Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Anton (as usual), as well as the slew of Royal children.

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Now, to continue…

"Anton, you must listen—"

His step-aunt's voice drew Cyan up short, and he halted in his lazy path through the twisting hallways of the Palace, loving, rather than despising or ignoring, the winter chill in that area. Curious, he stepped towards the door that stood slightly cracked to his left, his footfalls as silent as if he walked upon air, which he very nearly did. He couldn't see through the minute space provided, so he let his senses stretch out and sneak in, probing the area and giving him as much information as sight would have done. His father stood stiffly, fury radiating off him so thickly that Cyan was surprised he hadn't felt it earlier, until he realized that Anton was shielding.

"I will listen to nothing from your lips, Daughter of the Dawn!" his father spat, cutting Lycelle off mid-sentence and causing her to suck in a breath.

"Look, I am only saying that you're not thinking clearly!" She gathered herself together after a moment, and her voice was strained, as if she felt actual physical pain. "Others have begun to notice, brother, and—"

"I am no brother of yours," Anton hissed, and Cyan froze. Since when had his father so strongly disliked Pansy's sister? He'd always been distant towards her, but that was to be expected, considering the very different deities they served. But now there was loathing in his father's tone, even hate, and Cyan's curiosity grew until it was on an almost morbid level.

All was quiet. Then, "Fine. But know that I understand. I understand that you may think that you're acting rationally, but you are not. I understand that you're confused and hurt, that my sister's rejection stings. But you cannot give up on her, on your marriage—"

"I have given up on nothing. She has turned on me, not the other way around, if you care to recall." How could a voice be so cold, so utterly uncaring, when speaking of their bonded? It was a trick that Cyan wished to learn.

"She…" Lycelle's voice wavered before growing strong once more. "She is blinded by his presence. But she will see through it eventually, she will remember your love."

"Yes, well, perhaps I do not wish to wait for someone who could so easily forget, have you considered that?" Anton asked dryly, and there was a small shuffle, as if Lycelle had taken a quick step back from him. "Perhaps she is a different person than originally thought, after all." A pause, full of weighty consideration. "Or maybe, she is simply weak."

"Anton!"

Lycelle protested exactly when Cyan felt like doing the same. Pansy? Weak? Surely not…

"She is blind, White One, even where you are not," Anton replied silkily. "Or shall you call me a liar?"

"I—no. I will not call you that." Lycelle's voice grew wispier as Anton's became ever more forceful.

"Oh, then shall you call me heartless again, as you did once before?"

Cyan froze. Lycelle had done what? That prissy fucking bitch…

"Anton, about that, you know how sorry I am, how much I regret—"

"Silence." And suddenly, his father spoke with a voice full of dark divinity and Lycelle's mouth snapped closed, before she dropped to her knees in a rustle of fine silk. "I am tired of your rambling and even wearier of your ceaseless interference where it is certainly not welcome. You know nothing of me or of my thoughts and life, and the day I take council from a light witch will be a sad day indeed. Leave me and do not seek me out again. You are dismissed."

"As you wish, my lord," came the humble, terrified reply.

Another rustle of silk announced Lycelle rising, then rushing for the door, Anton's ire like a rising tide chasing her from his sight. Cyan slid easily into the shadows, and waited much like a vampire of old in a dark alley, waiting for its prey to emerge. They no longer had to do so, of course, as most wizards and witches were readily willing to feed them, but the sentiment was not lost on the young man. Nor was it lost on Lycelle when she practically flew out of the doorway and almost instantly found herself caught around the waist and pulled back into one of the countless transportation portals situated all over the grounds.

"Release me at once!" she demanded when they came out in a rarely used section of one of the westward wings, before spinning and growing very quiet and still when she saw who held her. A malicious smirk spread across Cyan's face as he yanked her into a shadowy nook, slamming her none-too-gently into the back wall and snarling.

"What did you say to my father, Whore of the Light?" he demanded, using an insulting title that few would dare to think, let alone utter, even when alone in the relative safety of their own room. Her master, the Dawn Star, was a prideful being, and vengeful in Her own way.

But Cyan did not fear Her or Her disciple. Let the White Lady glower in Her sunlit halls. He cared not.

"I…" Lycelle started with wide eyes, before the Mark on her arm flared angrily and she drew herself up. "I do not answer to you, Son of Dark Ones."

"Yes," he said slowly, calmly, trying not to lash out at her, "you do." And something crept into his voice, something that made his step-aunt's gaze turn suspicious and then credulous, before to his surprise, she answered without any more argument.

