"What?"
The vampire's voice cracked, the tremble in it betraying his fury.
He stared at Cruxius with wild, glowing eyes. That name—the full name—his titles, his secrets, all spoken aloud by a human. And worse, by a boy barely past twenty, standing with his hands in his pockets, speaking down to him with the arrogance of a monarch.
Alath's lips peeled back, baring elongated fangs. His aura flared like a crimson wind.
"You—wretched brat. You dare insult the Blood Throne—!"
Before anyone could blink, he lunged.
A blur of black and red, cape tearing through the air, clawed fingers aimed for Cruxius's throat.
But Cruxius didn't move. He didn't even look surprised.
Because something had already caught him by the back of his coat.
A hand.
Slender, gloved, feminine.
Ytrisia.
Her silver hair shimmered in motion, her face calm, but her eyes gleamed with sharp focus.
