There is a particular moment of clarity that descends upon a person when they recognize something they ought not recognize—like spotting an assassin at a masquerade ball or identifying a long-forgotten face in a crowd of strangers. It's a dangerous kind of knowledge, the sort that makes one's blood freeze and heart stutter, even as the mind races to process implications too terrible to contemplate.
A man stood at the Lord's right hand, his pale beauty framed by raven-black hair, his crimson eyes carrying the unmistakable hunger of a predator. And beside him, a woman with bubblegum-pink hair and eyes that shifted between cyan and green, her delicate features belying the aura of malice that clung to her like perfume.
Cassius von Noctis. The Vampire Prince.
And Alyssara Velcroix. The Pope of the Red Chalice.
My worst fears confirmed in an instant, standing before us in broad daylight, their very presence a mockery of everything I thought I knew.