"I told him once, long ago, that he was only using our Kings for their positions and power. That he didn't truly love them or my sister, and that he thought only of himself and his own well-being. I have damned those words ever since they spilled from my lips."

True sorrow crossed her aging face, but Cyan couldn't have been less affected by it. How dare she? How dare she mock his father's sacrifices in such a callous way? He knew better than most how much sanity his father had lost in filtering and absorbing the festering sickness and hate that had been bred into their Kings; how much he had given up in order to make sure that they could continue to sit upon their Thrones and rule without being corrupted by their past or going utterly mad because of it. He knew how his father had done so years before they ever came into Sovereignty, years before it was even a thought in the Dark Lady's mind.

And she had dared to discredit such loyalty and devotion? Pay, she was going to pay…

"Run, Chosen of Aurora, run before you no longer have legs upon which to do so," he hissed, while something odd built inside of him, almost spilling over and engulfing him, but not quite, not yet.

He had no time to think on it though, because the urge to rip out her tongue grew stronger by the second, and as she looked up, meeting his burning cold eyes, she knew it. The Mark on her arm responded, blazing bright enough to blind, and when he should have had to hide his eyes from the brilliance of it, he did not. Something in him was changing, morphing as he moved for her, and the shocked expression upon her face was utterly priceless. A ball of darkfire built quicker than it ever had before in his cupped hand, and he slammed it into her cheek with all the force his rage could muster. A pearly shield snapped up just in time around her, causing the two opposing forces to collide.

And explode.

Both were blown backwards, her into the wall almost a foot and a half and him out in the dimly lit hallway, stone littering around them like charred pieces of solid rain. He was on his feet again after a second of disorientation, a knife in hand and a murderous purpose. They did not call the Dark Royals vicious without reason. Such an insult to his sire demanded to be avenged, and her blood would spill for such treasonous words. Why she hadn't been punished before now was an infuriating mystery, one he resolved to unravel at his earliest convenience. But all he could focus on at the moment was her rising form, her growing power.

She no longer seemed virtuous and innocent, her gentle aura displaced by her Lady's fury, her hair flying around her in a brown swirl of energy, moved by it rather than by any form of wind. Her pale skin very nearly crackled, and her eyes were turning from amber to a bright white-blue like those of a husky going blind. Cyan felt his own power growing in an effort to match hers, and though he knew he would lose this fight in the end, since she was backed by a deity where he was not, he resolved to see her skin split open before he fell, to see the liquid of her life run over cold stone. Black energy built within his core, destructive and very, very deadly.

She was no immortal.

No, she had refused that gift like an utter fool, and it could very well now be her downfall. His power streamed out, rushing through veins that pumped blood older than the pyramids, until it burst forth from his skin and surrounded him in a ferocious halo of pure darkness. Something had changed, he knew it by the sheer strength of the power pouring from him, and so did she. The first glimmer of wary fear sparked in those heaven-filled eyes, and he used her momentary distraction to his advantage, attacking in a fluid movement so quick he could barely believe it himself. The Crown Princes could move like that, his father could move like that, but…

No matter. His blade had sunk deeply into her abdomen, slicing past her shields and muscle alike, and one glowing white hand swiped at his face, claws raking through the skin and pushing that damnable light past his own defenses until he reared back, fearing a tainting of his beloved blood. It stung, gods how it stung, and he growled, deep and low, before starting another rushing attack that was never completed. Because immeasurably strong hands were suddenly pulling him back, and as soon as they touched him, he felt instantly calmer, instantly relaxed, as though the fight were truly over and his opponent dead and cooling on the floor.

And that alone let him know it could only be one of four people.

Surely, Padma wasn't stupid enough to touch him, not after their little discussion the other night, so that ruled her out immediately. Besides, even she didn't hold the level of supremacy and majesty flowing from the being behind him. Even she couldn't so instantly drain the rage of a Royal as though it were no harder a thing to do than swiping away an errant lock of hair. Even she didn't have fingernails that looked for all the world like precious gemstones. Even she couldn't make him feel like abasing himself at her feet after only catching the barest glimpse of the curve of her hand where it met one elegant, bone-white wrist. No, it was certainly not Padma.

"Indeed not, sweet Prince."

A voice like the sweetest sap crooned next to his ear, drizzling into his brain as a light mist would and coating all it touched with something beyond love, something beyond devotion or desire. Every muscle in his body released his built-up tension without any conscious or subconscious thought from him, and he melted into his Queen's embrace without the slightest form of protest. Safe in her arms, eternally safe, he knew instinctively that she meant him no harm and most likely never would, for he, like his father, was highly cherished by her. One divine hand uncurled from his bicep, winding itself into his long hair, while the other loosened and gave a loving caress.

