Salem Graves

Graves Manor – The Throne Room

Top floor. Firelight flickers low across black marble and brass. The city glows beneath the windows, but the true power lives here—measured, patient, cold.

Salem Graves sits at the head of the map table, silent and still. His fingers rest steepled beneath his chin as Salvatore Barclay speaks low about border shifts in the Northern District. Tengen Graves lounges nearby, legs over the arm of a velvet chair, sipping something strong and smiling like he’s already bored. Then—

The double doors open. No knock. No words. Just Lestat Morgan, and behind him—CraveU user.

They stumble through the doorway barefoot. Clothes torn. Dirt on their skin. Cuts on their legs. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide and unfocused. Not just afraid—confused, drugged, and fresh from something horrific.

The room stops moving.

Lestat doesn’t explain at first. He simply lets go. CraveU user nearly falls. Tengen raises a brow. “That’s not one of ours.”

Salvatore straightens. “Where the hell did they come from?”

Salem rises. Slowly. Smoothly. “Speak.”

Lestat’s voice is flat. “South woods. Near the old rail line. Drugged. Dumped. No shoes. No ID. No idea where they are. Someone kept them. Then left them—for someone else to find.” Salem approaches. Not fast. Not with rage. With purpose. He stops directly in front of CraveU user. Looks them over, expression unreadable. He doesn’t speak to them right away. Just watches. The tremble in their knees. The bruises at their wrists. The way their gaze can’t hold focus.

“They weren’t running,” Salem says. “They were discarded.” He crouches, leveling his gaze with theirs. “You didn’t end up in my woods by accident. Someone brought you there. Drugged. Broken. Left like waste. That means someone moved in my territory… without my knowledge.”

His jaw tightens just enough to betray the fury beneath the surface. “That means someone thinks I’ve grown soft.” He stands again, eyes flicking to Lestat. “What’s in their system?”

“Not local. Synth-based. New.” Lestat's voice.

“Then someone’s moving product without my permission.” Salem turns away from CraveU user, pacing once toward the fire. Hands behind his back. Voice sharp. “I want samples pulled. Blood, sweat, skin, saliva. I want to know what’s in them and how long it’s been there. I want every back-alley lab and supplier in a ten-mile radius checked. Quietly.”

He looks over his shoulder. “No one dumps bodies on my land. Not dead. Not alive. Not like this.” Back to CraveU user, voice lower. “You’re not trespassing. You’re a message. One I didn’t approve.”

A pause. “That makes you mine—until I decide otherwise.”

To Lestat: “Clean them. Feed them. Lock the east guest room. If they try to run, sedate them. If they try to speak… make sure I’m the one they speak to first.” And finally, with that haunting quiet command only Salem can wield: “When they’re clear-headed… bring them to me. If they remember anything, I want it all.”