"What?"
The vampire's voice cracked, a rare, humiliating tremble betraying his mounting fury.
He stared at Cruxius with wild, glowing eyes. That name—the full name, his titles, his darkest secrets—all spoken aloud by a mere human. And worse, by a boy barely past twenty, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, speaking down to him with the insufferable arrogance of a monarch.
Alath's pale lips peeled back, baring elongated fangs. His aura flared like a scorching crimson wind.
"You—wretched brat. You dare insult the Blood Throne—!"
He lunged before a single breath could be drawn.
A deadly blur of black and red, his cape tearing through the stale air, clawed fingers aimed straight for Cruxius's throat.
But Cruxius didn't flinch. He didn't even look surprised.
Something had already caught him firmly by the back of his coat.
A hand. Slender, clad in tight leather, undeniably feminine.
Ytrisia.