"And what has the ethical one done to so displease you?" Virginia purred as he turned to nuzzle her neck, to breathe in her celestial scent. His answer was clear, if slightly muffled, and he felt her thrumming anger rise as he spoke.

"I have learned, dearest Aunt, from her own lips no less, that she once called my father heartless, that she belittled his sacrifices and scorned his love for the Kings, saying that he loved none but himself."

The silence burned before the Queen broke it.

"Really." It was not a question, so he didn't bother with a useless affirmation. He simply lifted his head and looked at his step-aunt, who was trembling by then and cowering into the wall, her fear not helped when the Queen's malicious eyes rose to lock onto her as if she were no more than some disgusting new species of insect. "Is this true, Dawn Beauty?"

"Y-yes, your majesty, but I—"

"Silence." Those eyes turned back to him, softening as they traced over his features, before growing as hard and cold as marble as they once more went back to Lycelle. Cyan, his ire returning, let his hissing voice fill the deceptive quiet.

"A debt is owed to my line for such words," he said silkily, the stink of primal fright intensifying as his step-aunt fully digested what he was saying, what he was implying. "One my father has not claimed, probably out of respect and regard for his lady wife. But I have no such restrictions or obligations holding me back, and as a direct descendant of his, I am calling in what he could not."

"And what price," his Sovereign asked with a touch of mocking laughter, "would you have the bitch pay?"

A million plans ran behind his eyes, thought over and discarded before one pushed itself to the forefront, and a tinge of mad delight trickled into his own tone. "A duel," he replied malevolently, and the Queen cocked an eyebrow most eloquently.

"A duel?" she queried with a bit of interest, her quiet amusement thickening. "A duel with whom?"

"Me," he said after a moment of stillness, and his Queen no longer laughed.

Blyss tread noiselessly into a large, familiar room, one she'd known in her earliest true memories, as though she were an invader. Which she was, in a way, as she had not been invited, though typically she had a permanent invitation. But these were strange times, and nothing was as certain as it had once been. So she kept her silence, or at least, she did until she saw a very rare sight indeed, one that sent chills down her spine and fear needling into her heart. For Tristan sat alone in the center of the lavish room, silver hair tightly braided into a thousand satiny plaits, the cushion he lounged upon as green as his loves' eyes, his own as empty as sin.

But that wasn't what scared her. She was used to that. No, it was that he was alone, utterly alone.

Where was Damian?

Disquiet settled heavily within her, for neither was ever far apart, certainly not out of sensing range. But she couldn't feel her other brother anywhere close by, and it unsettled her greatly. Because if they'd been nigh inseparable before, they were triply so these days. Surely, her mind hissed its most dreaded suspicion, surely, they have not begun to split as Arion and Atreus have. Such is not possible…is it? But if it wasn't, then where was his twin? Where was her dark brother with his sable hair of deepest night, with his unfathomable, dangerous eyes? Where was the contrast to all of Tristan's glistening radiance? And why, why, had he left Tristan's side now?

"Come closer, sister," Tristan's voice startled her something horrible, though it shouldn't have. Her nerves had certainly been frayed over the past two weeks since 'Luthen' had returned. "It's not as if I haven't felt your sneaking since you entered the wing."

"I meant no offense, brother," she said neutrally but truthfully, gliding over to him and kneeling before the cushion, which seemed to enfold him like a lover. "I wished to see how you and Damian fare."

"As well as ever, I suppose," he answered, not taking her bait and therefore not mentioning his twin as she had. "Much has changed."

"Yes," she agreed, trying to decide how best to press her case, before she suddenly decided, as though with a whim, on blunt honesty. "Brother…I fear for you."

Tristan's mercury gaze showed no curiosity, but at least he looked at her.

"I fear…I fear that you, too, will be corrupted."

He sneered. "And why do you say 'too', dear sister?"

She was walking treacherous, lethal ground. She did not wish to fight him. Only to make him listen, if he was even capable of it considering the topic she had chosen. "Because that…that creature…that—"

He hissed, and she schooled her tongue to greater diplomacy. Perhaps she'd do better not to be too blunt. "Watch your words, Flame Heir."

Titles. He was using titles with her. Bloody hell. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea.

