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Chapter 104

Velis moved to the desk. The sound of a drawer. Paper. 

He came to the window and placed a single sheet beside Caelum's hand on the glass. 

Not giving it to him. Placing it where he could take it or not.

Caelum picked it up.

The text was in Velis's handwriting. Careful, precise, the hand of someone who'd spent centuries writing orders that couldn't be misread. 

He'd assembled the fragments into a continuous passage, marking the gaps where pieces were still missing.

When the last pure line breaks itself against love and the blood between is made it will sleep until the moon bleeds and wake to what was always owed.

Neither throne will hold it. Neither war will end it. The child of the between will stand where both fall down—

A gap. Three lines missing.

—and the debt of blood will close.

Caelum read it twice. Three times.

"Both thrones," he said.

"Yes."

"Ysoria's. And Isabella's."

"That's the current interpretation."

"Will stand where both fall down." He set the paper back on the glass. "That's not a gentle prophecy."

"No," Velis said. "It isn't."

"It's a replacement."

"It's a possibility." He leaned one shoulder against the window frame, arms loosely crossed. "Prophecies require interpretation. They require someone to choose to fulfill them or not." His eyes were on Caelum's profile. "You're not obligated to the words of a dead king."

"But Ysoria believes it."

"Enough to have wanted the child. Enough to have stopped looking when she thought it was gone." A pause. "Enough to have looked very carefully at you in that tower before her face met the stone."

Caelum was quiet.

Outside, the courtyard was doing its ordinary business. A kitchen boy crossing with a basket. 

Two guards changing position. A horse being walked in slow circles by a stableman who looked like he'd rather be somewhere warmer.

Normal. Small. Entirely indifferent.

"She'll move soon," Caelum said.

"Within the fortnight. She'll want to do it while the blood moon fog still has the nobles uncertain. While she has room to act without witnesses who remember clearly." Velis's voice was level. "She'll frame it as something else. A ritual. A security matter. Something with enough institutional legitimacy that it can't be challenged easily."

"She'll try to take me."

"Or remove the question entirely."

Caelum turned from the window. 

"You're not going to let her," Caelum said.

"Why are you so sure?”

"Because of the prophecy. Because of what I represent strategically."

"Among other reasons."

"Say the other reasons."

Velis held his gaze. That same beat of decision he'd shown before. The moment of choosing how honest to be.

"I won’t let you know," he said, 

Caelum looked at him. “Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

The anger was there. Always there. But it was quieter tonight. Sitting differently in his chest. 

Not gone—it would never be gone, it was part of the architecture now—but redistributed around something else that had been taking up more space than he'd been willing to admit.

"The three missing lines," Caelum said. "In the prophecy."

Velis reached into his jacket. Produced a second, smaller piece of paper. Held it.

"You found them," Caelum said.

"This morning. An informant had a text I hadn't accessed." He didn't give it over immediately. "You're not going to like them."

"I haven't liked anything about this week. Give it to me."

Velis held it out. “Sleep with me for three nights a row.”

“Fine!” Caelum took it. Read the three lines filled into the gap.

The between-blood will choose a side or be chosen. To be chosen is to be ended. Choose, or be the ending.

He read them twice.

Set the paper down on the window ledge.

"Choose," he said.

"Yes."

"A side."

"That's the interpretation."

"Between what. Between the vampire court and the human kingdoms." He looked up. "Between Ysoria and Isabella."

"Between the Dominion and the Federation, broadly." Velis's voice was careful. "Or—there's a second interpretation. One that the scholars who handled this text preferred."

"Which is."

"That the choice isn't between the two existing powers." He held Caelum's gaze. "That the choice is whether to become a third one."

The room was very quiet.

Caelum picked the paper up again. Read the three lines one more time. Put it back down.

"A third power," he said.

"A stabilizing one. Something neither Ysoria nor Isabella can fully claim or control." A pause. "Something that belongs to both sides because it came from both sides."

"That's a very significant thing to suggest to someone who woke up three days ago not knowing what they were."

"I'm aware."

"You're doing it anyway."

"You asked for the second interpretation."

Caelum looked at him for a long moment. Then he moved—past him, away from the window, into the room. He needed to move. He needed the body occupied so the mind could work properly.

He paced once. Twice.

"Ysoria moves within the fortnight," he said.

"Approximately."

"And between now and then."

The Vampire Saga Romance Book “THE GODLESS PRINCE” Vol 9 has arrived! Read free samples here!

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Read book 3 here

Chapter 91

Caelum resumed scrubbing without a single word. Methodical. Thorough. 

When he finished with the shoulders and neck, he wrung out the cloth once. 

