Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 107: The Meeting of the Vampire Lords (3)

Chapter 107: The Meeting of the Vampire Lords (3)

— Very well then, said Aranael in a neutral, smooth tone, as if nothing had just happened, as if the moments of suffocation, of extreme tension, of contained fear were nothing more than a draft in a well-sealed room.

Then she turned her unfathomable eyes toward me.

Two bottomless abysses. Two shards of silence that even the centuries no longer dared to disturb.

— It’s your turn to choose now, Lukaris.

I didn’t want to make her wait. Not a second. Not a breath. There was no room for hesitation, no space for slow reflection or deferred strategy. Something in me, older than thought, stronger than fatigue, took over — and guided me.

My body, though weakened, aching, drained by the intensity of this assembly, rose in one single motion. My mind, still trembling under Aranael’s pressure, yielded without resistance, without fear, without retreat.

I spoke her name in total obedience, in solemn certainty, like a vow.

— Lysara.

The person behind me.

The air under the tent seemed to freeze.

The silence, this time, wasn’t just heavy. It was tense, charged, almost nervous.

I felt the gazes converge on me, heavy, calculated, filled with irritation — perhaps even anger. I could almost hear, beneath the muffled silence, the invisible click of clenched jaws, of restrained judgments. In this choice, they saw something they disapproved of, or something they didn’t understand. Maybe favoritism. Maybe weakness.

But none dared speak. Not after what Aranael had said.

And she, without a flinch, without the slightest change in tone, confirmed with a voice as simple as an ancient truth:

— Very well.

And that was all. But it was enough.

Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, Aranael turned toward Ornée.

— Let us continue.

— Yes, Madame, replied Ornée immediately, bowing slowly, her hands crossed over her heart, straight, dignified, as calm as if nothing could ever disturb her voice.

She straightened with no haste, with a fluidity that bordered on ritual, then resumed speaking with the poised clarity of those who know they are heard without needing to raise their voice:

— The third and final issue concerns access to the world sealed within the crystal. Among the forty-eight chosen from the twelve races, only four individuals will be able to enter each day. That is why the Metamorphic Sovereign has structured the groups based on a fixed principle: teams of four, formed within each race.

She paused briefly, not to breathe, but to let the idea settle in everyone’s mind, then let her gaze slowly sweep the entire table, as if to ensure no one looked away.

— Thus, the four selected from each race must then take part in an inter-species tournament. This tournament will determine the entry order of the twelve races during the first twelve days of the crystal’s opening. Each match will be structured as a team battle, four against four, and each victory will secure an entry slot — the sooner you win, the sooner you enter.

She paused again, this time more deliberately, not to punctuate, but to heighten the stakes. Then, when she resumed, her voice had shifted slightly — slower, deeper, almost solemn.

— For this, once our quartet is chosen, they must be trained. Strengthened. United. Prepared. They will not be mere fighters. They must become a squad. A collective entity. And for them to become that... we need to appoint an instructor. Someone among the members here present, capable of guiding them, of raising them, of forging them.

The weight of that word fell like a stone into black water. Forging.

A brief silence followed, dense, tense, almost enclosed in a tacit expectation. Then Ornée, upright and solemn, let the question fall with the measured slowness of one who knows how to weigh every word before offering it to the room:

— Are there any volunteers?

The sentence had barely left her lips when Fillin seemed to react. His eyes had already lit with a discreet but vibrant spark. One could see he had straightened ever so slightly, as if the prospect awakened something ancient in him, a role he had longed to reclaim. He was about to speak — his body revealed it before his voice, ready to answer, to take on the responsibility with the seriousness he was known for.

But he didn’t have the time.

A voice cut him off. Icy. Clear. Implacable.

A voice that shattered the air like frost breaking a glass too hot.

— It will be me.

Aranael.

That was all she said, once again.

The effect was immediate. A wave of even heavier silence fell over the assembly, as if each being around the table, in an instant, remembered exactly where they were. Even Fillin, imposing as he was, true to his convictions, lowered his gaze humbly — not out of shame, but by pure reflex — as if respect had shot down his spine before even reaching his mind.

Ornée inclined her head slightly, with the elegance that was hers, and replied in a voice as clear as it was respectful:

— Very well, Madame.

Then, with a slight inflection, almost like an offering:

— They will experience a dream under your tutelage. A most honorable choice.

Then she concluded.

Straight. Serene. In an unchanged tone, calm and firm at once, as one closes an ancient, near-sacred ceremony — without pathos, but with all the precision of an act repeated for centuries without ever losing its weight.

— The intra-vampiric tournament will begin tomorrow, at four hours past Dawn.

She paused briefly, perfectly timed, giving each the space to absorb the unfolding schedule.

— The inter-species tournament is set for two weeks from now.

Her voice did not vary.

She laid out the framework of an irreversible mechanism, and everyone could feel the gears had begun to turn.

— The crystal’s opening is estimated by our experts to take place in three weeks.

Then, without raising her voice, without adding weight to what was already engraved, she bowed her head one final time.

— This concludes our meeting.

And it was as if an invisible thread had just been cut.

The collective tension, which until then had held every body in silent restraint, loosened. Just enough for us to begin breathing again without thinking. No one spoke. No glance sought out another.

Each rose in turn, in a slow silence, as if they still feared disturbing the space left by those last words. And one by one, the Lords left the tent, wordless, in a religious, almost funereal silence — as if something far greater than any of us had been summoned here... and it was best not to awaken it any further.

But Cassandre did not leave.

I saw her stay there, at Aranael’s side, unmoving, upright, as if suspended in another reality, in a time that no longer included me. There was in her posture something frozen, not by fear nor by loyalty, but by necessity. As if her place, at that moment, could not be elsewhere.

And I... could only accept it.

Reluctantly, teeth clenched behind silence, I turned on my heel.

Thus ended this meeting. Cold. Freezing on every level. Too heavy to leave without consequences. It had drained me more than I would have thought — not by conflict, but by the constant pressure that had saturated the air — that mix of invisible hierarchy, ancient codes, and burning unspoken truths.

A guard awaited me outside, discreet, professional, without an unnecessary word. He guided me directly to my quarters.

And it was there, between those black drapes stretched by a hand I did not know, that I understood my life had just shifted once again.

I now shared the same tent as Lysara.

A first night in this new destiny.

A night without battle, without running, without cries — but weighed down by a future already moving in the shadows, carried by the immortal one.

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