Twelve hours ter, the Council of Evolved reconvened in the conference chamber. Nova had spent the interim period at Lucius's side, speaking to him continuously despite receiving no response. Valerian had alternated between military briefings—ensuring vampire society remained stable despite their king's incapacitation—and silent vigils beside his brother. The others had maintained their respective governance responsibilities while preparing for Dr. Farhaven's assessment.

  The psychologist entered exactly when promised, carrying a single data tablet rather than the extensive notes from her previous session. Her expression remained professionally neutral, though something in her eyes suggested the weight of what she had discovered.

  "Thank you for your patience," she began, taking her seat at the conference table. "I've completed my preliminary assessment of His Majesty's condition based on the information provided by all of you."

  The Council members leaned forward slightly, their centuries of aristocratic composure strained by genuine concern. Nova made no attempt to hide his anxiety, his transformed physiology still new enough that emotional control remained challenging.

  "His Majesty is experiencing what we would clinically term a profound cognitive dissonance," Dr. Farhaven expined. "Essentially, his mind has encountered information that so fundamentally contradicts his core beliefs about himself and reality that he cannot process it."

  "You mean Nova's decration of love," Valerian stated, his military directness cutting to the heart of the matter.

  "Yes," Dr. Farhaven confirmed. "But to understand why those particur words triggered such a catastrophic response, we need to examine His Majesty's foundational beliefs about himself."

  She activated her tablet, bringing up a chronological analysis that spanned over two millennia. "Based on my interviews with Archduke Valerian about their earliest years, His Majesty—then a nameless street child—was never loved by anyone except his brother. Not even his own mother who gave birth to him showed any affection or care."

  Valerian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at these words, but he offered no correction to her assessment.

  "From his earliest consciousness, His Majesty's existence had a single purpose: protecting his younger brother. He had no intrinsic value beyond this function. His mother used him for whatever money he could provide. Society didn't even acknowledge his existence—no name, no documentation, no recognition."

  Dr. Farhaven scrolled through her analysis to the period immediately after the Evolution. "Then came the transformation. In an instant, he went from being completely invisible to responsible for creating an entirely new species and triggering what was effectively an apocalypse. The guilt from this unintentional act has shaped every decision he's made for the past two thousand years."

  Nova's expression darkened with understanding. "His entire governance approach... the reforms, the careful guidance of vampire society... it's all been atonement."

  "Precisely," Dr. Farhaven confirmed. "But here's what's truly remarkable—and tragic—about His Majesty's psychological framework. Despite guiding vampire society for two millennia, despite quite literally creating your species, despite implementing reforms that have objectively improved conditions across all territories... he has never once been properly thanked."

  The Council members exchanged uncomfortable gnces, the truth of this observation impossible to deny.

  "Think about it," Dr. Farhaven continued. "No vampire has ever genuinely thanked him for their existence. No noble has expressed gratitude for his guidance. No territory has acknowledged his contributions without some political agenda. His accomplishments have been taken for granted, his sacrifices unrecognized, his efforts considered merely his obligation as king."

  Baron Cassian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We respected his authority..."

  "Respect is not gratitude," Dr. Farhaven corrected gently. "And authority is not love."

  She turned to Valerian. "Even your retionship, which is perhaps the only genuine connection he's maintained across millennia, is complicated by your history. Based on my analysis, His Majesty likely doesn't even fully recognize your love for him, attributing your devotion to the fact that he raised you. In his mind, you're loyal because he protected you as a child, not because you genuinely value him as a person."

  Valerian's military composure wavered slightly, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he regained control.

  "His entire existence has been defined by a single core belief," Dr. Farhaven expined. "He is fundamentally unlovable. He can be useful. He can be powerful. He can be respected or feared or obeyed. But loved? Genuinely loved for himself, rather than his function or position or capabilities? His mind has no framework for processing this possibility."

  She looked directly at Nova. "When you decred your love, you presented information that his mind cannot integrate into his understanding of reality. It's as if you told him gravity doesn't exist or that water isn't wet. His cognitive framework literally cannot accommodate this new information."

  Nova's expression reflected dawning comprehension. "That's why he said 'system error' and 'recalcution required.' His mind was trying to process something it couldn't fit into its existing understanding of reality."

  "Exactly," Dr. Farhaven confirmed. "And when reconciliation proved impossible, his mind essentially shut down rather than continue trying to integrate fundamentally incompatible information."

  She returned to her analysis, highlighting specific patterns across different time periods. "There's more to consider. His Majesty carries an immense burden of guilt from being the source of what was effectively an apocalypse. Every suffering human, every blood farm victim, every resource exploitation across two millennia—he feels personally responsible for all of it."

  "But that's absurd," Count Dominic objected. "He didn't choose to transform. He didn't establish blood farms. He didn't create resource exploitation."

  "Logically, you're correct," Dr. Farhaven acknowledged. "But psychologically, his sense of responsibility doesn't make those distinctions. In his mind, none of it would have happened if he hadn't been transformed into Subject 23. Therefore, all of it is ultimately his responsibility."

  She scrolled to a different section of her analysis. "This burden of guilt has shaped his entire approach to governance. Every reform, every progressive policy, every effort to improve vampire society—they've all been attempts at atonement for what he views as his original sin."

  "And has anyone ever acknowledged these efforts?" Dr. Farhaven asked, looking around the table. "Has anyone ever thanked him for creating them, even if not by choice? Has anyone told him how much his work meant to them? Has anyone ever recognized his sacrifices with genuine gratitude rather than political formality?"

  The silence that followed provided its own answer.

  "In two thousand years of existence," Dr. Farhaven continued, her voice gentle but firm, "His Majesty has never been praised for his hard work. Never been genuinely thanked for his contributions. Never been loved simply for who he is rather than what he can provide."

  She set her tablet down and looked at each Council member in turn. "Given this psychological framework, is it any wonder that Nova's simple decration of love triggered a complete system shutdown? His mind encountered information it had no capacity to process—the possibility that he himself, not his position or power or capabilities, but his essential self... might actually be loved."