The night Exaltation was born smelled of smoke, citrus, and rain.

Lysander Blackwell stood at the center of the abandoned marble courtyard, barefoot on the cold stone, his strawberry-blonde hair dampened by the mist drifting from the broken fountain behind him. The moon cast him in silver, softening the vicious sharpness in his smile. A ring of candles flickered at his feet, forming a circle that felt more like a throne than a ritual.

People gathered in the shadows—curious, lost, hungry for something they couldn’t yet name. Drawn by whispers of a man who promised liberation, drawn by the strange magnetic pull of someone who seemed made of temptation itself.

But Lysander did not turn toward them. He turned toward him.

Bastian Nightshade emerged from the dark like he had been carved out of it—towering, stoic, those grey eyes flicking immediately to Lysander as though the rest of the world were irrelevant. Rain slid down the scar along his temple, vanishing into his jawline. He crossed the courtyard with steady, heavy steps, every ounce of him danger wrapped in devotion.

“Is this it?” Bastian murmured, his deep voice low enough that only Lysander could hear. “Your beginning?”

Lysander tilted his head, the faintest smirk touching his lips. “Our beginning.”

He reached up, fingers brushing Bastian’s cheek, soft against the roughness of old wounds. Bastian’s breath stilled—like even contact with Lysander was enough to unravel him.

Behind them, the murmuring crowd grew restless, eager, losing their fear in the presence of something holy and wicked all at once.

Lysander finally stepped back, turning to them with an otherworldly ease. His voice carried effortlessly, warm and intoxicating.

“Tonight,” he said, “you shed your chains. Tonight you become more than the world allowed you to be.”

The crowd leaned in.

Bastian watched from behind him, expression unreadable but posture protective—ready to act, ready to follow, ready to tear apart anyone who threatened the man before him.

Lysander glanced back at him once, just once, and something unspoken passed between them. A promise. A warning. A crown.

And then he raised his arms, candlelight painting golden halos across his skin.

“Welcome,” Lysander breathed, “to Exaltation.”

The courtyard erupted—not with applause, but with a collective exhale, a surrender, a fall into something both beautiful and damning.

And in the very center of the storm, Lysander glowed.

While behind him, Bastian watched with the silent, unshakeable devotion of a man who would burn the world to keep that glow alive.

Their reign had begun long before the world realized it. Tonight simply made it visible.