Page 21 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

WHAT THE VAMPIRE COURT FORGOT

Kali’s Emotional State: Absent…but only in body. Her fury is absolute, contained, calculated, and blood-slick. She doesn’t set foot in the Crimson Court. But her wrath does. And what they forgot was who she had become.

T

he Crimson Court sat in reverent, paralyzed silence. No breath. No clink of silver. No whispered charm. Just the thick hum of corrupted candlelight licking stained-glass blood panels along the chamber walls.

And the box. Black satin. Resting at the center of the war table like a confession dressed for a funeral.

Lucian stood near the High Seat, rigid, unreadable, one hand clenched on the pommel of his ceremonial blade like it might steady the pounding in his chest. He hadn’t touched it. Not since it arrived on a blood-drenched cart driven by shadows. Not since he realized what it contained.

A blood-sealed scroll lay beside it. Still steaming, the wax shimmered with cursed sigils, fresh and mean.

Madame Varess, Crimson Regent and high priestess of composure—extended one porcelain hand. Her claws caught the light like knives dipped in rubies .

The air hung heavy in the chamber, thick with anticipation. Every eye on the box, every breath held, waiting for what they knew was inevitable but still feared to face.

The seal hissed.

Then screamed.

A gallon of blood erupted from the box’s false base, pressurized, enchanted, laced with a slow-burning spell that soaked the floor and the fine shoes of every court member before they could even blink.

The stench hit next…iron, venom, power.

Then the lid peeled back.

And inside

Parts.

Preserved genitalia. Wrapped in white lace.

Bleeding at the tips. Bound in enchanted wire that twitched with memory.

A heart, still twitching. Stasis magic, struggling to contain the violent runes etched into the muscle.

A pair of eyes. Floating in a silver jar.

Enchanted to track every speaker like living guilt.

And beneath it all, a vellum scroll, cursed and curled, inked in blood.

Name written in Kali’s unmistakable calligraphy. Each vampire who betrayed her leaked intel, backroom deals, and whisper schemes. Each sin, cataloged. Each punishment, listed in perfect order: A name. A crime. A body part.

Someone gasped. Another, the youngest warborn in the room, vomited onto the marble.

Lucian didn’t flinch. He had touched that scroll. Had smelled the rage it carried. Had spent three nights scrubbing its presence from his soul. Fear wasn't new to Lucian. But this? This was prophecy written in sinew, and he could already hear the screaming it would leave behind.

Varess’s lips tightened as she unfurled the smaller message taped to the inside lid:

“The only diplomacy I recognize is blood and bone. The only apology I accept is silence. This was mercy. Next time, I won’t wrap the gift. —K. Branche de Lune”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence. It was fear in full bloom.

Then…

A single clap. Slow, mocking, and echoing like bones on cathedral stone.

Count Varos Ravielle stepped out from the shadows. The Bone Collector. Exiled for war crimes even this court couldn’t stomach. Now invited back for his cruelty.

He wore blood-red silk like a sacrament. A scar split one blind eye. His grin belonged to someone who had fed sorrow to wolves and called it art.

“Well, well,” Varos purred. “The girl finally learned precision.”

Lucian’s jaw ticked. “She learned vengeance.”

“No,” Varos said, stepping closer to the box. “She learned how to make it sing. ”

He reached toward the box, then paused. Just for a beat. Fingers hovering over the edge. Smirk intact, but his nostrils flared.

Varos was a predator, not a performer. His movements were calculated, deliberate, nothing showy. Everything in his presence suggested that the next move would be lethal.

He reached toward the organ but paused just before contact. Then, with a calmness that betrayed nothing, he let one clawed fingertip graze it, smiling when it twitched.

“Still laced with fear,” he mused. “Delightful.”

“Enough,” Varess snapped, her voice sharp and controlled.

But Varos only smiled wider.

“She’s not warning us. She’s baiting us. Daring us to blink. She already knows who’s next.”

He withdrew a coin from his sleeve. Tossed it to the table. It landed with a metallic thud and glowed black. The coin wasn’t just cursed. It was a declaration, a pact-seal used only in rituals older than law. Even Varess flinched.

Varess’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“I lit a candle in the Spiral Mouth,” Varos said, voice thick with ritual.

Lucian went pale. “You summoned the Mouth?”

Varos nodded. Slow. Inevitable. His grin didn’t falter. But his pulse betrayed him, a single vein at his neck jumping like prey too proud to run .

“If we want to crack the throne, we don’t attack Kali,” he said, gesturing to the blood-soaked floor. “We infect what keeps her sane.”

CUT TO KALI

The moment the spell was cast, Shadows rippled up her arms like ice flooding the veins in reverse.

Vaerkyn, her hellhound, let out a low, rumbling growl that echoed through the marble of the war tower. It wasn’t just a growl. It was a funeral bell sounding across realms Kali hadn't even named yet.

Astraeus roared in her skull, wings flaring wide. “He’s moved. The Mouth is open. Something is stirring in your name, and it is not yours to command.”

Kali didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t waver. But the shadows curled tighter. Her dogs stilled. Vaerkyn took a half-step closer to her, like even he felt something hungry in the room.

She turned to Irina, calm and cruel. “Assemble the enforcers.”

“Are we going to war?” Irina asked.

Kali’s smile curled. Something ancient. Something beautiful. Something is bleeding at the edges.

“No,” she whispered. “We’re sending a response.”