Water splashed back into the tub. He folded it neatly. 

Laid it on the stone tray with quiet, deliberate finality.

"I'm finished with your shoulders," Caelum said flatly. No inflection. Statement of fact.

Velis blinked.

His playful smile vanished like someone had physically wiped it off his face. 

He rose out of the tub in one abrupt, violent motion.

Water sheeted off his body. Slapped back into the marble with a loud splash that echoed off stone. 

Drops scattered everywhere. Hit the floor. The walls. Some hit Caelum.

The heat made them hiss faintly as they struck hot stone.

Velis stood there. Completely naked. Water streaming down his body. 

Steam rising around him like he was some kind of god emerging from primordial waters.

Except his face was too alive. Too dramatic. Too ridiculous. He put one hand over his heart like he'd been mortally wounded. 

Like Caelum had stabbed him. His voice rose. Loud. Echoing off marble and tile.

"I see how it is!" Velis declared to the empty room.

The words bounced around. Mock tragedy poured through every syllable. 

He sounded like an actor performing for a court that wasn't there. Hamlet discovering betrayal.

"You're a cruel user, Caelum!" He pointed an accusing finger. Water dripped from it dramatically. "A heartless opportunist!"

He paced two steps. Water dripping from his body. Leaving dark, wet footprints on white stone.

"You only wanted my body to cure you!" he continued. His voice went higher. More wounded. "You used my body to burn the poison away from your veins. You took what you needed and now—"

He looked below at his naked body.

"—now you treat me like a common peasant! Like I'm nothing! You've drained my dick of its precious secrets!" His hand pressed harder against his chest. "You've used me! Thoroughly! And now you throw me away like garbage!"

He stopped. Turned. Stared at Caelum with wide, wounded eyes. The picture of heartbreak.

Silence.

Steam drifted between them.

Caelum didn't react. Not to the volume. Not to the performance. Not to the naked vampire having a breakdown in front of him.

He simply picked up the wet cloth from the tray. Held it for a moment. Then dropped it back into the tub. It hit the water with a dull splash.

He wiped his damp hands on his trousers like he'd just finished taking out trash. Like he'd completed an unpleasant chore.

"Are you done?" Caelum asked. The question was simple. Direct. Flat. It cut deeper than any shouted insult. Deeper than any weapon.

Velis froze mid-performance. Mid-gesture. His eyebrows lifted slightly. Genuinely offended by the complete lack of response. Like an actor who'd expected applause and got only silence.

"Have you no heart, boy?" Velis demanded. His voice cracked slightly. Still theatrical. "No compassion? No appreciation for what I've given you? I heard you’re the most pure kind-hearted prince Ashan Federation ever had”

“You know problem with the most dangerous psychopaths are they’re funny and and lively. They like to play pretend, acting like the most harmless people you’d ever meet. Unintentional. Innocent. Safe. But they could hurt you. And they would.”

Caelum's eyes stayed on Velis's face. Calm. Flat. Clear as glass. "The water's getting cold, Velis," Caelum said simply.

Nothing else. No elaboration. No emotion.

Velis just stared at him.

Steam curled between them. The room smelled of expensive oils and hot stone and something faint beneath it all—blood that wouldn't fully wash away no matter how much they tried.

Caelum turned around. Didn't hurry. Didn't storm out dramatically. He just walked. Steady pace. Measured steps. He didn't look back. Not once.

He walked out of the steaming room. Let the heavy door swing shut behind him. The sound slammed through the space. Echoed down the corridor outside. Final. Dismissive. Like punctuation on a sentence.

Velis stood there alone. Naked. Dripping. Steam rising around him like ghosts.

For several long seconds, his face stayed frozen in that expression of mock pain. Like he might continue acting even without an audience. Like the performance was for himself now.

Then slowly—very slowly—the mask cracked. A small, dark smirk returned to his face. Genuine this time. Not performance. Real. 

It was the look of a man who'd lost a battle. But knew—absolutely knew—he was winning the war.

"Such a difficult pet," Velis whispered to the steam. To the empty room. To himself.

He stayed in the water until it turned lukewarm. Until the steam started to fade. Until the oils stopped smelling quite so strong.

His mind was already moving. Thinking. Planning.

Placing pieces on an invisible board that only he could see.

He knew Caelum had used him. Knew the boy was only tolerating his touch to heal his broken body. To survive. To get stronger. But Velis didn't mind being used. Not at all.

Because every single time Caelum took something from him—every time their bodies connected, every time Caelum gave in even slightly—it left a mark on the boy's soul. Invisible. Indelible.

