The name hit everyone in the hall with shock.

Several second-generation vampires instinctively bowed. Elders lowered their gazes in solemn acknowledgment. Even the flames dimmed for a heartbeat, as though the very air trembled at the invocation.

Ethan's eyes gleamed like blood-soaked rubies.

"So let the humans play their games," he hissed. "Let them scheme, plot, maneuver. It changes nothing."

He spread his arms slightly, as if embracing the entire throne room in his declaration.

"We will respond. Not out of rage alone, but out of duty. Out of pride. Out of our divine mandate."

His tone hardened into steel.

"And we will do so in a way that ensures the humans think twice or thrice before ever daring to use us as pawns again."

A slow, hungry smile crept across his face.

"Now," he said, voice simmering with quiet promise, "let us decide exactly how we will teach them this lesson."

Ebenholz, who had been silent until now, finally lifted his gaze. His voice cut through the hall.

"Humans once feared the night," he began, each word steady, deliberate. "They feared it because it was unknown, because the darkness held secrets their feeble minds could not grasp. But that fear vanished the moment they discovered light."

A murmur passed through the chamber, but Ebenholz continued, unfazed.

"As the children who bear the blood of the Origin Goddess of Darkness… it is our duty to remind them why night was once a terror whispered even among kings."

All eyes shifted toward him. Even those who disliked him could not look away.

"My proposal," he said, "is something that was once forbidden among our kind. A practice we swore never to use again. But I believe" he placed a hand over his chest in a theatrical, solemn gesture "that it is precisely what this situation demands."

Ethan leaned back upon the throne, "And what proposal is that?" his deep voice rumbled, equal parts curiosity and warning.

A hush fell. Ebenholz let the silence stretch, savoring the tension.

At last, he spoke.

"We give the humans a plague."

The words crashed into the silence like of the waiting audience.

"A plague," he said, "that reveals itself only at night, growing uncontrollably if not swiftly contained. Let the darkness become a living nightmare once more."

He stepped forward, bowing deeply before Ethan.

"I ask that you grant us permission to use our bite. We already whisper of the monstrosities born from it, creatures robbed of reason, driven only by hunger and instinct, spreading their curse with every wound they inflict."

Another bow, lower.

"I pledge that we release these creations upon the empire."

Silence.

A silence that pressed into the bones of everyone present.

Then, a thunderous snarl cut through the hall.

Darkmoore slammed a hand onto the table, rising with all fury and anger.

"What a shameful suggestion, Ebenholz," he boomed, his voice echoing off the pillars. "To let mindless beasts fight our battles for us? To unleash filth that cannot be controlled?"

His eyes glowed with crimson contempt.

"Have you hidden away for so many centuries in your libraries that you have forgotten your own fangs?"

He stepped forward, power radiating off him like heat.

"We are vampires. Children of darkness not cowards who hide behind rabid animals."

Ravencroft's feathers bristled with tension. Orpheus watched with narrowed eyes, calculating. The second generation looked between the elders, unsure whether to recoil or applaud.

Ebenholz, however, did not flinch.

He met Darkmoore's rage with icy calm.

"I have not forgotten my fangs," he said softly. "But I have not forgotten our purpose either."

Darkmoore snarled again, preparing to retort. But Ethan raised a hand.

The entire hall fell silent instantly.

Ethan's gaze was fixed on Ebenholz, not on Darkmoore, not on the murmuring vampires but solely on the one who dared propose a famine of monsters.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Too quiet.

"Explain," Ethan said, "why I should allow the return of something we once swore to extinguish."

Ebenholz inhaled slowly, steadying himself.

Ravencroft spoke up, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate grace.

"If I may, my king," she began, placing a fist over her chest. "I believe Ebenholz proposes this not out of cowardice, but out of prudence. A way to strike, while keeping our hands clean of the plague's origin."

The murmurs softened, curiosity beginning to outweigh outrage.

