III

  Dust fell onto the table as the floor shuddered, the chandelier above them jittered. For a heartbeat, it felt like a small earthquake. Then the doors burst inward and the truth walked through. A titan of a man entered the hall, each step striking stone with a finality that silenced breath itself. The conversation died mid-word.

  Broad shoulders wrapped in scarred muscle, skin dark as scorched iron, veins standing like cords beneath it. One eye scanned — sharp, predatory, catching torchlight like a living star. The other was sealed shut, stitched and ruined by a war that had not left him.

  —Oh my goodness, Lucy!— King Jaspyr chirped, twirling a lock of his hair around one finger. —You never said we were starting with dessert. You know how much I adore chocolate.—

  He leaned forward, grinning wide. —Had I known such a fine specimen would be joining us, I would've powdered my face. Tell me, kitty... do you purr, or do you bite?—

  The giant did not answer. He moved. Guards snapped to readiness, steel whispering half-free, until Lucianel lifted his hand. Two fingers. Barely a gesture. The blades froze.

  —Makhalu,— Lucianel said, his voice smooth as poured wine. —A pleasure to finally meet you. Unfortunate that it must be beneath the shadow of the summit.—

  Makhalu's gaze lingered on him, heavy, measuring. Then he nodded once. No bow. No courtesy. He lowered himself into the throne prepared for him, the wood groaning beneath his weight like something alive and afraid.

  —Tell me,— Lucianel continued, setting his silver goblet down. He wiped a thin smear of blood from the corner of his mouth, never breaking eye contact. —Leading a nation is harder than it looks, is it not?—

  Makhalu answered with a yawn. It was slow. Deliberate. His jaws parted wide, revealing teeth of polished silver, shaped like a lion's fangs. He folded his arms across his chest, muscles knotting, hands gripping his own biceps as though restraining something beneath the skin. His head dipped forward, eyes closing, as if sinking into prayer... or deciding whether the room deserved mercy.

  Jaspyr's painted smile faltered. He snapped open a fan and waved it dramatically. —Lucy, my love, I am dying of thirst. Simply withering away, fetch me another drink, something worthy of a king before I fade into legend.—

  A maid rushed forward, trembling, offering a silver goblet.

  —Whether you choose silence or speech is irrelevant, Lion King,— Lucianel said calmly. —For what I say next requires only ears. The tension between Karnaka and Vermellia sharpens by the hour. War looms. And war will bleed your people long before it troubles mine. This summit exists to prevent that...—

  —Bleghhh!— Jaspyr spat, spraying dark liquid across the table.

  —What is this crap? You winged vermin! I asked for wine, not whatever corpse-water you steep in these crypts! Take it away!—

  He hurled the goblet. It struck the floor with a metallic crack. The maid fled without looking back. Lucianel did not turn his head.

  —...As you can see,— he said mildly, his gaze sliding toward Jaspyr,

  —we will host many... clashing temperaments tonight. Which is why restraint will serve you well.— His eyes returned to Makhalu.

  —Especially when Don Vito arrives.—

  Silence stretched thick as tar.

  —You are not my leader,— Makhalu finally spoke. His voice was deep, rough, carrying the weight of earth, heat and old blood.

  —Why should I listen to you?—

  Lucianel inclined his head, almost respectfully.

  —You are correct. I am not.— His voice lowered, softened, became dangerous. —So do as you wish. But understand this: if even a single hair falls from that man's head, Karnaka will burn before you smell the smoke of your own lands. Choose carefully.—

  Makhalu exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy. His lip curled—not in fear, but in disgust.

  The room held its breath, however not for long as the doors opened once more. Light spilled in first, pale and indulgent, followed by Don Vitto, gliding across the stone as if the hall itself had been prepared for his arrival. Expensive robes flowed around him, heavy with gold and scripture, jewels stitched where humility should have been. A smile rested easily on his face, warm and practiced, turned immediately toward Lucianel.

  Makhalu rose halfway from his throne the instant he saw him. Not a word. Not a sound. Just the slow, lethal movement of a predator recognising the scent of its prey. His single open eye burned, fixed on Vitto with a violence that made the air tighten. The veins along his neck swelled, cords of iron beneath dark skin.

  Lucianel felt it at once—the pressure, the gathering weight of too many wills forced into one room. With a small, almost gentle gesture of his hand, he dismissed the guards. They obeyed immediately, staggering as they left, hands brushing the walls, breath unsteady, faces pale as if something unseen pressed against their chests and would not let go.

  —Vitto.— Makhalu's voice rolled across the hall, low and thunderous. —Have you no shame?—

  Lucianel extended a palm, calm, commanding. —Sit.—

  Makhalu did not.

  Across the table, King Jaspyr stirred, blinking awake from whatever drunken reverie had claimed him. He squinted at the newcomer, then groaned theatrically. —Ohhh no. No, no, no.— He sank back into his throne. —Why is he here?—

  Don Vitto stepped forward, unhurried. When he stopped before Makhalu, the difference between them was almost absurd—Vitto small, immaculate, craning his neck to look up, his fish-shaped mitre wobbling slightly as he smiled.

  —Makhalu, Makhalu.— His voice was slow, soothing, almost fond.

