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I stood there for only a moment before he emerged.

Finnian Llewellyn stepped out, the guard who had entered before him trailing close behind. He halted briefly upon seeing me—bloodied, disheveled—but the hesitation was fleeting. Composure slipped back into place like a mask as he lowered himself into a bow.

"I greet Your Highness," he said, his voice as calm and delicate as ever. "Had I known of your arrival, I would have prepared a proper welcome. I hope you will forgive my lapse."

I placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping tighter than necessary.

"It’s fine," I murmured, my voice laced with something unreadable. "You must have been busy. I completely understand."

He lifted his head, meeting my gaze. Even in the dim light, I saw it—his ability to assess the situation, to gauge just how deep in blood I was. And yet, he remained composed.

I lifted my hand, leaving behind a stark red print on the pristine white of his suit.

"Now, won’t you invite me in?" My voice dropped lower, quieter—dangerous.

"Of course, Your Highness," he said smoothly. "It would be an absolute honor."

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. I moved past him, slow and deliberate, my boots pressing against the polished floor, leaving a trail of red in my wake. Each footprint gleamed in the flickering chandelier light, stark against the gleaming marble.

I entered the lavish living room, the scent of burning wood and aged leather hanging in the air. Settling onto the velvet sofa, I leaned back as Finnian took his place before me.

"You must be interested to know," I mused, letting the words hang between us like a blade, sharpening the edges of his unease. Was I speaking of my arrival? My condition? Both were one and the same.

"I would be honored to know," he replied, voice as vague as the question.

A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Actually, I went to visit your good friend before coming here."

His expression remained composed, but I caught it—the briefest flicker of confirmation.

"Gunnar Blackwood," I added after a calculated pause, watching his reaction like a predator studying its prey.

Finnian inclined his head slightly. "He must have made a serious mistake."

"Oh?" I leaned in, stretching out the words, savoring each syllable. "Was it only him, though?"

Silence.

"Your House is responsible for transport within the estate, is it not?" I continued, rising to my feet. My voice was quiet, but it carved through the air like a blade. "So tell me, how was it that something like this happened right under your nose?"

Finnian’s breathing shallowed, but he remained still.

"How did those wagons carrying forty thousand genuine armors mysteriously split apart in transit, only to end up in various warehouses scattered through the outer circle?"

I began circling the room, my steps slow, methodical.

"A warehouse in Nyxholm Valley, supposedly for construction materials. A mystic apothecary in Dravenhold Town. A blood bank on Blackthorn Road. Shall I go on?"

I came to a stop beside him, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Because these are not what they claim to be, are they?"

His jaw tightened.

"These are just fronts," I continued, my breath brushing against his ear. "In reality, they are secret storage sites for House Llewellyn—warehouses where smuggled goods, armor, and currency are hidden and exchanged."

Finnian’s lips barely parted before he spoke. "These are mere allegations, Your Highness."

"Really?"

I seized his chin, fingers digging in, feeling the bones creak beneath my grip. His eyes widened as they met mine—silver, gleaming through the blood caked on my face. He saw it then. The hunger. The amusement. The certainty that he had no way out.

Still, he struggled.

"I am sure someone is attempting to smear House Llewellyn’s name," he said, voice carefully measured, but I could hear it—panic, creeping at the edges. "Please, let us take this matter before the Council of Elders."

I laughed softly, releasing his chin with a sharp flick of my wrist. He staggered back slightly, adjusting his jaw.

"The Council?" I echoed, feigning intrigue. "Of course. Where all those who profit from you will come running to your defense."

I tilted my head. "And what of the forty thousand armors still being stored and moved through those warehouses as we speak? Should I wait, as well?"

A slow, cruel grin spread across my face.

"Really? But what if…" I took a single step closer. "What if you’ve already been sold?"

His legs gave out. He fell to his knees with a dull thud.

"I would never dare," he whispered, desperation leaking into his voice. "House Llewellyn would never dare!"

"It must have been Gunnar," he continued hurriedly. "Just like how he used the Everdying Forest to exchange the armor, he must be using these warehouses under our name to store the stock as well—"

I grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head up. His breath hitched.

"Who," I murmured, each word dripping with malice, "said anything about the Everdying Forest?"

Realization struck his face like a blade. The Prey was caught in the trap.

I wrenched his head back and forth with enough force to snap the neck of any lesser vampire.

"Speak!" I snarled. "Who. Said. Anything. About. The. Everydying. Forest?"

He moved. His hand shot forward, aiming straight for my heart—fast, precise.

But the moment he struck, the essence embedded in my suit flared, absorbing the blow.

"So." I exhaled, stepping back, brushing invisible dust off my blood-soaked sleeves. "Are we done with the pretense?"

Finnian moved, fast and deadly. His strikes were blurs—one at my ribs, another at my throat. I blinked behind him, aiming for his neck. He twisted, blocking my hand. His next strike met my shield just as I slipped from his grasp.

A flick of my wrist sent a sharp arc of pure essence cutting through the air. Finnian was gone before it struck, the sofa behind him split in two.

He appeared at my back. I barely caught his fist before it connected with my skull—it would have blown my head clean off.

He was relentless, an elegant flurry of movement, weaving his attacks like a perfectly choreographed dance.

Each strike flowed into the next, seamless and merciless.

Every time I created distance, he was already upon me.

Lucian Watched from where he stood, silent, still.

This dance went on for a while, locking us in a deadlock with no one appearing to gain the upper hand.

But then, the next time I distanced myself, instead of launching an attack, I spread my arms apart. Finnian, who had been about to rush toward me, hesitated—his movement seemed to slow unnaturally.

"I had wanted to try something like this after the Awakening. I knew this was suddenly possible," I said as a silver field expanded around the hall, covering everything beneath where Lucian stood.

This was the Essence Contraction Field. Every nocturnal possessed essence, but materialized essence was my power. This attack forcefully materialized all essence within a designated area, disrupting the natural flow of anyone inside it.

Just like placing an iron ball in a magnetic field, their essence—ordinarily something fluid and obedient—would become chaotic, unresponsive, and lost in interference. Instead of obeying its master’s will, it would simply drift, rolling aimlessly like metal drawn in every direction at once.

I blinked forward—and in the next second, I was in front of him.

A sharp gasp left his lips—just before I plunged my hand into his chest.

The sound was wet, obscene. Bone cracked, muscle tore, and blood gushed down my wrist.

Finnian’s body convulsed violently, his hands clawing at me, his fingers curling—desperate, panicked.

And then, I pulled.

With a wet, sucking tear, his heart left his body, still beating weakly in my palm.

Finnian staggered back, his eyes wild, uncomprehending. A gaping hole yawned in his chest, white blood pouring in thick currents. He tried to reach for it, tried to hold himself together— but his own essence refused to obey him.

It was no longer his to command.

The essence inside him which should have reformed the injury rushed out instead, abandoning him, converging toward the purer essence it sensed outside—outside of him.

"How does it feel," I murmured, watching him struggle, "when your essence won’t listen to you?"

Finnian stared at me, his once-gentle face twisted with pure malice.

Then my instinct flared and just before I was about to move The shadow beside me materialized in less than a heartbeat but what was in the hands of Arion was an arrow, a golden arrow.

I looked around an soon a volley of golden arrows filled my vision raining down from the balcony.