"Like I stated before," Ravencroft continued, "there are many within the empire who would seize any reason, real or fabricated to ignite conflict with us. And judging by the state of things now, such people are no longer on the margins. Their voices grow louder. Their influence grows stronger."

Several elders nodded faintly; this was no exaggeration.

"But we must not," Ravencroft said, voice tightening, "place in their hands a weapon so obvious, so undeniable, that they could rally the entire continent behind their cause."

She gestured subtly toward Ebenholz.

"The empire and the world do not know that our bites can create such monstrosities when we choose to let them. If we follow Ebenholz's plan, the outbreak becomes… a mystery. A calamity with no clear perpetrator. They will suspect us, of course they will but they will have no evidence that the plague is ours."

Ravencroft's expression hardened.

"In these times, my king, speculation is manageable. Rumors can be swayed, redirected, manipulated. But proof?" She shook her head slowly. "Proof is a noose."

She bowed his head deeply toward Ethan.

"For the safety of our race, for the future of our lord's ascension… we cannot allow the world to fear and see us as creators of plagues."

Silence fell again, heavier, more conflicted.

Ebenholz inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Ravencroft's support.

Darkmoore scoffed under his breath but did not interrupt this time. Even he knew Ravencroft's logic held weight.

Across the hall, the lesser clans shifted uneasily. Some stared at Ethan with barely restrained anticipation.

Ethan let the silence loom, his gaze sweeping over the gathered clans below. His voice, when it finally broke the stillness, carried a restrained tone.

"You both have spoken well," Ethan said, inclining his head slightly toward Ravencroft and Ebenholz. "In my anger, I failed to fully comprehend the wider portrait before us. I thank you for your counsel."

A murmur of approval rippled through the elder's seats, short, controlled, but present. It was rare for their king to admit fault so openly, even in such measured fashion.

Then Ethan straightened, turning his attention to the gathered clans with eyes darker than the chalice in his hand.

"Now," he said, voice resonant, "does anyone have anything to say regarding the idea proposed by the elders? And do any among you possess a better alternative?"

His question fell like a stone into deep water.

For a heartbeat, no one dared move.

Then, slowly, the crowd stirred.

Some exchanged cautious glances. Others whispered behind raised hands, unsure whether speaking out would elevate them—or condemn them.

Finally, a figure from the left stepped forward, a tall man from House Orpheus, his silver hair tied back and his eyes sharp like tempered steel.

"If I may, my king," he said, bowing low. "The plague approach… is effective, but it risks uncontrollable spread. There is danger it might reach beyond the Empire if left unchecked. Should the humans falter in containing it, the catastrophe may spill beyond this continent."

He paused, letting the thought settle like a cold fog.

"I do not oppose the intent," he continued. "But I question the mechanism. If we are to instill fear, we should do so with precision, not indiscriminate chaos."

A few murmurs of agreement rose.

But on the opposite side, a young noble from House Thorn snarled softly.

"Fear is chaos," she retorted, stepping forward without waiting for permission. "The humans do not hesitate to provoke us openly, why should we restrain ourselves for their sake? A plague unleashed among them would remind them of their fragility."

Her voice rose, fierce.

"Let them tremble. Let them run to their priests and scholars, begging for salvation. Let them realize the night has teeth."

Some of the younger vampires cheered quietly at her words.

Some of the younger vampires who are kept under strict diet hissed in approval, their blood stirring at the promise of violence. They had long been waiting for a chance to sink their fangs into a pulsing vein and taste blood from it's source.

Others frowned, older ones, wiser ones whose memories stretched back to darker times, when uncontrolled hunger nearly destroyed their race from within.

Ethan raised his hand, a single, subtle motion that crushed the noise instantly.

His gaze settled on the young woman who had spoken so boldly. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish, but she bowed her head slightly when his attention found her.

"The enthusiasm and spirit are appreciated, girl," Ethan said, his tone neither harsh nor indulgent, simply firm. "But never forget: the well-being of our race comes first. Any action we take must benefit us all, not satisfy individual cravings."

Shame flickered across her features, but she nodded, shoulders stiff.