Then Ethan shifted his attention to the silver-haired young man from before.

"And you," he said, "have raised an important point."

A brief silence followed, as he intentionally allowed his acknowledgment to settle among them.

"Ebenholz's plan will move forward," Ethan declared at last, "but not recklessly."

The hall grew utterly still.

"The bites," he continued, "must be done carefully and purposefully. Those who initiate a bite will be responsible for keeping their parasite in check. With the connection shared through blood, this should not be difficult."

"We begin slowly," Ethan said. "We observe the Empire's response. The towns and cities closest to our borders will be our first test. Only after we study their reaction will we expand to their larger cities."

He rose from his throne, every step dripping with authority. The vampires instinctively lowered their heads as he walked past the long table of elders. But just before his figure reached one of the pillars, he paused.

"One more thing," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Send word to the other godling races. Inform them of our decision and our intentions. It is best they know beforehand, rather than mistake our creations for an attack upon them."

Before anyone could bow or speak, Ethan vanished, his form dissolving into a swirl of shadow, carried away by a cold rush of wind.

His disappearance was followed immediately by a wave of sound, roars, hisses, and guttural expressions of excitement that reverberated through the throne room. With Ethan gone, the restraint that had held them taut loosened all at once.

Ethan's command meant one thing, the burden and privilege of action now lay with them.

It was up to the elders and those they appointed to determine who would bite, who would supervise the drones, who would be granted the first taste of blood-soaked opportunity.

And the hunger in the room was palpable.

Nearly every vampire present felt the surge of desire, both personal and political. The outside world, with its cities of warm bodies and unguarded throats, had been nothing more than speculation to many of them. Curiosity had gnawed at them for decades, but the king's laws and their own fear of losing control had kept them confined.

Now? Those walls had cracked.

For the younger ones, the excitement was nearly overwhelming. Their eyes glowed faintly, fangs unconsciously extending. Some swayed on their feet as if drunk on the very idea of feeding.

Blood, real fresh human blood had been denied to them for so long.

Though it sustained their existence, it had also been the greatest source of their downfall in the early years. Ethan's strict control had been necessary. They understood it. They accepted it.

But acceptance did not quench hunger.

Especially not when they often found themselves leading humans and sitting among humans during diplomatic meetings, pretending indifference while the thunder of human heartbeats echoed in their ears… while the scent of warm blood pulsed like a beacon.

Now that restraint was being lifted.

Even if only a little.

And that "little" was enough to drive them nearly mad with anticipation.

But of course, those impulses did not go unnoticed.

The elders and several of the more disciplined second-generation vampires exchanged dark, knowing glances. They could practically smell the intentions bubbling up in the younger ones.

They knew exactly what was brewing in those hungry minds, chaos disguised as opportunity, indulgence disguised as duty and gluttony disguised as service.

And they would not allow it.

Yet at the same time… the elders themselves were not blind to profit.

Those chosen to administer the bite would, inevitably, be brought into contact with fresh blood, blood that had to be "handled," drained, divided, or stored before the parasite stabilized. Supervisors would be required to clean up the aftermath, gather evidence, dispose of remains, manage the new drone.

Even if the drones themselves were mindless, the process around them was not.

And through that process, blood would flow.

The elders shrewd, already saw how this operation could strengthen their houses, deepen their influence, and redistribute power within the court.

Eyes flashed around the hall, some predatory, some calculating, some both. The throne room had become divided into two distinct tensions: The young, trembling with hunger and the old ones filled with ambition.

Meanwhile, back with Ethan, he found himself stepping into Roth's chamber, the one place in the palace where even he instinctively carried himself with humility.

The room was silent, still, yet heavy with a presence far greater than its size. Books lay open on polished tables, maps and star charts scattered like discarded thoughts. But the owner of the room was not in his usual seat of reading or contemplation.

Instead, Roth's tall, imposing figure stood on the balcony, framed by moonlight. His silhouette looked almost carved from the night itself, the pale glow outlining his shoulders and long hair as he stared upward

at the night sky.

Ethan felt a laugh bubble in his chest, quiet, self-deprecating.

For all his ambition, all his carefully cultivated authority, he always found himself reduced to a child in this room. Always found his confidence dissolving before the one being in existence who understood him better than he understood himself.

"You grew too ambitious," Roth said, without turning, his voice a deep rumble that blended seamlessly with the night air. "And for a moment, you lost sight of your goal."

Ethan drew closer, hands clasped behind his back. He said nothing knowing silence was unnecessary around Roth. Everything he thought, everything he hid, was already laid bare.

"You saw," Roth continued, "a convenient opportunity. Humans acting like fools. Your pride stung. Your anger flaring. And you" he finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes glowing faintly, "thought it a perfect excuse to rally the houses under one banner. To make the Empire your unifying enemy."

He scoffed, soft, but still held an edge.

"And I'm certain," he added, "that somewhere in that mind of yours, you entertained the childish belief that the other godlings would extend a hand to you if they witnessed your theatrics."

Ethan winced, though he maintained a respectful posture.

"You forgot," Roth said, turning fully now, his gaze like a weight on Ethan's shoulders, "your duty as king. Your foremost responsibility: protect your people, not gamble with them."

Ethan lowered his eyes. Shame nudged the edges of his pride.

Roth's tone softened by a fraction.

"Fortunately," he said, "you are surrounded by a council that is old, conniving, stubborn and wise enough to stop you before you embarrassed yourself."

That made Ethan chuckle despite himself.

"I do indeed have a great council," he admitted. "Even though those old bastards want nothing more than to watch me make a fool of myself."

A rare smile tugged at Roth's mouth, a fleeting, ghostly thing. Silence settled between them, deep and comfortable in a way only centuries of shared existence could create.

Then Ethan surprised even himself.

"I will miss you, Father," he murmured.

The words hung in the air, raw, vulnerable, unguarded. A sentiment he had never spoken aloud before.

Roth did not step closer. He did not offer comfort. That was not his way.

But he lifted a hand.

Ethan felt a gentle but irresistible force sweep him backward, moving him out of the balcony room and toward the exit as effortlessly as shifting a piece on a board.

"Indulge yourself with your people," Roth said. "Let yourself loosen the chains you've placed around your own throat. With me here" his eyes gleamed with something, "nothing you do is wrong."

The door slid shut between them, and Ethan stood alone in the hallway.

He touched the wooden frame lightly, a faint smile curving his lips.

"Understood… Father," he whispered before turning away.

Meanwhile, among the godlings "stuck" within the Empire, a quiet fracture had formed because of difference in ideology and temperament.

At first, there was excitement. Curiosity. The humans had shown boldness, so bold that some godlings even felt entertained by the mortal emperor's audacity. They came expecting spectacle, expecting challenge, expecting creatures worth observing.

But reality quickly soured the fascination.

For a portion of the godlings, once their curiosity was satisfied, disdain settled in. The proud posture and confident voices of the humans seemed impressive at first until one remembered the glaring truth, they were mortals.

Frail, fleeting creatures whose lives flickered like candles, always counting down to the moment they burned out.

To some godlings, the idea of spending extended time among such beings felt… wrong, unsettling and almost cruel.

How could they form bonds, create memories, or enjoy companionship with those doomed to wither long before a godling's youthful phase was even finished?

Thus, this faction of godlings grew restless. Their unease transformed into irritation especially when the Empire insisted they remain, claiming "formal permission" was needed before they could depart. This bureaucratic obstruction only intensified their displeasure.

But what grated them the most… was their fellow godlings.

The other half, the ones who seemed far too comfortable among mortals.