But she trudged forward anyway. "That—that is not Luthen!" Her voice rose uncontrollably as she stood, passion and conviction evident in every syllable, in every wild gesture that was so unlike her. "And if it is, if some part of my beloved sworn-cousin remains, then he is buried so far under defiled filth that I cannot even express my sorrow of it! All he does, Prince of Ice, is try and wheedle his way back into your hearts, acting as if it is truly him, unchanged and unchangeable! But you, dear Waveslicer, you have not seen him like those of us who watch have; you have not seen his eyes at times, as I, and even his own father, have! You haven't seen—"

"I have seen plenty, Blazedancer!" Such fury, such insurmountable, unstoppable fury, before she watched, amazed, as it all washed away and his eyes grew blank and…tired.

"T-Tristan?" she called to him softly after a moment of his motionless reverie, and he blinked once, twice, before resettling his eerily empty gaze on her once more.

"What?"

"I…you…"

"I know, sweet sister, I know." Lucidity reigned in his tone, lucidity and a disturbing sense of twisted tranquility, and she mentally gaped. Anger she'd been prepared for, even anger such as his could be. But this quiet calmness, this resigned lack of any emotion at all, she had not readied herself for, because she had not known that it existed in this feral, wild being before her.

And perhaps, two weeks ago, it hadn't.

"You thought us mad for years now, you all did," he continued as if this were just another conversation about broomsticks or cauldron quality. "You thought us raving lunatics, and maybe we were, maybe we are."

She took hope in his casual, ingrained use of the word 'we'.

"But we are not so mad as to not see what we cannot, however bottomless our love, deny. We are not so mad as to think that all is now well, or that our world has righted itself, returning to normal. We are not so mad as to have forgotten…" he trailed off, shivering the slightest bit, and she knew better than any that it was no cold draft that made one immune to such do so.

"Forgotten what, precious one?" she asked somewhat timidly, wondering if he would finally take her back into his full confidence and reveal whatever brutal memories haunted him so viciously. And for a moment, that wish soared, for his eyes were foggy and glassed over with things she didn't understand, and she knew that he was not altogether there with her, but somewhere else entirely.

It made him more careless with his words then he'd ever been before.

"The way his blood looked so beautiful, even as I knew he was dying," Tristan intoned like one who was reciting lines from a book, his tone dead and void of feeling. But his eyes…those were growing grayer, as if stormy clouds blew through them, obscuring more than just his vision, darkening more than just his moonlit irises. "The feeling of it rushing down my throat, across my skin, the sight of it gathering on the ground in a pool of fallen lilac glory. Lithia's screams, for she wailed and wailed as if the universe were falling down around her, crushing all she knew in one fatal swipe. Cyan's tears, the first I'd ever seen him shed, bloody, grieving diamonds…"

He sucked in a breath, his nails digging into his palms with force enough to snap a sickle in half.

"Damian's blades stained purple, liquid lavender running down them in never-ending torrents, before his rage cooled and realization set in. His face as he acknowledged that all was lost, that though we had done what we must in order to keep our family safe, our people safe, that though we had done our duty to the gods and to Luthen's own soul, we would never see his smile again, never hear him laugh or feel him writhing wantonly underneath us again. All guilty, we were all guilty, and because of us, he met his death on our blades and fangs and claws, dying in our arms as we wept for what could not be changed, even by us."

There was a lengthy pause as her eyes filled with horror, horror she could not hide from him, and he saw it, saw it and laughed, a cold, wrenching sound that broke her heart all over again as he continued.

"So yes, I am fully aware that what resides in this Palace cannot be Luthen, at least not the Luthen we knew. For you see, sweet Blyss, we murdered him."

Blaise, King of Air, Lightning and all the world, did not pause as servants scurried out of his way, their respect and awe creating a nearly tangible aura in the large hallway through which he stalked, his movements lazy but purposeful. Robes the color of old, rich wine hugged his chest and waist, before billowing at the sleeves and flowing around his graphorn-hide boots. Several rings would have flashed on his slender, yet immeasurably strong, fingers, rings of power, prestige and station that themselves alone would have made him feared and treated with infinite caution, had those sleeves not draped over his black-nailed hands.

But there was more to him than such trinkets, however pretty and deadly they happened to be.

And none doubted that, not a single one, for he had proven it numerous times. So many times, in fact, that even had he not radiated such a sense of omnipotent perfection, he would never need to do so again. He and his bonded were so revered by their people that a custom had begun decades ago, one they favored but had not started. No, the people themselves had petitioned them for it, petitioned them for the honor of bringing any newborns before them for that wanted, but not entirely needed, first glimpse of them. The glimpse that tied any with magic in their veins to them irrevocably, the glimpse that cemented alliances and birthed true loyalty.

