First Intergalactic Emperor: Starting With The Ancient Goddess

Luther lifted one hand and the council quieted, though most of them still glared at Xavier like they wanted to rip his limbs off.

A sharp wave of his hand followed, and they all filed out of the throne room—still grumbling, still cursing, still throwing looks at Xavier as if he’d spat on their ancestors. The doors shut behind them with a heavy thud.

Only Xavier and Luther remained.

Luther settled back into his throne, fingers tapping the armrest, eyes fixed on Xavier as if he was trying to peel open the boy’s skull and read what sat inside.

”So,” Luther said, his tone edged like he couldn’t decide whether to mock him or break his spine. ”You walk into my hall, spit on my council, and announce you want my daughter like she’s something you misplaced in a market. Tell me something. Are you stupid, or have you finally lost whatever brain cells a human can afford to lose?”

Xavier didn’t react to the insult. ”I told you what I want. And what I’ll get.”

”And this nonsense about the Blackwood boy?” Luther’s lip curled. ”You said you plan to kill him. Enlighten me. Why should I take that idiocy seriously?”

”Because it’s already decided,” Xavier replied without blinking. ”I’m going to kill Lucas. Doesn’t matter where he is or what protection he has.”

Luther leaned forward, amused and irritated at the same time. ”You won’t touch that boy. The Blackwood deal is worth more than you could imagine. Your little romance means nothing when weighed against generations of ties, resources, and political leverage.”

Xavier shrugged. ”That’s your problem. I’m not here to convince you or change your plans. I’m telling you ahead of time so you’re not shocked when everything starts burning.”

Luther’s eyes sharpened. ”You talk as if you’ve seen war. You haven’t, boy. You don’t even know who stands behind the Blackwood family. Their strength makes your small ambitions look like children playing with sticks.”

Xavier let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. ”Doesn’t matter. I only need Lucas. Once he’s gone, I’ll take Eleanor and leave this planet before your political friends even know what happened.”

Luther rose from the throne and walked down the steps until they stood face to face again.

He studied Xavier with a gaze cold enough to freeze bone.

”You plan to kill Lucas,” Luther said. ”Then drag my daughter across the stars. And then what? You think you’ll just...live? You think you’ll be happy somewhere? You think the world—or the galaxy—will just let you do that?”

”You asked,” Xavier replied, ”so I’ll answer.”

Luther folded his arms, waiting.

”I’m going to kill Lucas,” Xavier said plainly. ”Then the ones who sent him. Then anyone who thinks I’m easy to hunt. I won’t run. I’ll find them before they find me. I’ll take their heads, their titles, their kingdoms—whatever they try to hide behind. Anyone who tries to bury me will be the first one I dig up.”

Luther’s expression tightened—not fear, not admiration, but something caught between disbelief and curiosity.

”That’s your plan?” Luther asked. ”You want to live hunted forever? You want to ignite a war with the Blackwoods and everything behind them? And for what? For my daughter?”

”For myself,” Xavier said. ”For everything they’ve done to me. For everything I’ll do after. I’m done being pushed. I’m done being hunted. If I have to crush ten million people to keep living the life I want—then that’s fine with me.”

Luther looked at him long and hard, as if trying to find the limit in Xavier’s eyes and realizing there wasn’t one.

”And what,” Luther asked quietly, ”do you plan to become at the end of all this?”

Xavier gave the answer without hesitation.

”Anything that stands in front of me,” he said, ”I’ll break. Anyone who tries to take what’s mine, I’ll erase. And when I’m done... I’ll conquer whatever’s left standing. I don’t care if I have to become the enemy of the universe.”

Luther exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy, as though he’d just heard the most ridiculous or the most dangerous ambition he’d ever encountered.

The hall stayed quiet for a long stretch, nothing but the faint echo of the council’s distant arguments humming through stone walls.

And Luther finally said, ”You’re either going to die very soon... or you’ll make history regret ever underestimating you.”

Xavier didn’t deny either possibility.

He simply waited—for Luther’s answer, his rage, his mockery, whatever came next.

”Your move, Lord of Vampires. Will you help me?”

In response, Luther simply tilted his head a little, as if amused that Xavier even asked.

