Merrick stood still for a moment, the flicker of firelight glinting off the aged tomes around them, before he began again.
"The sacred bloodline, once feared hunters of our kind, the champions of humanity, had to disguise themselves. The brotherhood itself became an established organisation. They were known as the Dominican Order," he continued. "To the human world, the order was established by Saint Dominic in 1216. After the great crusade that sought to eradicate them, they had to be something else, so they were the Order of Preachers. The truth of their origins, of their purpose, of their very nature, remained a closely guarded secret."
He turned a page in the heavy tome before him. The inked images were grim and symbolic, a lineage of deception masked in piety.
"At the close of the eighteenth century, the balance once again teetered on the edge of collapse," he said, his tone heavier now. "Another betrayal, from within our own ranks."
Caralee listened, transfixed.
"The house of Ennok that had once allied itself with zealots resurfaced. This time, their corruption ran deep, reaching into the heart of the French monarchy. They managed to become entangled with many higher ranking members of the House of Rügl, somehow winning key individuals to their cause. We still don't know how they did it, what cunning plots they carried out, or what sums of riches were large enough to be tempting to those once believed loyal. They leaked our secrets—proof not only that vampires still walked the earth, but that we had rebuilt. That our numbers had swelled, and once again, we sat in the gilded thrones of society."
His lips curled in distaste. "But worse still, they revealed the survival of the sacred bloodline."
Caralee's breath hitched.
"They struck in secret," Merrick said, his voice dark with reverence and rage. "So we retaliated with the fury of God. The Reign of Terror—our retaliation, cloaked as revolution. Tens of thousands perished. The traitorous house of Ennok was purged. But in the aftermath, we were forced into hiding once more."
Caralee's skin prickled.
"This time," Merrick continued, "the sacred bloodline had to vanish completely. For their protection, those of mortal descent were hidden among peasants. Concealed within the folds of anonymity. It was hoped they would procreate, they would quietly carry the legacy forward. Then as the children born of their lineage came old enough to begin training in their ancient ways they would return to our kind."
He walked slowly to the window, his voice almost a whisper now. "One by one, they were found. Killed. Assassinated. Until only one remained."
Caralee's chest tightened.
"This final descendant—the last bearer of the sacred blood, the one created for balance, born to rule—was never meant to fight. Only to live. To grow, to love, to birth a child or two... and then, to be turned. To receive her birthright."
She blinked.
"So... the ruler of all vampires is technically a human?" she asked, awed.
Merrick turned back to her, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
"Not anymore," he said softly.
Her eyes widened. "But... you just said—"
He stepped toward her. "She was meant to do those things. But once her cousins were lost, action was required. There could be no legacy if the line was extinguished. Her father, desperate, signed a marriage contract with the most trusted of the remaining kings. To protect her. To teach her. To allow her to live."
He took another step.
"I still don't understand what this has to do with me," Caralee whispered, her hands trembling.
Merrick tilted his head. "I think you do, Caralee."
She backed away, shaking her head. "No. No. You're wrong. There's been a mistake."
"There hasn't."
"Yes, there has!" Her voice rose. "I'm... I'm just me! A servant. A peasant. I'm not some long-lost vampire princess!"
"Yes, Caralee. You are."
"No, I'm not! You made a mistake somewhere. Somebody messed up."
"Caralee—"
"No. I'm not the one. I'm nobody."
"You are somebody. You are the somebody."
"No, I'm not. I can't be. And when you find the real one, you're going to have me executed for impersonating her or something."
Tears fell. Her chest heaved as panic overtook her.
"Caralee," Merrick said again, moving closer, grasping her shoulders, locking eyes with her.
"No."
"Cara."
"No."
"Caralee."
"NO."
"CARALEE."
"Stop!"
"CARALEE! CARALEE STOP THIS INSTANT! YOU ARE THE ONE, ACCEPT IT AND LEARN TO BE AT PEACE WITH IT, THE SOONER, THE BETTER."
His voice thundered through the room, resounding with an ancient command. The sheer power of it struck her like a gale. Her body went rigid. The tears ceased. Her thoughts stilled. The chaos within her collapsed into sudden silence.
But as the stillness settled, a slow, burning fury rose up in her. Merrick saw it in her eyes—the pain, the fear, the defiance. And he realized what he'd done.
He released her immediately, his hands dropping as shame washed over him.
"I..." he stammered, his voice quieter now. "I'm sorry, Caralee. That was... an overreach. I shouldn't have. I didn't think."
She broke then. Her body shook as sobs racked through her, her hands covering her face. Merrick reached out instinctively, but paused—his hand suspended in the air. Then, slowly, he lowered it.
"I'm not hungry," he said quietly. "You may return to the dining room if you wish."
She didn't respond.
"That is enough history for one night. I know you have more questions. Tomorrow. We'll continue tomorrow."
And with that, he turned and swept out of the room, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind.
Moments later, servants arrived, tentative and silent, after asking if she wanted to return to the dinning room, only to be met with her head shake through torrents of sons, indicating that she had no desire for food, they ushered Caralee back to her chambers.
She did not resist. Her appetite was gone. Her heart was heavy. And the weight of her own heritage had never felt so crushing.