<h4>Chapter 223: The Verdict Remains</h4>
His gaze swept across the room. "There will be no peace until this throne is feared again."
No one could breathe.
Then, as if the room hadn’t already sunk into dread, Damien’s eyes burned brighter. "Pray that you are not standing in my way when that timees."
"Your highness." Lord Mason said. "The verdict remains. The child cannot live—whether the Queen is in Blood City or not."
For a heartbeat, Damien stood frozen. Then, in the blink of an eye, his fury surged, molten and unstoppable. His fangs ached to descend. In that breathless instant, he breezed forward, his hand shot forward, iron-strong fingers mping around Mason’s throat. The sound was primal—the wet gasp of air cut off, the subtle grind of bone under the unrelenting force of a vampire king’s wrath. Mason’s eyes bulged, and a faint crack echoed through the chamber.
Every member of the council recoiled.
Before the final snap coulde, Luciver moved. The former king’s grip was unyielding, his strength honed from centuries of ruling. He wrenched Damien back, breaking the contact. The force of the intervention rattled the walls.
Councilman Richard was already there, closing the distance with a speed born of desperate loyalty. His arms locked around Damien, muscles straining as he dragged the king backward, away from the center of the room. He moved Damien out to the corridor.
"Your highness!...This is what he wants! Every move now is under a microscope. One mistake—just one—and your eligibility to rule will be questioned. Do not let Gabriel win."
Damien’s breath came ragged, his chest heaving as though he had run miles. His body trembled, the aftermath of violence unspent shuddering through him. He didn’t know when it happened, but his vision blurred from the hot, unstoppable rush of tears. They slid down his face, burning as if each one carved into him a reminder of what was slipping away.
"My wife... my mate...She is inbour—she is in pain—and she is gone. For what? For the throne?"
Richard’s own eyes softened, but his grip did not ease. "Your highness, I beg you—be strong. Controlled. Gabriel has turned men who once swore their loyalty to you, yes, but you can turn them back. This is not the time to lose the king within you to fury." He leaned closer. "If you want her back—if you want your child alive—you must outthink him, not outfight him. Please, stay strong."
The words burrowed into Damien’s mind, but they could not quiet the storm. Every nerve in his body screamed to run to her, to tear apart anyone who stood between them. Yet the image of her—Luna, his queen—shed in his mind, her soft gasp when he kissed the sensitive hollow of her throat, the way her fingers curled into his shirt. That bond pulled taut now, stretched thin by distance and danger, and it hurt more than any de or poison ever could.
Luciver appeared in the corridor, his movements silent.
"Lord Mason is fine. Leave us, Lord Richard," Luciver said.
Richard, still breathing heavily from holding Damien back, nodded and lowered his eyes in deference. Without another word, he retreated.
Luciver’s gaze softened as he walked toward his son. Without a word, Luciver wrapped his arm around Damien’s shoulders, pulling him into an embrace that was rare between them—an embrace born of shared pain.
The dam inside him shattered. His body shook violently as sobs tore through him, muffled against the shoulder of his father.
He had failed her. Failed to protect her. Failed to keep her safe and happy. Failed to keep her in his arms where she belonged.
She was gone.
Not an hour had passed since she left, and already it felt like centuries stretched between them. His mate was out there, in pain, inbour, without him, and he was stuck here in this cursed pce surrounded by snakes.
He already missed the hell out of her. Missed the way her scent curled around him.
Luciver simply stood there, holding his son, letting Damien’s grief run its course.
*****
Kyllian and Talon were losing ground fast. In their massive wolf forms, their fur bristled and slick with blood, they fought with every ounce of fury they could muster. But the rogue vampires were relentless. Too fast. Too vicious.
Talon’s nk was already torn open from a vicious sh, but he still stood, teeth bared, growl rumbling through the stormy air. Every breath sent a plume of hot mist into the cold night.
Kyllian’s ears twitched mid-fight. Past the blur of ws and fangs, he caught sight of two vampires breaking from the fray—slipping toward the vehicle. The car where Luna was. They hadn’t been able to clear a path for them to drive through.
A primal growl ripped through Kyllian’s chest. No. They would not touch her.
He twisted mid-lunge, snapping the neck of the vampire in front of him before locking eyes with his beta. Their telepathic link was instant—raw with urgency and desperation.
’Talon, the whistle. Now!’
Talon hesitated for a heartbeat. Shifting back into human form here, in the middle of this chaos, was suicide. He’d lose the advantage of teeth and ws, and leave the king—already strained from battle—exposed. The logical choice was to keep fighting.
But this was an order.
With a feral roar, Talon shoved the attackers on him away, ws tearing into flesh, sending one crumpling into the ground and the other staggering back. The cold wind bit into him the moment he shifted, bones snapping and reforming, skin recing fur. His clothes remained intact, though blood stained the sleeves.
His breath came hard as he dug into his pocket, fingers brushing against the whistle.
He raised it to his lips and blew.
No sound came the first time. The whistle sat cold and stubborn against Talon’s lips. He blew again, harder this time. Still no sound. His chest heaved, his lungs burning with both effort and dread.
A third time—he forced the air from his lungs into the whistle until his ribs ached—when suddenly, the sound died on his lips. A low, throaty snarl rumbled from directly behind him.
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