  —May I at least sit before you bare your teeth? Violence has never fed anyone for long. It is the devil speaking through you now.— He spread his hands mildly. —Sit. Eat. Let us pretend, for a moment, that we are civilised men.—

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  —I will die before I share a meal with a parasite like you.— Makhalu snarled. —You drip in gold stolen from my land. A holy man dressed like a king. Should you not live humbly, Pope? Or is theft now scripture?—

  Vitto's smile did not falter. —Stolen?— he echoed softly. —No, my son. Nothing I wear was taken. It was given. Divine right is not theft. No it is recognition.— He tapped Makhalu's side with two fingers, as one might calm a restless animal. —Those who follow the laws of great Lahaull are rewarded. You should consider obedience. It is... profitable.—

  Makhalu's restraint shattered. —I follow no false god, no false prophet.— His voice shook the table. —My heart belongs to Athera. To her soil. To her creation. Men like you poison her, you deserve the grave for that alone.—

  Vitto said nothing. He only smiled, turned, and began walking toward his throne. He did not reach it.

  Makhalu turned, towards him but he did not touch the pope, he didn't need to. In one slow motion of his arm, palm opening as if releasing something heavy, and the world tilted. Don Vitto's feet left the floor as though the ground had rejected him. Gravity answered Makhalu alone. His body tore sideways through the air and smashed into the table, candles bursting, goblets flying, linen ripping as he vanished over the far side in a storm of metal and wine.

  The room blinked. Black smoke tore through the space between heartbeats, as Lucianel emerged from it before Makhalu. His composure was fully gone. Fangs on show, his eyes burning with something ancient, something truly evil.

  —All I asked was calm.— His voice was low, controlled, lethal. —Was that truly beyond you? Or do all jungle beasts destroy their surroundings when told to sit?—

  Makhalu froze, not from fear, rather to calm himself.

  —Tell me,— Lucianel continued softly, —should I muzzle you? Or summon my guards and have you dragged from my hall like an animal? Or will you remember what I warned you of?— Makhalu held his silence, teeth kissing in irritation.

  The smoke swallowed him again and within a blink Lucianel reappeared upon his throne once more, untouched.

  Don Vitto rose slowly from the wreckage, brushing dust from his robes, adjusting his mitre as if nothing of note had occurred. He looked to Lucianel and smiled serenely.

  —Do not trouble yourself.— His voice was calm, almost kind. —He is new to these matters. He will learn.—

  A slow clap echoed through the hall. —HEH-HEH!— Jaspyr sprawled across his throne, clapping lazily, delighted. —Oh, marvellous! Truly marvellous! A beast, a bat, and a saint throwing tantrums, what a blessed evening!—

  He lurched to his feet, hiccupped loudly, and leaned across the ruined table, grinning at Makhalu. —You're a naughty kitten, aren't you?—

  —That is enough.— Lucianel's voice did not rise. It did not need to. It fell into the hall like a closing lid, and the noise died beneath it. Breath stilled. Shoulders locked. Even the candles seemed to hesitate, their flames shrinking as if they, too, had been addressed.

  —Each of you governs an Ironhold,— he continued, tone smooth, almost kind. —Each of you commands armies, economies, bloodlines. Yet you enter my house snarling and flinging words like spoiled children loosed from a pen. Insults. Posturing. Violence. It ends here. It ends now.—

  No one answered. Pride sealed their mouths, but the shift was unmistakable. The air eased, heavy pressure settling into something watchful instead of wild.

  —Good,— Lucianel said softly. —Then allow me to do this properly. Vitto, it has been... far too long since I last endured your company. And Master Aeon-Suul, I trust the road did not trouble you overly.—

  —ARGH!— Jaspyr jolted upright with a startled squawk, nearly toppling from his throne as his hand clutched his chest. He turned sharply and froze.

  Beside him sat a small, shrivelled man, robed in dull linen, hands folded, eyes half-lidded as if caught between sleep and prayer. He had not been there a moment ago. Or perhaps he had. No one could say.

  Jaspyr leaned closer, squinting. —Is... is the 'master' even alive?—

  —Ah, yes,— Vitto replied mildly. —Very much so. We found him on the road and offered him a ride. Poor soul was walking barefoot. No horse. No guards. No banner. Just steps and patience. Would you believe that?— Vitto did not smile, his word were true.

  —Hasn't spoken a word since,— he went on. —Not to me, anyway. Lucianel, does he even understand us?—

  —He does,— Lucianel answered. —And when he speaks, it is never wasted.—

  Jaspyr stared openly now, fascinated, eyes tracing the monk's sagging skin, its folds etched deep as a map drawn by centuries of war and weather.

  —Jaspyr,— Lucianel warned quietly. —Remember the last time curiosity overcame you. Eyes to yourself. Hands as well. Leave the monk undisturbed.—

  Vitto leaned in then, fingers brushing Lucianel's sleeve with familiar insolence.

  —Last time I saw you, I still had hair and a waist fit for prayer,— he murmured, patting his belly. —Now look at me. And you? You look fresher than ever. They say the gods show no favour, but I've never trusted sayings.—

  —It's all the babies he eats!— Jaspyr barked with a wheezing laugh.

  —Or the virgins he bleeds for that sheep idol! Which is it, Lucy? Share with the class!—

  Lucianel's eyes narrowed, thin and venomous, but he let the jest rot unanswered. —It is neither a secret nor a blessing,— he said at last.

  —The blood I carry preserves, yes. But eternity is not freedom. After a time, achievement dulls. Curiosity turns inward. Then darker. One begins to experiment.—

  —Ohhh, the poor babies,— Jaspyr crooned, undeterred.

  Vitto rubbed his chin thoughtfully. —And what if curiosity could be... shared?— he asked. —A single drop of vampiric blood would advance our work by decades. It needn't be yours. Name your price.—

  Lucianel exhaled slowly and pressed two fingers to his brow.

  —The table is not even set, Vitto,— he said. —And already you bargain. Have the courtesy to wait until the food arrives.—