"...Vampire King."
The tent was suffocating. Heavy fabric draped overhead, sealing out the night's chill, yet failing to mask the growing tension inside. The flickering lanterns cast restless shadows across the faces of those present—men and women of Delvin's inner circle—gathered around the central chair.
Fabrice Targan stood before them, his breath steady, his posture unwavering. His crimson eyes burned like embers, illuminating the sharp angles of his changed face. No longer the man they had known, he was something else. Something terrifying.
Delvin leaned against the wooden post supporting the tent, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He couldn't afford to fall apart—not now.
"Delvin, your heart rate is spiking," the Skylark system chimed in his mind, cool and calculated.
"I don't need you to tell me that," he muttered internally.
