The following evening, Caralee awoke to a curious stillness. It was not the jarring sort of consciousness that startled one from sleep, but rather a gradual surfacing from a depthless, dreamless sea. Her limbs were heavy with comfort, her body tangled in silken sheets like a butterfly lulled within its cocoon. As awareness returned, so too did a damp sensation across her cheek. She frowned softly, lifting a languid hand to her face, and found her fingers slick with moisture. Drool.
"How unladylike," she murmured to herself, half-embarrassed, half-amused, as she sat upright and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. Her voice, still husky with sleep, barely carried beyond her lips.
"I must have slept quite deeply," she added, this time aloud, as the door to her chamber creaked open with tentative deliberation.
Lydia's familiar face peered inside, her expression taut with anticipation. Upon seeing that her mistress had indeed roused, she pushed the door open with the grace and purpose of one accustomed to formality.
Behind her, a retinue of young women followed, each clad in simple yet pristine linen uniforms. Their faces were fresh, expressions neutral, their eyes lowered as they swiftly entered the room like a breeze stirring through drapes. They set about their tasks with the practiced coordination of bees in a hive.
Still groggy, Caralee allowed herself to be coaxed from her bed, guided gently but firmly by soft hands and polite insistence. She was ushered into the adjoining chamber, where the warm scent of lavender and orange blossoms hung thick in the steam-laced air. There, waiting for her like an altar of renewal, stood an elegant brass tub filled with fragrant water.
She slipped into the bath, the warmth enveloping her like an embrace. Her attendants lathered, scrubbed, and rinsed in methodical silence. Caralee remained mostly quiet, lost in a hazy reverie. Her mind drifted to the strange tranquility of her rest—no dreams, no visions, just the soft velvet of unconsciousness. It was as if her body, or perhaps her soul, had needed a night of absolute stillness.
After her bath, they wrapped her in thick towels, patted her dry, and began the transformation once more. Layers of fine fabric were draped across her slender frame—silk first, then satin, and finally a deep garnet velvet that clung to her waist before cascading to the floor in regal waves. Her hair was pinned up into a crown of curls, each lock of flame-colored hair twisted and tucked into a masterpiece of sculpted elegance.
She stood before the mirror as they placed the finishing touches upon her, and once again she was confronted by the unfamiliar reflection. A stranger looked back—composed, radiant, imperial. Not the peasant girl who once ran barefoot through fields, who learned to stitch by firelight and read only by candlewick. That girl had been buried in the dirt along with Adele. What stood now was someone else entirely.
Lydia, ever meticulous, had anticipated her needs. She gestured for the other maids to depart and, once alone with Caralee, gave a knowing smile before opening the door once more.
"He is ready, my lady," she said, her tone gentle.
Caralee turned from the mirror, suddenly aware of her hands trembling ever so slightly. Lydia stepped aside, and into the chamber walked a young man with the poise of practiced nobility.
"This is Lord Renauld," Lydia announced. "The son of a neighboring lord whose family has long been allied with His Majesty."
Renauld bowed with fluid grace, his movements courtly and assured. "Your Highness," he said, his voice velvet smooth, "it is my honor to nourish you this day."
Caralee returned the gesture with a small nod, instinctively lowering her gaze in return. Lydia, with her customary tact, gave a polite curtsy and added, "I will be just beyond the door, should you require anything."
As the door clicked softly shut, silence bloomed in its wake, heavy and expectant. Caralee felt her nerves awaken like static beneath her skin.
Sensing her unease, Renauld approached slowly, his every step deliberate and unthreatening. Then, to her surprise, he lowered himself onto his knees before her.
"How would you prefer me, Your Majesty?" he asked, his eyes respectfully downcast.
Caralee blinked, startled by the question. Her lips parted but no words came.
Noticing the confusion on her face, he lifted his gaze. "I mean to ask," he said kindly, "do you prefer to feed from the neck or the wrist?"
Relief washed over her like a tide. "Oh! I—well, whichever is more comfortable for you," she replied, voice small, sheepish.
He smiled gently, the corners of his mouth lifting with genuine warmth. "May I speak freely, my lady?"
She nodded, unsure of what to expect.
"I don't usually engage in gossip," he began, his voice dropping to a softer register, "but I did overhear something… curious. It was said you are newly Turned—mere days, even."
She hesitated, then gave a single solemn nod.
His reaction was instantaneous. The facade of regal decorum fell away, and concern animated every line of his porcelain face. He reached for her hand with unexpected earnestness.
"My lady, forgive me. I had no idea. You must be suffering horribly. To be so close to a feeder… the thirst must be tormenting you."
She blinked. "I… I'm not uncomfortable at all."
He gaped, truly stunned. "That's extraordinary. Remarkable, even. Most fledglings—well, let's just say they would have already had me flat on the floor by now." He chuckled ruefully at his own expense.
Caralee smiled in spite of herself.
Renauld straightened a bit and composed himself once more. "Then allow me to guide you through this, if I may. It would be my great pleasure to offer my humble tutelage in our traditions."
"You would do that for me?" she asked, the sweetness of his offer catching her off guard.
"I would be honored, my lady," he said, placing a hand over his heart with theatrical flair. "You see, my family has served the Crown loyally for generations. We are proud to be among the noble lines that provide feeders for our King's court. It is a duty and a privilege."
He gestured proudly to himself. "We begin our training at sixteen, studying the intricacies of nutrition, health, and discipline. Only those of the finest constitution are permitted to serve. And, as it happens, our lineage shares a rather special bond with His Majesty. A longstanding pact, generations old."
Caralee listened, genuinely captivated. His presence, so graceful and composed, soothed her like warm sunlight. Renauld was no mere servant—he was a scholar of sorts, and a gentleman at heart. He made this terrifying new world seem less alien, less suffocating.
And in this quiet moment, as he extended his wrist with reverent ease, she felt her fangs stir—not with hunger, but with curiosity.