In the heart of Drakonia, within the towering walls of the capital city, Drako, Lucius Antony’s composure cracked like thin ice under the weight of his fury.
The storm outside raged with a ferocity that mirrored the turmoil in his chest. Torrential rain battered the massive stone walls of the chamber, its relentless drums echoing in the distance, occasionally punctuated by the harsh crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the palace.
Jagged streaks of lightning tore through the dark sky, casting fleeting flashes of light upon the ornately decorated room, where shadows danced ominously against the cold, stone walls.
Antony sat across from Prince Crimson in the grand, dimly lit chamber. The fire crackled in a large hearth, its glow barely enough to push back the encroaching darkness.
The smile that clung to Antony's face was thin, practiced, a mask of politeness that barely concealed the volatile anger seething beneath the surface. His eyes burned with the intensity of a thousand unspoken curses as he tried, and failed, to contain his rage.
"You promised me," Antony spat, his voice low and filled with venom, "you assured me that the royal family was finished. That the queen was dead. That Aropia’s throne would fall into disarray, ripe for the taking. And yet—she’s alive! The queen walks among us like some ghost from the past, and you want me to believe this wasn’t all part of your plan?" He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, his grip tightening around the edge of the table as if he could strangle the truth out of Crimson.
The anger that twisted his features was barely contained.
He had accepted Hazel’s survival, believed it to be an honest mistake—something that could be written off, explained away. But the queen? That was too much.
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Antony's thoughts swirled in chaos.
Were the Drakonians playing him for a fool? Were they secretly plotting with Ren, perhaps even protecting the royal bloodline he had so meticulously worked to destroy? The idea gnawed at him like a festering wound.
He forced a smile, though it was cold, brittle, and laced with contempt. "I’m beginning to think," he muttered, barely more than a growl, "that you’ve deceived me."
Prince Crimson's gaze darkened, his sharp eyes narrowing into a piercing glare as Antony’s words hit him like a slap.
The accusation stung more than the cold of the storm outside, more than the crashing thunder that shook the room. Deception?
To call him a deceiver was an insult too great for any civilized language to express. His lips curled into a sneer, revealing a glimpse of the sharp, white fangs that were characteristic of his people.
His skin was rough, thickly textured with a dark, coarse hair that spread like a second layer of fur across his muscular arms, neck, and shoulders—symbols of his beastly heritage. His hair, dark as night, cascaded down his back in untamed waves, as wild and fierce as the man himself.
What truly set him apart, however, were his ears. They were not human, but rather, long and pointed, tapering to sharp tips, reminiscent of a wolf's. They twitched, caught by the slightest sound, and in that moment, they seemed to vibrate with pent-up fury.
His hands were clenched into fists, the veins standing out like ropes, as if he were ready to unleash a violent storm of his own. In that moment, Crimson was not just a prince—he was a predator, and the man before him was prey.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, the smooth metal gleaming ominously in the dim light, as if it too could sense the rising tension.
“Deceive,” Crimson repeated, his voice low, a deadly calm that barely masked the fury roiling beneath it. The word seemed to sour on his tongue, each syllable like a poison. “Deceptionist” He spat the term with disdain, as though it was something unworthy of his lips.