Caelum was no longer a prince of Ashan. Not really. Not anymore. He was becoming something else. Something shaped by Velis's hands. Molded by his will.

And that was a victory better than any treaty. Better than any title. Better than any crown.

Free Read Chapter "Throne and Collar" Vol. 4 by Tizzz

Chapter 41

The morning of the Council session arrived grey and cold. The kind of weather that felt like a comment on proceedings.

Dante stood at the window of the silk chamber. Lachlan's valet dressed him in borrowed finery — deep charcoal wool, good cut. 

Nothing that announced wealth. Nothing that suggested its absence either. 

The clothes fit well enough. Lachlan had clearly estimated his measurements without asking. That should have been unsettling. 

Somehow it wasn't anymore.

Below, the city moved through its ordinary morning. Merchants opening stalls. Servants crossing the square with market baskets. 

Dante adjusted the weight of the standard-issue short sword hidden beneath the charcoal wool. 

It was a fine piece of steel, well-maintained by the manor's smith, but to his hands, it felt clunky and poorly balanced compared to the crescent blade Lachlan had confiscated on their first night. 

For three weeks, he had performed his duties as Head of Security using this temporary gear, a professional compromise that forced him to mentally recalibrate his strike patterns to account for the unfamiliar center of gravity.

He had learned to compensate for the handicap—he could, after all, be effective even with a candlestick if required—but the absence of his own steel remained a persistent itch in his tactical awareness. 

It was a reminder that while Lachlan trusted him with his life, he didn't yet trust him with his full lethality.

Children running the crooked lanes between the older buildings. Loud and oblivious and alive in the uncomplicated way that only children managed.

Dante watched them and thought about Marcus.

Not with guilt. He'd examined that possibility and found the room empty. Marcus had been his partner. His teacher. 

The closest thing to family the Guild had permitted either of them. He'd also been a man who would have put a blade through Lachlan without hesitation. 

Who had looked at what they'd built and seen only deviation to be corrected.

Some things couldn't be recovered from. Dante had learned that early. The Guild had taught him that particular lesson with great thoroughness.

What he felt instead was something quieter and stranger. A door closing. The specific silence of a past that could no longer reach him.

"You're thinking about him," Lachlan said from across the room. Not a question.

"Briefly." Dante turned from the window. "It's done now."

Lachlan studied him for a moment. Those amber eyes missed nothing and discarded less. Then he nodded. 

Apparently satisfied with whatever he found. He returned to the document spread across his desk.

"The Council will attempt to separate us within the first twenty minutes," he said. 

"Ravencroft will push hardest. He has the most to gain from undermining my household's credibility. Westbridge will follow his lead because he always does. Pemberton is the variable. She's clever and she doesn't like Ravencroft. That may work in our favour."

"And if they vote to question me alone?"

"They won't get the opportunity." Lachlan set down his pen. Turned fully to face him. 

"Because you're not attending as a detained person seeking rescue. You're attending as my Head of Security. Present in a professional capacity. The distinction matters enormously in terms of Council protocol."

"Will they accept that?"

"They'll have to decide whether to challenge it openly." A slight smile. 

"Which means challenging my right to employ staff of my choosing. That sets a precedent none of them want applied to their own households. Politics is mostly about finding the argument your opponents least want to have."

Dante crossed to the desk. Looked down at the document. Staff records, he realised. 

His name in Lachlan's precise handwriting. Dates carefully backdated. 

Duties listed with the thoroughness of someone who'd done this kind of paperwork before.

"You've forged my employment history," Dante said.

"I've formalised it," Lachlan corrected. "Everything listed is accurate to our actual arrangement. The dates are somewhat creative."

"Somewhat."

"Significantly." The smile widened slightly. "Does that trouble you?"

Dante considered the question with genuine attention. The way Lachlan had taught him to consider things — all the way down, past the surface response to whatever lived underneath.

"No," he said. "It doesn't."

"Good." Lachlan stood. 

The valet appeared immediately to assist with his jacket — deep navy, gold buttons. Nothing ostentatious. Everything precisely correct for the occasion. 

"Because I need you focused today. Not on last night. Not on what's coming. Not on the Guild or Marcus or any of it. Just on the room we're walking into and the people in it."

"I'm always focused."

"You're always capable of focus. There's a difference." 

Lachlan dismissed the valet with a look. The man vanished with the practised invisibility of the professionally discrete. 

Alone now, Lachlan turned to Dante fully. 

"You've been through significant psychological... reorientation... in the past twelve hours. Most people would need days to integrate that. You're being asked to walk into a political arena and perform absolute composure."

"Most people haven't been trained the way I have," Dante noted, his voice carrying the professional blankness that was his only armor.