Page 19

I step into the library and find Graves waiting near the long central table, hands clasped behind his back. Hunter is already there, eyes skimming the bookshelves.

“Sit, please,” Graves says, gesturing to the heavy chairs arranged around the table. I take the one at the head. It feels strange… but right.

Graves doesn’t waste time. “Now that you’ve officially taken the throne, there are responsibilities we need to go over.”

He lays it out clearly and methodically, listing the responsibilities. My position on the King’s Council. The role I carry over BRN leadership, organizing the Shadows. There are the seasonal ceremonies, and making sure the frat maintains its standards: grades, discipline, and participation in the Fury. I am expected to enforce the disciplinary code when necessary.

The longer he talks, the less I pay attention, my mind running in a million directions. It’s all too fucking much. I’m a kid from the Stacks. A kid with no bloodline, a record, and a few semesters of college under my belt. Jesus, I haven’t even declared my major. But I can’t say that. I agreed to the position, but even more, I agreed in front of all the Kings.

“What about the hotel?” I ask, leaning forward. “The Maddox property. Am I supposed to be running that, too?”

Graves gives a sharp shake of his head. “That isn’t your concern. Management structures are already in place. The hotel runs itself, as it has for years.”

Thank God. The last thing I need is to add CEO to my plate.

I glance around the room–the stocked bar in the corner, the knowledge that breakfast and dinner always appear in the dining hall like clockwork. “What about the rest of this place? Who pays the bills or keeps the kitchen stocked? Hires the staff?”

“I do,” Graves answers. “And if you’d like, I can continue in my role under your reign. Or you may hire someone new. The choice is yours.”

“Stay,” I say quickly, then adding, “if you want to.”

The idea of losing him right now feels unbearable.

“I’m happy to.” Graves gives a small nod. “You may also move into the King’s quarters if you’d like. You can bring your Baroness with you.”

The suggestion lands wrong. I know in my soul this position is temporary, but I can’t act like it is. These people need stability. Hunter and Arianette need someone strong to step into the role until things return to normal.

Assuming they ever do. If they don’t… well, fuck us all.

Besides, moving into Timothy’s rooms feels like crossing a line I’m not ready for. Ari wouldn’t like it either. It’s too soon.

“These are all things you can decide on later,” Graves says, reading my hesitation perfectly. “Before your position is fully solidified, you’ll need to attend a small ceremony. Hunter cannot accompany you for this part.” He turns to Hunter and slides a thick, leather-bound book across the table toward him. “You may find this interesting in the meantime.”

Graves exits the room, and I stand, prepared to follow. Hunter takes the book with a nod. “Good luck, man.”

“I hope I don’t need it,” I mutter.

Hunter’s mouth twitches into a smirk as he opens the book. “These days, it seems like we all do.”

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been waiting when the sacristy door finally opens. Graves is cloaked in a deep black robe with the hood pulled low.

We move through the dimly lit back passages of the chapel, our footsteps echoing softly against ancient stone. The air grows cooler and heavier the deeper we descend, carrying the faint scent of incense, wax, and aged earth. We descend a narrow spiral staircase carved into the bedrock, torches flickering in iron sconces along the walls. At the bottom lies a hidden entrance sealed by an old iron door that groans when pushed open.

I step into the small rotunda and feel the shift immediately.

The chamber is perfectly circular, carved deep beneath the chapel. Soft golden candlelight illuminates the space from dozens of tall, black candles arranged in concentric rings. The walls are smooth stone, etched with ancient symbols and faded murals depicting shadowy figures guiding souls through swirling veils. In the center stands a low, perfectly round marble altar, its surface worn smooth by centuries of use. Upon it rests a shallow silver bowl filled with dark liquid and a ceremonial knife with a bone handle wrapped in worn leather.

Several men are already waiting, standing in a half-circle around the altar. Their faces are hidden behind simple black masks, but their presence carries weight. Graves stands slightly apart, acting as facilitator.

One by one, they introduce themselves with low, solemn voices.

“Elias Hawthorne,” says a tall, slender man. “Keeper of Records and Professor of Ancient Studies.”

“Jonas Vale,” follows a broad-shouldered man with a deep, commanding voice. “Counselor of Law. I safeguard our brothers in the courts.”

“Reginald Crowe,” says the third, his posture rigid and authoritative. I recognize him from signs littered about town. He’s a state senator.

It’s quickly explained that they are the House of Night’s Council–the quiet architects who have advised the throne for decades. Their combined presence in the small rotunda makes my ignorance seem vast. What else don’t I know about the Barons? How many other rooms are under this building? And where else do the tunnels lead?