The Grand Ballroom of Castle Scarlet was illuminated by hundreds of floating crystal spheres, each bathing the marble floors in a warm, crimson glow. Outside, the Parisian winter raged, but inside, the air was scented with vintage wines, rare jasmine, and underlying predatory danger.

Victor stood beside Lady Scathach, clad in a tailored black suit stitched with subtle crimson thread. Every pair of eyes in the hall was locked onto him—eyes that ranged from iridescent gold to deep blood-red.

“Keep your chin up, Victor,” Scathach murmured, her gloved fingers resting lightly on his forearm. “The elders of Clan Tremere and House Valois are watching. If they smell hesitation, they will challenge your right to exist before the dessert is served.”

A tall noble with slicked-back raven hair and razor-sharp aristocratic features approached, his lips curled in disdain. “Is this the human stray you plucked from the gutter, Duchess? He barely smells of mana.”

Victor did not shrink back. The strange fire that had awakened in his veins flared to life. Without a word, he locked eyes with the noble—and for a split second, his pupils elongated into twin vertical slits of burning crimson, sending an involuntary shiver down the elder vampire’s spine.