”What do you want my help with?” he said. ”Whatever scheme you’re cooking, I’m not lifting a finger for it. You can march into the Blackwood mansion, slit the boy’s throat, burn their empire to the ground—do whatever you want. I won’t stop you. But don’t expect me to stand beside you either.”

Xavier held his stare. ”I didn’t ask for approval. I asked if you’d help me.”

”And I answered,” Luther shot back. ”No.”

He stepped closer until they stood close enough that Xavier could smell the faint metallic trace of ancient vampire blood.

”And one more thing,” Luther added. ”Don’t call me the Lord of Vampires. I don’t rule anyone. I was elected to carry the blame when things go wrong. That’s all this throne is. A burden no one else wants. Outside Earth’s shadow, there are dozens of vampire realms—older, richer, and stronger than anything you’ve seen here. If you walk into their territory and call yourself a threat, they’ll turn you into dust before you finish the sentence.”

He paused, looking Xavier up and down with a cold grin.

”And you? You’re not even one of us. Not fully. A stray. A patchwork mistake. A vampire bastard, if we’re being polite about it.”

Xavier didn’t bother responding. The insult didn’t land the way Luther wanted; if anything, Xavier looked like he’d been called something mildly inconvenient, like his shirt didn’t fit right.

He turned and walked to the throne room doors.

When they swung open, the entire council was standing outside—as if they’d been waiting, listening, hoping to see him crawl out battered and humiliated.

Dozens of crimson eyes locked onto him.

Not one of them friendly.

Xavier met their looks with the same expression he’d use when stepping over trash on the sidewalk. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He didn’t even acknowledge their rank or status.

He paused at the threshold, planted his boots, and looked at each of them. Then he spoke, loud enough that every whisper died and every head turned. Luther was also observing him with a curious look on his face.

”You lot can spend a week trading stories in the dark about Eleanor—combing through her life like scavengers—and none of you has the spine to say any of it to her face. You’ll tuck your insults into corners, hand them off like pastries, and leave the mess for someone else to clean. Save your speeches for when no one answers back; that’s where your bravery lives. Show it to me now, if you’ve got any left.”

The barb landed. A cluster of elders flinched as if struck. Someone behind him spat a curse through clenched teeth. The council shivered between outrage and awkward silence; their practiced hauteur slipped for a second and left the ugly little men underneath exposed. Luther’s gaze didn’t change—he let the room burn itself—but the rest of them, the ones who’d murmured and snickered about Reva in private, suddenly realized how naked their small cruelties looked under that sentence.

Reva’s face tightened as she heard it all from the other side of the corridor. For a breath she looked as if she might step back and hide, then she walked forward. Her steps were hurried, uneven; she’d been running the halls searching for him, and the sight of him standing there—calm, dangerous, done with patience—slammed into her like a hand to the ribs.

”You came to insult them,” she said, voice raw where it should have been steadier. ”You didn’t have to do that.”

Xavier turned to her and the irritation folded out of his posture. He stepped closer and took her hand without fanfare—not a show, just the small, solid action of a man anchoring something fragile.

”I didn’t come for the show,” he said. ”I came because you’re in a room where people practice conversations about you like devils practice prayers. That’s not my idea of family. I came because I don’t want you to learn what they say behind closed doors from strangers in the night.”

She swallowed, eyes fierce and wet. ”You shouldn’t have done it. You could have made this worse.”

He met her there. He lowered his voice so the council’s echo couldn’t twist it into a scandalous tale. ”If it makes things worse for them, good. They deserve a mirror. If it makes things worse for us, I’ll fix that too. I promised you—remember? I don’t step back from what I start.”

She searched his face like someone checking coordinates, looking for the part of him that lied. Finding it absent, she let out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob and squeezed his hand. ”Don’t leave me,” she said, so small it was almost private.

He threaded his thumb over her knuckles and kept his answer quiet and clean. ”I won’t disappear. Not now. Not ever.” Then, because the world outside their small circle still existed and because their enemies loved to overhear, he dropped his voice just enough to carry: ”But if anyone dares touch you, they’ll wake up with less than a name to their memory. That’s on me.”

Reva blinked, tried to smile through whatever had been building behind her eyes, and for a second she looked like the girl before any of the bloodlines and titles and politics had found her. Xavier stayed with her a beat longer, then pulled her gently inside the chamber and closed the door behind them, leaving the council to taste the echo of his words.