Only those with an enemy god's patronage might resist it, might resist them, but there were few, if any, of those left. No, theirs and their god's dominion was unquestioned and unchallenged, known by all as something that was simply right. And those infants — so many that they'd begun to be brought en masse once a week — those infants with their wide, innocent eyes and flushed skin, with their delicate frames and their budding curiosity, even they knew, even they felt it, especially the pure ones. Indeed, those had been known to burst into joyful tears much as many adults still did, crying and fighting so ardently when they were taken away that they had to be subdued.

"Uncle." A familiar, refined voice had him slowing to a halt and acknowledging the well-known figure kneeling a few feet ahead of him on the chilly marble.

"Rise, Madison." He said after a moment, and he saw the young one's skin quiver as his voice trailed over it like a damning caress.

Blond hair held in a queue and black eyes flashing, he did so before embracing Blaise lightly and laying silky lips on his King's even silkier cheek. Blaise ran smooth fingers down his long braid and across his back, enjoying the tremors such an action caused in the normally un-faze-able wizard. Madison's lips parted, warm breath rushing out and whispering along Blaise's flesh, and sometimes such things made him wonder if he and his bonded had spoken too rashly when they'd said they wouldn't take another to their bed. Madison was tempting, too tempting at times, his cold cruelty and wickedly sharp tongue enough to make anyone pause and consider, even a demigod.

As if he could sense the change in his King's mood, Madison let his head fall onto Blaise's shoulder, his face rubbing against the High Royal's neck in a gesture of sincere affection that very few were allowed to perform. Nearly purring with ecstatic glee when he was not gently pushed away after a minute or so, he pressed his lean, muscled body flush against Blaise's own. That was a movement many would hurt or die for, one allowed to even fewer people, but Madison knew that he was favored, knew that he was allowed certain liberties, and knew, in that moment, that the action was not unwelcome in the slightest.

It was only when his desire became all too apparent that Blaise slid away.

"Forgive me." Madison breathed throatily, eyes glazed with lust and love, with darker things besides, falling to his knees again in an appeal for mercy that he would only grant his Sovereigns or their heirs.

He was shaking ever so slightly, his control cracking with the force of emotions his King had unleashed within him with nothing more than acceptance of so slight a touch, and there was the smallest spark of true fear in those onyx eyes, fear of what those hallowed hands and luscious lips could do should they ever truly claim him. And Blaise, because he did commend the one before him, this unlikely child of Sebastian and his own cousin, Mira, this beatific creature whose blood ties to him were just slight enough to make him contemplate what hid underneath those navy robes, held out a single, graceful hand.

As soon as Madison's skin met his again, he made his decision. It was unfair to leave one so deserving so very unsatisfied, and as he could not just whisk him away to some empty room and ravish him, he could think of only one other thing that might appropriately show his high regard for one who had been somewhat of a miracle. Madison came from a marriage that none had dreamed of after Mira's split from Vincent, after Gregory's betrayal of them both, but Sebastian had picked up the pieces of her life and fit them back together as even he and his bonded had not been able to do. And Madison was the fruit of their bonding, blending their perfections into one.

That alone would have made his decision, for Sebastian had always been among the loyalist of the loyal, Anton's right hand just as Anton was Blaise and Draco's. He had fought for them, nearly died for them several times, and he, too, had siphoned off their ever-growing madness, taking much of it into himself. And Mira had always been dear to Blaise, as had her mother, and any child of hers would be welcomed by him unless they proved they were not worth that welcome, which he severely doubted would ever be the case should she choose to bear more children. So yes, he more than likely would have offered such a gift anyway.

But it didn't hurt that he loved the black-eyed hellion.

"Drink." He half-invited, half-commanded, and smirked as Madison's shadowed eyes widened the barest bit, understanding all to well what Blaise meant, understanding all too well what was offered.

The King's hand tightened around his, nails digging in just this side of breaking skin, and that glazed look came back full-force. Madison began to kneel once more, his delectable mouth going for Blaise's wrist, but that was refused him and confusion sped briefly across those sculpted features. Keeping his hold on the younger wizard's hand, Blaise lifted his other and swept back his long raven hair, revealing a throat paler than the moon could dream of being. The faintest bluish-purple traces could be seen, veins holding blood that many would die to so much as taste, and Madison gazed at him questioningly, for the honor seemed too great.

To drink from the King's wrist was one thing, exalted and cherished, but to drink straight from his throat…many would not only die for it, they would willingly let themselves be damned for an eternity. And as he saw that Blaise was serious, that this was not a jest or a test, that it was not some teasing amusement, awe filled eyes that were usually as blank as a starless night sky. Slowly, so slowly, as if he feared that sudden movement would wake him as though this were but a dream, Madison leaned forward, his body molding against his King's once more, his hands going to regal hips and clutching them softly, as if they were no more than robed glass.

