II: A Night of Ruin 1

*Capitulo Dos*

The grand banquet hall of Casa DelFierro shimmered with opulence. Velvet drapes in deep hues of crimson and gold adorned the walls, while crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over the gathering. The aroma of gourmet dishes and the sweet scent of exotic flowers created an atmosphere of luxury and indulgence.

Allistair entered the hall with his family by his side. His father, Alexander Vaughn Fretzellis-Rosewood, led the way, his dark suit accentuating his commanding presence. Raine Lune Rosewood-Fretzellis walked beside him in a white suit, his calm demeanor contrasting with the grandeur of the setting. Allex Xaine Fretzellis followed, her golden-streaked hair and confident stride drawing attention.

As they approached the king’s table, Allistair’s eyes locked with King Samael Lucian DelFierro. Samael, resplendent in a deep crimson suit and golden crown, commanded the hall like a storm given flesh. When their gazes collided, sparks of fury lit the air, the tension so sharp it threatened to slice through the silence.

Inside Allistair, Lilione growled.

“Steady yourself, Allistair. He wants you to snap first.”

Allistair’s lips twisted faintly.

“Don’t worry. I won’t give him the satisfaction… unless he asks for it."

Samael’s smirk carved across his face like a blade.

“Well, well. The runaway pup dares to stand before me again. Tell me, Allistair—did you walk here on your own, or did your father beg me to fetch you like last time?”

Lilione snarled, sharp and protective.

“Insufferable bastard. Let me claw that smugness off his face.”

Allistair chuckled darkly.

“At least I don’t hide behind a crown and call it strength. Or is burning down someone’s home your version of diplomacy?”

For a moment, Samael’s expression faltered, his smirk cracking under the weight of memory. His hand twitched at his side.

Inside him, Morgan growled.

“He mocks you, Samael. Don’t let the pup think he has power.”

But his tone lacked his usual steel. It wavered, unsettled.

Lucan stirred from the shadows of Samael’s mind, his voice low and guttural.

“Break him… tear him apart…” The Beast paused, the growl hitching. “…yet his presence… quiets me. Irritating. I want to rage, but he… dulls the fire.”

Morgan echoed, frustrated.

“It’s the same for me. His scent… his defiance… it should enrage me. But instead, it steadies something inside. I don’t like it.”

Samael’s fists clenched, his rage burning hotter because of the confusion inside him.

“Shut up. Both of you.”

He snapped his gaze back to Allistair, venom in his words.

“Careful, boy. That fire brought you home. If I wanted, I could’ve reduced more than your house to ash.”

Allistair’s smirk sharpened.

“And yet, for all your fire, you couldn’t burn away your own emptiness. You reek of loneliness, King.”

Lucan roared, but not with hunger—more with frustration.

“Why does his voice calm me?! This is wrong. I want to destroy him—yet the urge slips away when I look at him!”

Morgan growled low, conflicted.

“It’s the same. His presence is… infuriating. He makes me restless, but not with rage. With something I can’t name.”

Samael’s lips curled, fury barely restrained.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who should be on their knees.”

Allistair’s hand tightened more until it bleeds.

“Try me. You’ll see I don’t kneel to tyrants.”

Lilione’s voice rang fierce in his chest.

“Yes, Allistair. Don’t kneel. Not to him. Never.”

The last thread snapped—Samael lunged forward, seizing Allistair by the collar, dragging him across the king’s table. In the same instant, Allistair’s fist connected with Samael’s jaw, the crack echoing through the hall.

Nobles gasped, chairs screeched against the floor as chaos erupted.

“Saints above—!” one noble shrieked.

“They’ll kill each other!” cried another

At the side, the king’s companions observed with sharp eyes.

Caius Knight Black of the Nightshade Pack muttered to Damian Slovan Sletherion of the Ironclad Pack, his voice like silk woven with shadow.

“The king’s mood is darker than usual. He should’ve kept his distance from Allistair.”

Damian grunted, his tone like rolling thunder.

“Dangerous words, Caius. But true. This clash was inevitable.”

Rowan Seres Velden of the Stormrider Pack smirked faintly, stormlight in his gaze.

“Let’s pray the storm remains metaphorical tonight. I’d rather not summon lightning to keep them apart.”

Fierro Slater Daughenrov of the Emberheart Pack leaned forward, eyes glinting like embers.

“Metaphorical? No. With the king’s temper and Allistair’s mouth, chaos was promised the moment they locked eyes. Tonight will be painted in blood.”

And as the first drops of crimson splattered against the polished floor, it was clear Fierro was right.