"Now, about the previous patriarch and those who went missing."
Ivan's voice, as always, was steady. Not a tremor of emotion touched the syllables. But the way the room stilled again told the truth: they were all waiting for the weight of that name.
Viktor Volkov.
The only man in living memory feared by every clan. Revered by most. Hated by some.
And missing.
Mikhail Zorya was the first to speak, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. "We all knew something was off the moment the Nosferatu sent those invitations. They've never held a banquet in three centuries, and suddenly, a gala under moonlight? Please."
"They baited the hook perfectly," Irina added, her lips barely moving. "It was vanity. They lured the elders with pageantry and nostalgia."
"And masks," Tatiana muttered. "Don't forget those. The Nosferatu never bare their faces unless they want to lie."
"Which is always," said Dimitri.
A few bitter laughs. They didn't last long.
