Fangless: The Alpha's Vampire Mate
Chapter 214: The Fallen One

Chapter 214: The Fallen One

BANG!

A fist slammed against the armrest of a throne. "How much more foolish could you possibly get?" a voice growled.

Eleven thrones formed a circle in the dim space. Shadows cloaked the figures sitting on them, leaving only bits and pieces of their bodies visible, enough to let them express their anger through their gesture.

In the center, a lone figure knelt on an invisible floor, head bowed in repentance. His head hung low, and frankly, he didn’t need the gallery of overbearing, self-important spirits to remind him of his failure. Oh, he knew.

"Fallen One," came a gentle voice, almost kind. But everyone recognized the mocking edge in Nivara’s words. The twelfth ancestor was known for her sweet sarcasm. "Don’t you wish to regain your place as an ancestor?"

Two seats away from her, a large spirit leaned forward, his tone laced with ridicule. "Tell me, how does it feel to kneel so low? Does it lighten the burden of all that pride you once carried?"

The tenth ancestor leaned back and continued, "Perhaps humility suits you better, though I must confess, I do not miss the lofty airs you once so arrogantly assumed."

"Alaric, shush! Don’t be so mean!" Petra, the sixth ancestor, cut in, her tone mockingly scolding. "Let’s have some class, shall we? Look at him! He’s already halfway to tears. Though... I wouldn’t mind seeing him beg right here in front of us. That might spice up this meeting."

"Serves him right," Lamae, the fourth ancestor, added coolly, with the air of someone pointing out that water is wet. "Karma always delivers. He used to be the first ancestor, but now he isn’t even qualified to sit with us. Tragic."

Still kneeling, the Fallen One slowly turned his head. Through the shadows, faint light revealed an empty throne tucked in a far corner.

It was the largest of all the thrones, once positioned proudly in front of the Door of Wisdom as if its owner ruled the entire Spiritual Circle.

That had been his throne—until everything fell apart.

Isharka, the second ancestor, spoke in the softest tone, "Don’t you want your name back?"

For ancestors, a name was everything—it was their badge of honor; it defined their identity and marked their rank within the Spiritual Circle.

Each name came from the ancient vampiric language, conveniently translating to their rank: Isharka for second, Lamae for fourth, Petra for sixth, and so on. Not exactly creative, but it got the point across.

Those who didn’t make it to the High Table could hang on to their names from their mortal days, but most gave them up. It was supposed to be a grand gesture of commitment to the Spiritual Circle, to leave behind their old existence.

The Fallen One remained silent. He didn’t mind the mocking from the other ancestors—sometimes, he even found some twisted comfort in it, as if their berating was a form of atonement for his past mistakes.

But he couldn’t bear to look at Isharka. As the second ancestor, Isharka had been his closest friend in the Spiritual Circle. They’d shared countless moments, both high and low.

Now, the Fallen One was nothing—reduced to a shadow of his former self—and he felt too much shame to even lift his head or speak.

The mere thought of doing so felt like it would somehow tarnish Isharka’s dignity.

Isharka, unaware of the depth of the Fallen One’s shame, only saw his silence as stubbornness.

"Considering your past mistake with the Blood Moon power, I thought you’d be smart enough to stay away from it this time. But no, you just dove right in whenever you found a chance," Isharka remarked, his voice carrying both disappointment and disbelief.

"He must’ve thought he was above it all—like some kind of god," said Domina, the seventh ancestor, glaring at the Fallen One with contempt.

Morne slammed his fist down on the armrest again, his patience wearing even thinner. "What on earth were you thinking? Why the hell did you unlock that child’s power?"

Morne was famous for his fiery temper. Back in his mortal days, he’d been a war general, winning battle after battle for the vampires and ensuring that men and beasts alike learned to fear them.

Caelum, the ninth ancestor, shrugged. "She would’ve unlocked her Blood Moon power eventually. Might as well get it over with."

Caelum wasn’t exactly known for his sharp intellect. He had earned his spot on the High Table more for his kindness than his brains.

Born into wealth, he spent his mortal life giving away everything he had to people who needed it more than he did.

Part of the reason was that Caelum knew his brain wasn’t exactly built for growing the family fortune—numbers and him didn’t get along.

But in the end, results mattered more than reasons, and his generosity got him adored by his town and, somehow, a spot on the High Table.

"Not her, you dimwit! I’m talking about her brother—the demon child!" Morne roared, losing his patience.

The Fallen One mumbled, still keeping his head low, "It was a mistake. If I’d known about his bloodline, I would’ve been a little more... cautious."

And that was the truth. The Fallen One had been out of the loop for ages. Since that little incident, he’d been hopelessly behind on any updates about the mortal world. He only discovered Riona was the Blood Moon child by pure accident.

One day, he’d overheard a group of the more obnoxious ancestors gossiping about her, placing bets on who she’d slaughter first once she unlocked her true power.

After that, he started sneaking into the Door of Wisdom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world outside his little exile. Perhaps he could find a way to redeem himself and regain his status. He had missed his throne!

But it wasn’t much—just little flashes of the present. He even learned about Riona’s family history by eavesdropping on Puck and Thorin’s... not so secretive conversations.

But how was he supposed to know that Florian had been conceived through dark magic? Or that he was a vessel for Ol’gaz, the biggest, baddest demon of them all?

That detail had definitely slipped under the radar.

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