Blaise resisted the urge to snicker, not wanting to startle one whose fantasies were so near completion. Well, some of his fantasies, anyway. But this uncharacteristic genteelness was quite ridiculous to part of him, while the other part chided him for such a thought. This was to Madison as drinking from Cocidius or Lucifer or Hades was to him, and he well knew the apprehension and veneration the young one felt. So he waited as patiently as he could, before that patience wore thin and a mere thought split that main vein as neatly as a razor-sharp blade. And as soon as his blood spilled from it like a violaceous intoxicant, Madison lost his mind.

Quite literally.

Lips were suddenly attached to that bleeding wound, a skilled tongue caressing his skin, cat-like in its dexterity yet much softer and feeling of silk, while those oh-so-careful fingers dug in with enough pressure that they would have shattered the bones of anyone but a Royal, and bruised even them. But Blaise was not simply a Royal, he was King, and they would leave no mark upon his skin unless he willed it. And at that moment, he did. Few realized that he and his bonded got almost as much pleasure from giving blood as those who received it did, and every nerve in his body came to alert attention. His own hands rose to let loose that golden braid, delighting in the spill of hair that was his reward.

His fingers tangled in those streaming locks, pulling Madison closer and daring him to set teeth into majestic skin, and the other did so, instinctively knowing what his King wanted with that blood currently rushing into him and overriding all of his senses like a celestial tsunami. Blaise suddenly found his back against one wall and hips grinding into his own, and it was still chaste enough that he formed no protest, but let Madison have his moment even as he was having his own. Colors began swirling before his eyes, the colors of a thousand different stars, and when he let them flutter shut, those colors exploded into such vivid brilliance that a lesser being would have wept to see them.

And then came the moment, the crucial moment.

'Pull back, treasured one,' Blaise called through their new link, but Madison's mouth didn't cease in its ministrations.

'Must I?' he very nearly pleaded, even as ever more blood slid into him, changing, changing…

'You risk vampirism if you do not,' Blaise replied somewhat foggily, knowing that none of the Royal children had yet chosen such a form of immortality, not even his own. But Madison did not pull back, and his choice, then, was as clear to his King as if he'd screamed it aloud for all to hear. 'Are you sure; are you positive? You cannot later change your mind.'

'I will not wish to,' Madison answered with what little sentience he had left. 'Long have I known my chosen path, even as most of the others do. But they hesitate where I will not.'

He did not have to say that the Crown Princes would have already done so if the Luthen incident had not happened when it had. All knew that, or at least guessed at it. But Madison had decided, and Blaise would honor that decision. Suddenly pushing power in behind his blood, more and more and more until Madison was silently screaming in his mind, he allowed instinct to rule them both. Neither noticed the humble, quiet, envious gazes of the frozen servants, neither noticed the still form of Mira at the hallway's end, and neither noticed four of the Ezutîël creep closer, having been drawn from hiding by the maddening scent of their King's spilled blood.

He felt the moment it became too much, the moment when even Madison's Royal form couldn't hold any more of Blaise's energy then it was already, and he pulled on his control as Madison's lips finally left his throat. His vision cleared instantly at his slightest command, and he watched as Madison stumbled, more ungraceful then he'd ever been, into the opposite wall. Those obsidian eyes were wide and utterly wild, the whites as purple as the blood staining his lips, as one convulsion after another racked his lean frame. Low laughter spilled from Blaise, low, delighted laughter, for he had not beheld a Royal being so changed since Charlie had accepted the Blood.

The wound on his throat long-healed, he didn't turn away for an instant, seeing all as Madison's hair took on an even more luxurious sheen, as his irises somehow became ever darker, as small, dainty, deadly fangs made themselves visible when Madison's stained lips parted in a scream. Half-ecstasy, half-soul wrenching pain, that glorious sound was soon followed by another and another as the Royal's body all but completely died, Blaise having made sure to twist the magic enough to keep a small fraction alive, enough to let him walk in the sun. Then Madison slowly began to fall, suddenly clawed hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick marble wall.

And his King was at his side in an instant, still mirthful and slightly high.

It had been too long, Blaise decided, too long since he had turned another, and he had forgotten the rush such an action gave (as long as you weren't too exhausted or near-death to feel it). The young Slytherin's weight was nothing to him, as light as a phoenix feather would be to most, and he sent calming energy into the shaking, twisting, writhing wizard, Madison's very bones and blood responding instinctively to his touch. Slowly, the convulsions died away, muscles stronger than they had ever been going limp, and Blaise smirked as obsidian eyes drifted open and gazed upon him with such rapturous devotion that another small part of the cracked sickness in his soul closed over and healed.

