Description : The King
SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, OLD COUNTRY
“Long live the King.”
At the sound of the deep, grave voice, Wrath, son of Wrath, had an instinct to look around for his father … a spark of hope that the death had not occurred and the great ruler was as yet still with them.
But of course, his beloved sire remained gone unto the Fade.
How long would this sad searching last? he wondered. It was such useless folly, especially as the sacred vestments of the vampire King were upon himself, the bejeweled sashes and silken coat and ceremonial daggers adorning his own body. His mind cared naught for such proof of his recent coronation, however … or mayhap it was his heart that remained unswayed by all that now defined him.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, without his father, he was so alone, even as he was surrounded by people who served him.
Composing his visage, he turned around. Standing in the doorway of the royal receiving chambers, his closest adviser was like a column of smoke, long and thin, draped in dark robes.
“My honor to greet you,” the male murmured, bending low. “Are you ready to receive the female?”
“Shall we initiate the procession.”
As his adviser bowed again and backed out, Wrath paced across the oak-paneled room. Candles wafted in the drafts that somehow infiltrated the castle’s stone walls, and the roaring fire in the chest-high hearth seemed to offer only light, not warmth.
In truth, he had no desire for a shellan—or rather, a mate,...