The fortress of Nocturnum was carved into the northern cliffs—where sunlight never reached, and wind screamed like lost souls through the spires. Here, the High Council ruled not with crowns, but with knowledge, discipline, and terror.
It was not a place for the weak.
Ciel stood at the edge of a stone dais, fourteen floors below the surface. The walls bled with shadows. Only torches of blue flame lit the ancient chamber. His hands were bound—not by rope, but by will. A test.
Again.
“State your lineage,” a voice commanded.
It came from above, from one of the thirteen thrones that circled the chamber. Their faces were veiled by darkness. They spoke in turn, always in riddles or truths that cut like blades.
Ciel raised his chin.
“Primce Earl Ciel Dwayne Dracula, from the clan of Drac h