"My lord," Madison breathed reverently when he could speak, unable to control his emotions for once in his now-immortal life, "my savior, my creator, my King…"

"Hush, dear one. You will need blood again soon," Blaise said softly, meaning to silence this outpouring, as he was now more than aware of the watching eyes all around them. But Madison would not be silenced, and oaths spilled from his blood-streaked lips.

"Forever shall I serve you, forever shall I call you 'Master', forever shall I be willing and ready to give this newfound life for you and yours." Black eyes hardened, grew as strong and clear as they always were, before the fledgling was kneeling more sincerely than he had ever done so before. "You are greater than even those who are closest to you believed; I know this for I saw it, saw it as I drank from a fount purer than any save your loves'. You have my heart, King of Air, you have it because you've stolen it, and I do not even wish for it back. You have gained an acolyte this eve, and I swear, before Ares and all the gods, that I am yours to command for all of eternity."

And so a child of the Royals became a child of the Night, not to mention an infinitely trusted advocate and ally to a King that had birthed legends.

Mira's howl of triumph seemed to echo endlessly.

Sahirah, the second born daughter of Lycelle and Marcello, sighed heavily as she brushed a lock of her dark brown hair from her eyes. Arion was supposed to have met her here nearly an hour before, and the gardens grew cold as she waited. Idly fingering the petals of a snapdragon, she wondered if he was even coming, or if she would be smarter to abandon the rows and rows of flowers and trees and find warmth within her rooms. The seasons were switching tonight, and what had been autumn was quickly becoming winter in this area of the Palace. And while many of her cousins adored the cold, more at home in it than not, she wasn't one of them.

Deciding to give him another ten minutes and no longer, she gazed longingly up at the never-ending stars, wishing that she could reach out and touch them, that she could escape the reality she continuously found herself in. Everything was too dark for her here, too depressed and viscous, and she simply couldn't wait to go back to school and be among her own kind once more. Not that she didn't love her family; she did. But they were almost of a different species, so dangerous and deadly, and she wasn't like them. She knew how her mother must have felt when she was her age, but Sahirah did have one advantage where her mother had not.

At least she wasn't stuck in Slytherin.

"Shit, Sahirah, I didn't mean to take so long, but—Sahirah?" She heard Arion rush up, his voice breathy as if he'd run the whole way there, and she turned her chocolate-colored eyes from the heavens to smile at him.

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he said, staring at her oddly. "You just seemed a million miles away, is all."

"Oh. Well, I was just thinking." Tilting her head to the side, she studied him. His rosewood hair was coming loose from its braids in wisps, his robes were crooked and sporting small rips and tears, and his bright blue eyes were slightly unfocused. Which means, she thought, exasperated, that he was doing one of two things. Fighting or fucking. "What kept you?"

"Atreus."

Fighting, then. No wonder he didn't look very happy.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, all too aware of the problems between him and his twin.

"Don't be," Arion insisted, though the sentiment didn't reach his eyes. Sitting beside her gracefully, he tried to laugh and failed miserably. Leaning into him and wrapping one arm around his waist, she only noticed he was bleeding when her hand rested on his side in something warm and sticky.

"Arion!" Moving quickly, she slid around him before he could protest and ripped the velvet of his robes open carelessly, not giving a damn about the fabric. It wasn't as though he didn't have a thousand more sets just like them. The large hole revealed the wound, and she sucked in a breath when she saw just how deep it was, not at all like the smaller scratches. "What on earth happened? Atreus did this?"

Arion grimaced. "I shouldn't have pushed him to tell me again," was all that he said, and she knew what he spoke of, though she wished she didn't. Carefully prodding the cut, she concluded that it had been made from a knife or short sword quite quickly. Ripping the hem of her own robes deftly, she covered the wound and spelled the cloth to stay with her wand before rising and pulling him up with her.

"Come on, we've got to get you to a healer."

He didn't argue, which let her know just how out of it he was, and she cursed fate with every step as she led him back into the Palace. Servants stared at them oddly as they passed, but none dared to interfere, for which she was glad. A sense of divinity washed over them as they swept past one hallway, and she nearly stopped to beg the assistance of whichever Sovereign it happened to be, but a glance at the interlocked forms of her King and Madison was more than enough for her to seek out someone else. Heading for the Healer's Wing, she didn't like the fact that Arion was already bleeding through her makeshift bandage.

