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The figures depicted in it were Hiaj vampires, with bat-like wings ranging in shade from milky-pale to ash-black. Two hundred years ago, those wings would have been the feathered wings of the Rishan, the rival Nightborn clan perpetually battling for the throne of the House of Night. Since the goddess Nyaxia created vampires more than two thousand years ago—since before then, some even claimed—the two sects waged constant war. And with every turn in the tide, every new bloodline on the throne, this fresco would change—wings painted and erased, painted and erased, dozens of times over thousands of years.
I glanced over my shoulder at Vincent. He had left his wings out, which was rare. Usually he spirited them away with his magic, unless it was some diplomatic event that required him to flaunt his Hiaj power. They were long enough that the tips nearly brushed the floor, and black—so black it defied nature, as if the light seeped into his skin and died there. But even more striking were the streaks of red. Crimson ran down his wings like rivulets of water, collecting at the edges and at each pointed tip. When Vincent’s wings were spread, they looked as if they were outlined in blood, vivid enough to cut through even the most unforgiving darkness.
The black was unusual, but not unheard of. The red, though, was unique. Each Hiaj or Rishan Heir bore two marks—red on their wings, and another on their body—which appeared when the previous Heir died. Vincent’s Mark was at the base of his throat, just above his clavicle. It was a mesmerizing, ornate design that resembled a full moon and wings, wrapping around the front of his neck in crimson as vibrant as a bleeding wound. I had only seen it a couple of times. He usually covered it beneath high-collared jackets or black silk wrapped tight and neat around his neck.
When I was younger, I had once asked him why he didn’t leave it visible more often. He’d just given me a serious stare and blandly remarked that it was unwise to leave one’s throat exposed.
That answer shouldn’t have surprised me. Vincent was well aware that usurpers lurked around every corner, both outside his walls and within them. Every new king, Hiaj or Rishan, was crowned upon a mountain of corpses. He had been no exception.
I turned away from the painting, just as he said softly, “It’s nearing a full moon. You should have a few more days, but it could begin any time. You need to be ready.”
I swallowed another gulp of water. Still, my mouth tasted ashy. “I know.”
“The start could be anything. She likes it to be… unexpected.”
She. Mother of night, shadow, blood—mother of all vampires. The goddess, Nyaxia.
At any moment, she could trigger the start of the once-in-a-century tribute that the House of Night staged in her honor. A savage tournament of five trials over four months, resulting in only one wi
Vampires from across Obitraes would travel to participate in the Kejari, drawn by the promise of wealth or honor. Dozens of the most powerful warriors from all three houses—the House of Night, the House of Shadow, and the House of Blood—would die in pursuit of this title.
And, most likely, so would I.
But they were fighting for power. I was fighting for survival.
Vincent and I both turned to each other at the same time. He was always pale, his skin nearly matching his silver eyes, but now he seemed a downright sickly shade.
His fear made my own unbearable, but I fought it down with a promise. No. I had trained my entire life for this. I would survive the Kejari. I would win it.
Just like Vincent had before me, two hundred years ago.
He cleared his throat, straightening. “Go change into something decent. We’re going to look at your competition.”