The second matriarch, Lady Carmilla, appeared at Victor's shoulder like a shadow sliding over silk. She intercepted a silver tray held by a pale servant, her sharp nails flicking the crystal goblet to the floor. The wine hissed violently as it ate through the solid marble tile.

“Curare and powdered silver,” Carmilla said sweetly, her ruby eyes narrowing at the Tremere envoy. “How terribly unimaginative, Lord Julian. If you wish to assassinate my family's consort, at least use a vintage worth dying for.”

A tense silence fell over the ballroom. Swords were drawn with whispering chimes of steel. But before chaos could erupt, Victor stepped forward, raising his right hand.

A pulse of ancient sanguinary aura—dense, suffocating, and dripping with primordial authority—rolled across the chamber. It was not the power of a fledgling; it was the suffocating weight of the Progenitor's bloodline. Three dozen lesser vampires fell to their knees, their bodies trembling under an instinct they could not fight.

Scathach looked at Victor, a slow, intoxicating smile gracing her porcelain lips. “It seems our young master has learned to command.”