The Dread of Damned-Chapter 136: Shift

The moon sank into oblivion, devoured by the blackened sky, while the sun bled over the horizon, casting a sickly crimson glow across the land. The grand castle's heavy curtains were drawn, as if to shield its pristine walls from the horrors that had unfolded in the night. Chandeliers flared to life, their golden flames illuminating the vast corridors—but no amount of light could cleanse the stain left behind.

Murmurs slithered through the lower halls, hushed and feverish. Two entire Houses of Elders had been slaughtered—exterminated in a single night. It was a massacre unlike any the Grand House Aestherisin had witnessed in millennia.

But all fell silent when they spoke of him.

The prince.

He ascended the great stairway, his form bathed in red, white, and molten gold. Thick, clotted blood clung to his garments, dripped from his fingers, and streaked his pale skin. His boots left grotesque imprints on the enchanted marble, each step desecrating its pristine perfection with death. The castle—once an untouchable bastion of power—had been defiled.

And he did not walk alone.

In his hand, he clutched a silver chain, its links taut, biting deep into the ravaged flesh of the man he dragged behind him. Or what was left of him.

The body lurched and jerked with every step, a ruined puppet on a leash of metal. His stomach had ruptured, the gaping cavity a grotesque tangle of viscera, spilling ribbons of slick entrails that smeared across the marble. The cavernous wound in his chest exposed splintered ribs, blackened muscle, and the raw, glistening wreckage of his insides.

One arm jutted at an unnatural angle, its shattered bone piercing through shredded flesh, while the other had been reduced to pulp, flayed open to expose sinew and glistening white slivers of tendon. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing—some primal instinct for survival persisting even as his body disintegrated.

His legs dragged limply behind him, the left foot nearly severed, connected only by a frayed tendon that stretched and threatened to snap with every movement. His face—once noble, once refined—was a ruin. One eye had been crushed into an unrecognizable pulp, its socket a dark, oozing hollow. The other, somehow intact, burned with fury. He was not yet dead. But he was not alive, either.

Each stair was an ordeal. The chain dug deeper, stripping away what little flesh remained around his mangled throat. A wet, rattling gurgle escaped his lips—a sound that was neither a breath nor a word, but something between a plea and a death rattle. His ruined body left behind smears of gore, streaking the marble like the remnants of a butcher's blade after the slaughter was done.

Lucian Blackwood followed in silence, his boots slick with the prince's wake. The thick, metallic scent of blood clung to the air, suffocating in its intensity. Another sickening crunch echoed through the stairwell—just the sound of broken bones grinding against marble, the body's last protest against its slow destruction.

Those who stood aside watched, their throats bobbing, their gazes sharp with something primal. They were vampires, true to their nature, and the blood that stained the floors was not just any blood. It was the blood of a High Nocturnal.

The blood of an Elder.

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Lucian stopped at the second-to-last floor and inclined his head.

"Your Highness," he murmured, his voice impassive. He did not look at the ruined corpse the prince dragged. He did not need to.

With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the prince to continue his ascent.

The castle had been desecrated.

And the prince walked on, dragging his battle trophy behind him—a grotesque testament to the night's slaughter.

The Council of Elders convened immediately. Forty-seven of the fifty chairs were filled in an instant. Then His Majesty entered, followed by Her Majesty, both taking their seats at the head of the table. The gathered elders rose in respect before being permitted to sit.

"This is unprecedented, Your Majesty," an elder said gravely.

"No House of Elders has fallen since the dawn of the Grand House. It has always been House Aestherisin as the rulers and the fifty Houses as the Elders," another added.

Voices rose in heated debate.

"It has not even been one hundred and fifty moons since His Highness's birth, and already three Houses of Elders have fallen!"

"This cannot be tolerated!"

"But we were the ones who declared His Highness the Supervisor—we gave him the authority!"

"A Supervisor reports. He does not judge!"

"Dragging Finnian Lewellyn across the roads and up the Grand Castle itself is an act of extreme disrespect against the honor of the Elders!"

"The prince must explain himself!"

A voice cut through the clamor like a blade.

"It looks like this was a necessary change."

The room fell silent as Her Majesty's gaze swept over them, sharp and unwavering.

"You have all grown indulgent," she said. "So much so that you seem to have forgotten who rules here. We are the rulers. You are helpers."

She let the words settle, her voice like iron.

"Do not forget your place."

A tense silence followed.

"This must not become a norm—"

"Oh? So you wish to punish me?"

The words were calm, yet they carried a sharpened edge. The guards announced the prince's entrance as he stepped into the room.

"Even when both Gunnar and Finnian were collaborating with the Damned?" He moved forward and took a seat beside His Majesty.

"Those are baseless accusations!"

"Gunnar himself had been corrupted by the golden power. Finnian housed an entire battalion's worth of Damned soldiers."

A protest was about to rise when a quiet yet authoritative voice spoke.

"This is a serious problem, then," said Kai Rylan.

"I agree," Victor Maxim added. "We must investigate this matter."

The conversation shifted. More voices echoed the sentiment.

The Council of Elders was fifty in name only. In truth, only ten were the true power brokers—the rest merely their followers.

Three of them—Victor Maxim, Isolde Edriswen, and Maelrik Xandorin—were devoted to House Aestherisin.

Three remained neutral, siding only when necessary.

And three who only served their purpose, Gunnar Blackwood. Finnian Lewellyn. Vaestian Aestherisin. All Three of them were dead.

Kai Rylan was the only anomaly. He had never fully pledged allegiance to any faction—sometimes siding with the Grand House, other times standing with its opposition. For the last few centuries, he had supported the now-dead Elders.

For centuries, the Council had maintained a delicate balance of power. But today, the balance had been shattered.

And yet, House Rylan alone could shift the Council's tides. It had the greatest support, all because of one man—Zephyr Rylan, the Grand Elder and the enigmatic headmaster of the academy.

Today, the tide had turned. The three Elders who had dared to oppose the prince were exterminated. Their followers now understood: the Grand House of Aestherisin had gone on the offensive, purging the disobedient and the arrogant.

The only place to seek protection now was under House Rylan.

Even the Grand House would not make an enemy of Zephyr Rylan. He had been a pillar of power since before most of them had even been born—since before many of their predecessors had sat in these very chairs.

So when Kai Rylan took the prince's side, thirty-five of the fifty elders followed. The remaining neutral ones knew better than to resist.

And just like that, the Council belonged to Caelan Aestherisin.

"The next full moon, three days from now, His Highness, your prince, and our son, Caelan Aestherisin, will be officially crowned heir to the throne—with all the authority that entails."

No one dared to object.

And all left with a single lesson seared into their minds.

Caelan Aestherisin ruled House Aestherisin. He was not one to forgive. Or forget. Do not cross his path.