Magnus the Eternal King of Elysium gave a laugh so affable it melted through the tension. The rich tone, the inviting smile, all to warm a once-cold reception.

  For a beat, his words hung in the air—almost too sacred to dispel. The room held its breath—then, like a match to dry kindling, laughter and music roared back to life.

  The moment the words hit Sullivan’s ears, he snatched his wife close, heedless of any protest.

  It was pure instinct—visceral, unthinking. He moved before understanding why, as if bolting up a tree. His gaze snapped to the speaker, every hair on his body bristling with contempt. His mouth twitched, begging, aching to bare his teeth like a leopard guarding its claim—unwilling to surrender to the circling lion below.

  Sullivan stood, taking Aleiya with him.

  One hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed firm against her back. He cradled her flush against him.

  With every step that man took, Sullivan’s fingers curled just a little tighter into silver threads. With every effortless wave, every easy smile, every warm and honeyed greeting, the Vampire Lord’s stomach churned with barely contained dread.

  He should have known he would show up.

  That somehow, someway, the news of Sullivan’s marriage would get back to him. Even though he had been so careful. He didn’t even put his name on the permits needed to open the gates, but as always, Magnus had a way of showing up where he was least wanted.

  Sullivan watched as that man made his way over to him and his wife—shaking hands and patting backs along the way. He knew that easy, friendly smile. Magnus used it for every Grand Assembly meeting to date.

  Graced executions with it, too.

  Sullivan couldn’t miss how the humans revered him, worshiped him like the second coming. Their arms open and eyes wide in awe. They were eager for just a moment with the man, many clamoring for a chance to even say hello.

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  Ravenous in their devotion.

  The elves, more reserved but no less star-struck, made passing conversation. Enough to elicit a response, but not enough substance to keep him. They coveted his attention, but not enough to debase themselves as the humans did.

  The elves saw themselves as equals—never lesser.

  The Goblins and the Dwarves were certainly friendly, but they held no awe for the man. The Dwarves gave him heavy-handed respect—practical, recent, earned. They hadn’t been part of Elysium’s foundation, but they knew how to recognize a stronghold when they saw one.

  Whilst the Goblins matched his casual, devil-may-care energy with boozed-up ease, a swaggering confidence born of short lifespans and long hangovers. A vulgar charm Magnus considered a cultural blight—though he’d never say so aloud.

  The werewolves, however, were a mixed bag.

  The pups, barely weaned from their mother’s teat, were eager to meet the man. He was legendary after all. A man made monster just to defeat the Monster Lords.

  The old dogs, however, knew better.

  If Magnus could bring down a centuries-old regime, he could just as easily bury the rest of them. Not that their children cared for old stories.

  But to the Eternal King, they were all just different audiences to the same show. And Magnus knew exactly how to play every role.

  A friend and an ally, so beloved and blithe.

  A King of kings, enduring and eternal.

  A gift divine, so gracious and merciful.

  But no role was better, more fitting than the role of boogeyman.

  The vampires avoided him with a practiced, almost instinctual wariness. Those that were unfortunate enough to be in proximity bowed their heads in a show of respect, whether they liked it or not.

  Even Oliver, even Evie, for all their sociability, made sure to stay out of sight… out of mind.

  With limbs a bit too stiff, fists clenched behind their backs, teeth sealed behind painfully pursed lips, the vampires scurried from that man’s purview—silence their only armor.

  Their show of compliance was their only resistance.

  They kept their expressions carefully neutral, their movements measured—too measured for a race that once ruled unchecked. Their silence would be suffocating if it weren’t for the music and the rain and the sycophants filling the Great Hall with their raucous awe.

  It was the kind of respect that was both so beloved and yet so loathed.

  Sullivan willed the screams of the past away. The present demanded his attention. Normally, this wouldn’t have warranted a second thought. This wasn’t anything new, he had accounted for the interruption, knowing just how petty that man could be.

  He had already planned his escape, but he was suddenly caught unprepared, unawares—unexpectedly because of his wife.

  He gave a passing glance to her, his hold ever steady. Even as he dragged her to her feet, not a single word, not a single question. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not even a flicker of defiance.

  No matter, he had no time for that.

  He wasn’t about to let a literal wolf in sheep’s clothing come anywhere near the actual sheep. She was much too important, and far too faint hearted to be trusted to navigate the minefield that was that abomination.

  Then again, who else was capable of handling the Eternal King of Elysium? As always, it fell to Sullivan because it never ends.

  It never ends.