with twin daggers, sharper tongue than either, and in book three she switched sides after Vesper kidnapped her during a botched diplomatic summit.
Kidnapped her, seduced her, then lost her anyway when the hero came charging in like a golden retriever on steroids.
Alex kept his face neutral.
"Elara Voss," he repeated, letting the name linger. "Interesting. Any sign she's wavering in her… enthusiasm for the hero?"
Seraphine leaned forward slightly. "My spies report tension. She argues with Lorian frequently. Publicly. She hasn't shared his bed since they left the capital."
Cassian laughed—a light, musical sound that grated like nails on porcelain.
"Perhaps she's simply realized what a bore the Chosen One is. Or perhaps," he added, eyes flicking to Alex, "she's heard rumors of a more… compelling dark prince."
The table went very still.
Alex felt every eye on him.
He let the moment breathe.
Then he chuckled—low, genuine amusement.
"Careful, little brother. Jealousy doesn't suit you."
Cassian's smile tightened.
Alex turned to Varren. "Military assessment?"
"They're moving fast. Too fast. No supply train, no siege engines. They mean to strike deep—likely targeting the Shadowspire Vault before winter closes the passes."
The Vault. Where Vesper kept the really nasty artifacts. The ones that could end kingdoms.
Alex nodded slowly.
"Options?"
Darius spoke up, voice oily. "We could poison the wells along their route. Slow them. Bleed them."
Morgana's hood shifted. "Or unleash the wraith packs from the northern crypts. They'd harry their flanks, cost them sleep, morale."
Isolde tapped a fingernail on the table. "I say we invite them to parley. Under truce flag. Offer terms. Then… accidents happen."
Cassian leaned forward. "Or we meet them in open field. Crush them publicly. Show Aetheria that Blackthorn still has teeth."
Alex listened to each suggestion, letting them hang in the air like smoke.
Then he spoke.
"We do nothing."
Silence.
Cassian blinked. "Nothing?"
Alex met his eyes. "We watch. We wait. We let them come closer. The deeper they push into our territory, the farther they are from reinforcements. The more exhausted they become. The more mistakes they make."
He leaned forward, voice dropping.
"And when they reach the citadel gates—when they think victory is close—that's when we show them exactly how deep the shadows run."
He let the words settle.
Then, almost casually: "And Cassian?"
His half-brother straightened.
"If I hear one more whisper that you've been positioning yourself as my replacement," Alex continued, tone conversational, "I'll have Seraphine's people hang you from the east tower by your own intestines. Slowly. While the ravens peck at what's left."
Cassian's face went pale.
The rest of the council stared at their maps, suddenly fascinated by troop markers.
Alex stood.
"Dismissed."
They rose. Bowed. Filed out in near-silence.
Only Seraphine lingered, gliding around the table until she stood beside him.
"You're different today," she murmured.
Alex turned to face her. Close enough to smell her perfume—jasmine and nightshade.
"Am I?"
She studied him like a puzzle she hadn't expected to enjoy solving.
"Less… theatrical. More dangerous."
Alex smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just tired of playing the monster everyone expects."
Her eyes narrowed. Intrigued.
"Careful, Your Grace. Monsters who try to be something else usually end up worse."
She swept out, gown whispering against stone.
Alex stood alone in the chamber.
The glowing motes above the map drifted lazily, marking the hero's steady advance.
The system finally spoke.
«Well played, host. +150 Evil Points for masterful gaslighting and veiled threat combo. Affection from Seraphine Voss: +8 (Current: -14). She's curious now. Dangerous thing, curiosity.»
Alex exhaled.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I noticed."
He looked at the map.
A tiny glowing dot labeled "Elara Voss" moved steadily closer.
His stomach did something complicated.
He wasn't sure if it was dread.
Or anticipation.
Probably both.
He turned and walked out, the doors grinding shut behind him like a promise.
The game was on.
And for the first time since waking up in this body, Alex didn't feel like prey.
He felt like the shadow waiting to swallow the light.