The silence that followed the fall of the mask was a physical thing, a vacuum that sucked the air from a thousand lungs. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft, wet pulsing of the rot that had consumed Valerius’s face, a grotesque counterpoint to the steady, holy light of my wound.
Then, the dam of decorum broke.
A wave of revulsion rippled through the High Council. Vampires who had lived for centuries, who had witnessed wars and plagues, recoiled as if from a leper. They scrambled backward, tripping over velvet robes, their ancient faces masks of primal fear. It wasn't the monster they feared; it was the meaning behind it. The Shadow Blight was not a battle scar; it was a judgment. It was the mark of a dying bloodline, a curse made flesh, and to them, it was more contagious than a