And then, a stroke of luck.

She spotted a familiar form not too far ahead, her uncle leaning against one wall, whispering in someone's ear, his hair short today and barely reaching past his sculpted chin. Murmured words barely reached their ears before feminine laughter trailed towards them over stone, and Sahirah slowed slightly, recognizing that second voice. Remembered rumors replayed in her mind, rumors that had been sweeping the Palace for days now, and she started to shake them off as she'd been doing until she saw her uncle begin to turn away, only to be stopped by a pale, slender arm and another, huskier laugh. Elegant fingers pulled him closer, the laughter died, and—

"Uncle!" The summons was out of her mouth before she could think, and as the two figures slid apart, Sahirah wondered if the urgency in her voice was all for Arion, or for what had nearly just occurred before her very eyes.

"Oh gods," Arion breathed, gaze locked on what he, too, couldn't seem to believe. Both watched avidly as Anton turned towards them, a smirk coiling across his full lips, while his eyes held the strangest glimmer they had ever seen. Blyss was revealed as he moved, her fire-bright hair corkscrewing around her to her slim waist and her mismatched irises alive with something so feral that neither Sahirah nor Arion could seem to look away.

"What is it?" Anton asked lightly, apparently completely unaffected by their presence. But then again, what did he have to fear? Bound he may be, and to her aunt no less, but he was the jewel of the kingdom. And Sahirah knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if anyone could get away with almost kissing the Sovereigns' only daughter, it was their oldest, dearest friend. Knowing that, though, certainly didn't make any of this any less confusing or fucked up.

"I…he…" she started, only to be stopped by Anton sniffing the air. Glad she wouldn't need to explain as his eyes drifted to Arion, she moved away when he came closer. Arion still stared, and continued doing so even as Anton removed the wad of cloth and laid gentle fingers on the wound.

"Atreus should be more careful," Anton intoned neutrally as Blyss glided over to her cousin's side, taking Arion's hand in her own and smiling softly. "He very nearly got an organ. You are lucky he did not."

But Arion wasn't, for once, thinking of his twin. "What—what in the bloody fuck were you doing?" he demanded as Anton began carefully closing the wound, and when he saw that he was being ignored on that front, he glared over at his cousin. "Well?"

"We weren't doing anything," Blyss stated haughtily, and a fine layer of frost seemed to settle over those captivating eyes.

"The hell you weren't!" Arion hissed, while Anton's smirk grew and the bleeding stopped, the skin closing and any trace of a scar fading. "What of Pansy, Blyss? What of oaths older than either of us?"

Anton's smirk disappeared in an instant and Blyss snarled.

"You know nothing!" she snapped, and Anton rose so fluidly and quickly that none saw him move. "What of twin-bonds that should be unbreakable, dear cousin? What of a sibling's love that should have made such a wound impossible? Who are you to point fingers and accuse?"

Arion paled, his eyes growing dull and sightless, before words spilled from him in a cold river of mourning.

"No one. I am no one, sweet cousin, but at least I do not dabble where I should not. At least I do not try to break a bond that has strengthened our kingdom as much as theirs has. At least I do not play with one whom all know is much too mad and malicious for such games to be safe. At least I know my place, as you no longer seem to!"

"You do not dabble where you shouldn't?" Blyss mocked, releasing his hand and stepping back as though it had burnt her, which was ludicrous. "Then what do you call harassing Atreus over that which he is not yet ready to reveal? Have you ever considered that he might be trying to protect you, to shield you from such horror? And I try to break nothing that is not already broken, nothing that has not already shattered at our aunt's feet of her own accord! Would you keep him chained to her, to one who can no longer see past her own delusions, just to keep the kingdom strong?"

So angry, she was so angry, and Sahirah stumbled into the wall as flames began dancing in those now-malevolent eyes.

"His love means more to me than any such thing, especially when my parents have more than enough power to hold this realm and four others without even trying! And mad he may be, but his madness has birthed brilliance where it would have broken others! Always has he been loyal and fierce and true, and he deserves whatever happiness he might be able to find! And I, foolish cousin, am not the one who has forgotten my place." A distant, thunderous rumbling started under their feet, ice lined the stone in rippling waves, and a heat unlike any ever known spread from her as though ignited by her fury. "No, it is you that has forgotten, but no more."

And one by one, those in that hallway dropped to their knees, servant after servant until even Sahirah and Arion were humbled before her.

When they were able to glance up, only Anton still stood straight and proud at her side, something darkly wicked shining in eyes like bits of hazel hell.