Derick sat on the rooftop, looking at the sunset. But if one looked closely, his eyes were distant, vacant, and lifeless, making them appear hollow.
Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, causing Derick to blink. He turned his head slowly to see who it was.
"Vyselle," Derick called, squinting his almond-shaped eyes.
"Hmm," Vyselle hummed in response.
"Another nightmare?" she asked.
Derick sighed and nodded.
Vyselle came closer and sat on his lap, hugging his back in comfort. Derick couldn't help but close his eyes in silence, feeling the moment.
Even if the hug didn't help much, it still kept him warm. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her lavender scent.
Vyselle was already getting her hormones up. Derick, noticing this, wasted no time taking action. Ripping off her clothes, they both gave in to a night filled with passion, pleasure, and pain—caring less about anyone who might be nearby.
One was Derick, the crown prince, and the other was Vyselle D'Andor, a noble lady. So who dared interfere?
Meanwhile, after her conversation with King Gorton, Eira returned to her room, thinking about the tragic death of the ex-crown prince and how wicked humans could be.
If someone had told her it was nature or man responsible, she would have rebuked it immediately. But then again, what would the king gain by lying? Two words kept echoing in Eira's ears nonstop:
"Prophecy."
"Curse."
This gave Eira more reason to back out of this so-called crown princess contest. She didn't want it. She didn't want anything that would put her on a rollercoaster or tangle her fingers in anyone's mess.
The contest would last for two months, as stated. A lot of events were bound to happen. And in those two months, Eira made a mental note to distance herself from all royals in the castle.
A hunch told her there were a lot of mad people in this castle.
Eira asked a guard for a castle map—with great difficulty and many excuses. When it was finally in her hands, she wasted no time mapping out the routes the king, his son, wives, and princesses usually took.
"What the hell do prophecy and curse have to do with me?" Eira thought with a smirk. One moment, he's threatening her people and acting like some royal executioner, and the next, he's rambling apologies and talking garbage about fate.
"Tch. Who's fooling who?" she muttered, clicking her tongue.
Kicking off her shoes, she decided a bath might help her forget his ridiculous performance.
Inside the bathing chamber, she found everything had already been prepared. The wide stone soak tub, nestled in the floor and surrounded by polished white tiles, steamed gently—clearly warmed with care. Petals floated lazily on the surface, and scented oils lingered in the air.
Stripping off her clothes, Eira stepped in—and immediately jumped back out with a gasp.
"Why is it hot? Who asked for hot water?" she snapped at the air, as if someone were lurking behind the steam. She hated warm baths. Cold water was the only thing that ever made her feel truly alive.
With an irritated sigh, she grabbed the nearby ladle and uncorked the jar of chilled spring water the maids had left for emergencies. Scoop after scoop, she poured it in, swirling the bath until the steam thinned and the water stopped threatening to scald her soul.
Finally, she stepped in again, this time with a content sigh. The coolness wrapped around her like silk. Her mind, however, remained anything but calm.
That silver-haired man… whoever he was—too well-dressed to be a simple guest, too commanding to be an escort—what was he even on about? And then the king talked about—Prophecies. Curses. Redemption.
"And I'm supposed to believe all that?" she mumbled, dunking her shoulders deeper into the water. "He must think I'm some country fool."
Still, the look in that silver-haired fang boy's eyes haunted her slightly. Not out of fear—but out of something stranger. Recognition.
Eira shook her head a thousand and one times to push every thought concerning the king, his words, or even that silver-haired whatever aside. She focused on enjoying her bath, and anything else could come later.
After spending what felt like centuries in the bathtub, Eira felt too lazy to come out. Her body ached everywhere. She screamed tired. After much contemplation—and realizing no one was coming to her aid, and this wasn't her father's castle—she reluctantly got out on her own.
She rummaged through her clothes rack, looking for one of her sexy nighties. She had always had a knack for sleeping bare or wearing very light, revealing clothes to bed—and she was used to it.
As composed and calm as Eira seemed when it came to kingdom affairs and dedication, she was reckless when it came to her own needs.
After finding the clothes that fit the night's weather, she didn't bother fixing the rack. Instead, she went straight to bed, thinking about the following day.
The contest was meant to begin two days ago, but due to contestants arriving from distant lands, it had been postponed to the next day. So whoever was contesting should have arrived today, and the contest would begin tomorrow.
Eira couldn't wait—not because she wanted to win, but because she was intrigued. She wanted to know what it felt like to encounter a vampire in the ancient world (vaykolakas). And also, it marked the beginning of her disqualification plan. Eira promised herself she'd do everything in her power to get disqualified. She thought about it all night until nature eventually enveloped her.
Meanwhile, back at the rooftop—after the wild passion and pleasure they'd just shared—Vyselle was breathless, her muscles drained. Derick still remained stoic and composed, as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, his voice broke through Vyselle's resting moment.
"Are you also joining the contest?" he asked nonchalantly.
Vyselle studied him for a bit before nodding.
"Yes, I am," she said, closing her eyes slightly.