It had been twenty-four hours since someone tried to kill him. Again.
Michael crouched in the shadows of the Great Hall, brushing dust from his coat. He should've been in bed, pretending to recover like a good little victim. Instead, he was sneaking through his own castle like a thief with trust issues and a bruised ego.
All because of her. The new maid. Joan. The one with poison in her perfume and a knife behind every smile.
According to Paul, no one had seen her since last night—which meant she hadn't escaped. She was still here. Somewhere inside Blood Keep.
The logical move? Wait. Let her grow desperate. Let her try to flee. Catch her red-handed. But that wouldn't work if someone was helping her—hiding her, feeding her. Anyone with a brain knew she couldn't have pulled this off alone. She was new. An outsider. The only reason she'd even been assigned to Michael was a sudden staff shortage. His usual attendant, Miss Alexandra—the Head Maid herself— had been forced to manage the household in a panic after Michael's father was summoned to the Imperial City, taking Sir Cristian Cole, the head butler, with him. To make things worse, Michael's uncle had made an unexpected visit to the Red Keep, throwing the entire staff into disarray.
Joan used the chaos well.
She poisoned him and vanished into the Keep.
Even Michael—famously mad, recklessly clever, and proud of both—hadn't seen it coming. She'd outwitted him. That stung. Still, he couldn't help but view the situation as a twisted blessing. Just before she poisoned him, he'd made a reckless decision: to prolong the war. He'd come up with ideas on the fly—bizarre, bold, and dangerously direct. He didn't want anyone to know the chaos was his doing. His reputation among the nobility was already hanging by a thread. They called him "Lord Lunacy" behind his back. The only Centarious in family history to remain a Sky Walker for seven years without advancing to Night Walker.
To many, he was the "weak seed of Centarious." The "mistake of the feudal lord." But what boiled his blood most was how they spoke of his mother.
Lady Jane Centarious had been a commoner from old Elvaria, a gifted musician who once wandered the Imperium with nothing but songs and stories. His father, a Duke of Old Celesto, had fallen for her—marrying her in a union that defied class and culture alike. It was beautiful. And short-lived.
That was why Michael hated royal balls. Why he skipped every formal event he could. Anyway.
He pushed that thought aside and focused on the new plan.
A way to escape his uncle's suffocating grasp and prolong the war in one smooth, ridiculous move.
If the assassin managed to escape the castle while kidnapping Michael Centarious, heir to the North, the consequences would be catastrophic. The story would explode—whispers of betrayal, of plots linked to the Northern Duke. Even if the emperor himself tried to end the war, the scandal alone would keep the fires burning. No ruler could afford to look that incompetent.
So here was the pitch: He'd find her. Talk to her. Offer her a way out of the Keep—safe, clean, unnoticed. And in return? She'd "kidnap" him.
Of course… that all depended on her not deciding to finish the job and just kill him properly this time.
Michael paused mid-step, suddenly realizing something: He was the damsel. The princess. The love-struck noble idiot in one of those overdramatic romance novels that had recently become all the rage in Theos.
He smirked to himself and muttered, "I'm risking my manhood on this stupid plan. It better work."
First, he had to find her. Why hadn't they?
There were only a few possibilities.
Someone was helping her—a knight, maybe? But no. That was too messy. Too risky. A knight could be interrogated, exposed. Unreliable.
More likely… she was hiding. Alone. Somewhere clever.
He remembered stories of the Keep's secret chambers. Never found one himself, but he knew they existed.
Somewhere no one would think to look.
Then it hit him.
If I were the assassin… where would I hide?
A slow grin crept across his face.
Option one: his own bedchamber. No one would expect an assassin to hide in the room of the person they just tried to kill. But Paul was stationed there now, and tricking Paul was nearly impossible. So that was out.
Option two: the new prison beneath the Keep. It was so obvious, it was invisible. Just iron bars and open cells—no shadows to vanish into. No one would think to search it thoroughly, because it looked too easy. Too exposed.
And no one wanted to suspect a fellow knight of sneaking someone into the cells. That kind of accusation shattered loyalty.
Both places were overlooked. Both were forgotten.
And if Michael was right?
She was hiding in the prison.
He stood.
Michael stepped lightly over the cracked red-black tiles of the Grand Hall, his shadow slipping between the towering black pillars like a secret not meant to be spoken aloud. His breath was shallow, his senses sharpened. Even though he was alone, the hall felt watched.
The only light came from pale moonbeams filtering through the six narrow windows on each side of the hall — tall enough to swallow a man, but thin as blades. The entire chamber, vast enough to host ten thousand warriors, stood deathly still.
High above, nestled in the shadows between the ribbed stone arches, perched the Gargoyle Sentinels — silent statues carved from black volcanic stone, crouched mid-snarl with their wings curled like broken swords. Their eyes, wide and glassy, stared down at the hall in eternal vigil.
They hadn't moved in centuries.
And yet… something about them felt aware.
It was said that Aldric the Undying had shaped them himself—statues bound by dark ritual, gifted a drop of his blood so that if the Keep were ever truly threatened, they might awaken.
Ahead loomed the twin archways at the far end of the hall—one led to the throne balcony, the other toward the council chambers and throne.
And between them stood him.
Aldric the Undying – The Stone Sentinel
Between the two openings at the far end of the hall stood a towering statue of the First Vampire King, carved entirely from stone — unyielding, immortal, and terrifying.
He was depicted in a pose of silent vigilance—long flowing hair, sharp noble features carved with haunting precision. His expression held both cruelty and grace, an echo of the man who had founded Blood Keep in blood and fire.
Aldric held a massive stone greatsword in both hands, its tip planted into the floor before him. The blade, like the man, wasn't made for glory. It was a warning. A promise of violence.
Michael slowed as he neared the base of the statue, his crimson eyes flicking up to meet that eternal gaze.
"Still watching?" he muttered. "Still guarding your throne?"
The air was cold around him. Too still. For just a breath, it felt like the statue might move.
He didn't wait to find out.
Michael exhaled and stepped beneath its shadow.
He passed through the left archway.
And entered the Throne Chamber.
The Blood Throne waited.
A monstrous, cracked chair of black stone sat at the far end of the chamber, stained a deep, dried crimson that had not faded with centuries — as if it still drank from ancient wounds. Its surface was jagged in places, chipped and broken from forgotten wars, yet it remained unyielding, a mountain carved from ruin and reverence.
Above it, etched into the obsidian wall with divine craftsmanship, loomed the relief of the Goddess of Night — no chains, no despair. She danced. Free and radiant, her long hair swirling like ink, her limbs moving in a pose of sacred defiance. Graceful. Terrible. Beautiful. A forgotten memory of something greater than power.
To either side of the throne, twelve high-backed seats stood in silent judgment—six to the left, six to the right. These were the chairs of the Twelve Trueborn, the vampire progeny of Aldric himself. Long dead, or simply vanished, no one sat there now. Yet the weight of their absence pressed heavy in the air, like dust thick with ghost-scent.
Michael didn't linger.
He stepped forward—his boots echoing faintly across the chamber—and passed the triangular stone basin carved into the floor before the throne. Its water was still, dark, and sacred. Once, all who approached the throne would cleanse themselves here.
Michael did not stop to wash his feet.
Instead, he turned silently and slipped into a narrow corridor hidden behind the left row of stone chairs
The passage swallowed him.
Cold stone pressed close on either side. The torch sconces were long since dead. Only the dim light of memory lit his way now.