The silence that fell over the stone chamber was thick, sacred. Time itself seemed to kneel.
Nikolai stepped forward beneath the cold silver glow of the moonstone chandelier. His bare feet touched the altar's carved steps—worn smooth by centuries of succession, of bloodline, of vows spoken under the breath of ancestral ghosts.
He could feel them.
Eyes of the Dead.
Watching.
Judging.
Guiding.
Ivan's voice rang out again—this time louder, older, a ritual cadence that did not belong to him alone, but to every Volkov before him.
"Before the moon bore down on our forefathers, before fangs were given name, and fur bore flesh, the Volkov line stood tall. Today, under this sacred roof, we name a new Patriarch."
As his father spoke, an ethereal pulse stirred within the room.
Nikolai's heartbeat slowed.
Each powerful beat sent a flood of oxygen through his body,
His crimson bloodline surged through his body like an untamed storm.
