Lucien's POV
The Sanguinara Catacombs were built for reverence and death. Tonight, they felt more like a stage for an execution.
The air was heavy, damp, and smelled of earth and something anciently metallic—the preserved remnants of the bloodline. Iron lanterns cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating the assembled Carpathian witnesses, draped in midnight blue, and the Shadowhold council, led by the perpetually disapproving Lord Barthus.
At the center stood Prince Valeriu Sangeu, bathed in the lurid glow. He wasn't wearing armor; he was in tailored black velvet, designed for fluid movement and dramatic effect. He held a casual air, like a virtuoso preparing for a performance.
He thinks this is a spectacle. I will make it a slaughter.
Caelen stood to the side, maintaining a vigil, while I walked onto the smooth stone of the duel circle. The Ritual Blades of Fealty lay waiting on a velvet cloth—twin scimitars with hilts carved into the familiar Sanguinara serpent. They were beautiful, terrible tools.
Valeriu finally moved, picking up one blade with infuriating grace. He inspected it, then flicked his smoke-colored eyes toward me.
"King Consort," he purred, his voice echoing lightly in the stone chamber. "I am disappointed. I expected more dramatic defiance. After all, you are fighting for the Queen's life, and for the life that King Aldric nearly took from your family."
The taunt hit its mark. My hand clenched around the hilt of my own blade. Neressa. I forced the image of my sister into a locked box in my mind. Focus. Valeriu wanted rage; I would give him ice.
"You fight for a dead man's debt, Sangeu," I countered, my voice low and dangerous. "I fight for the living Queen. There is a difference."
Valeriu laughed—a soft, chilling sound. "Ah, yes, the living Queen. Let us ensure she truly feels the worth of your defense."
As my grip tightened on the blade, the bond with Vera snapped into terrifying focus. It wasn't just a mental connection; it felt like a cold, silver wire running from the blade, up my arm, and deep into my chest, twisting around the raw center of my own life force, where it met Vera's Sanguinara blood. I realized then that the "amplified echo" wasn't just pain; it was the direct siphoning of energy.
I felt a sudden wave of dizziness, a profound sense of her weakness, instantly confirming my fears. The ritual wasn't meant to simply hurt her; it was designed to quickly drain her vitality and break her psychologically, forcing her to yield the throne to save herself.
The fear was immediate and paralyzing. I wasn't fighting just Valeriu; I was fighting the ritual itself.
A Shadowhold elder stepped forward, chanting the ancient invocation that locked the terms. When he finished, he struck a heavy brass gong. Midnight.
Valeriu wasted no time on formality. He lunged.
He was blindingly fast, exactly as Caelen had warned. He moved with the inhuman speed of a creature that had been practicing duels for centuries. I was built for the siege—strong, enduring, heavy on the block and counter. Valeriu was all feint and puncture.
Our blades met in a shriek of steel that echoed through the catacombs. He gave ground immediately, drawing me out, and then—before I could reset my stance—he spun, his blade flashing toward my flank.
I twisted, blocking the main thrust, but his hilt caught me sharply, glancing off my ribs. It was a shallow, embarrassing blow—nothing more than a graze.
But the moment the impact struck, the amplified echo hit me like a physical explosion.
A blinding spike of pain, magnified tenfold, ripped through my own chest. It wasn't just the ache of the bruise on my rib; it was a devastating, internal shockwave. My knees buckled. I didn't feel my own pain; I felt the agonizing, magnified rending of Vera's core. It felt like a stake was being driven not into my heart, but into hers.
I gasped, stumbling backward, the ritual binding sending my consciousness reeling. The dizzying, sharp sensation of her suffering was far more effective than any blow Valeriu could have landed directly.
"Ah, there it is," Valeriu whispered, stalking forward slowly, his blade lowered. He didn't even need to press the attack. He knew he had crippled me. "You feel her, don't you, Consort? The pain of the Queen. Every time I touch you, she suffers. Imagine what a true cut will do to that fragile heart."
My head swam. I could hear Barthus and the council murmuring, witnessing the immediate effect of the ritual. Valeriu had proven the Queen was compromised.
I forced myself upright, fighting the desperate urge to vomit. I looked down at my blade, focusing on the plan Vera had laid out in her desperation: When I feel the first pain, I will instinctively project a shield.
If that amplified echo was my warning, I had to use it. I had to fight not for the kill, but for the defense of the echo itself. I had to become a barrier.
I raised my blade, my eyes now fixed not on Valeriu's perfect stance, but on the terrifying, invisible connection to my Queen.
"Come and find out, Sangeu," I growled, planting my feet firmly on the blood-sanctified stone.
The duel was no longer a matter of honor or strength; it was a desperate, agonizing race against the clock, fighting to protect a heart I could feel tearing apart with every beat.
Valeriu smiled, his eyes lighting with pure amusement. He lunged again, this time aiming to end the game quickly.