Chapter Three: The Blood of a Lost Era
The carriage moved slowly—too slowly for her taste.
Esterphania sat with her back straight against the plush black velvet, her eyes narrowed at the golden-embroidered curtain swaying beside her. The polished black stallions pulling the royal carriage trotted with rhythmic pride, hooves clopping against the wide stone road leading into the heart of the Lycan Capital.
But outside, it wasn't the road that mattered.
It was the crowd.
The people had gathered in droves. Lycans, tall and sinewy, clothed in rich leathers and furs, stood on rooftops, scaled walls, and even clung to balconies, all desperate for a glimpse of the girl who had become a wildfire rumor overnight. Werewolves, distinguishable by their silvery marks and softer builds, formed crowds along the lower tiers. Even the guards struggled to contain them.
Inside the carriage, Esterphania could hear the noise. Murmurs. Whispers. Chants.
"She's the child of Silvia the Firebrand."
"They say she burned her own village down in rage."
"No! She stared down the king himself and he bowed."
"Half-demon, half-vampire—they should have executed her."
"She's beautiful. Deadly. Royalty, they say."
"De Von Silver's daughter."
They were wrong on many counts, but Esterphania didn't care.
Let them talk.
Let them fear.
She pulled the curtain aside slightly—and hundreds of eyes turned toward her, as though sensing her presence.
There was silence. Then a sudden howl.
One wolf, then two, then a hundred.
A salute.
She dropped the curtain, her small fingers trembling faintly. It wasn't fear.
It was... something else. A weight she couldn't yet name.
---
It hadn't even been a day since the king—the great Lucien de Von Silver—had taken her hand and led her out of that ruined house, away from her mother's body, and into legend. The palace healers tried to scrub her clean, dress her in silks and obsidian lace, braid her wild red hair, and call her "My Lady."
But her eyes had not changed.
And neither had the fire sleeping beneath her skin.
King Lucien sat across from her now, arms folded behind his back. His expression was unreadable, his golden eyes scanning the skyline.
"You've caused quite a stir," he said quietly.
"I didn't do anything," she replied.
"Exactly."
That answer confused her.
"Your very existence is a disruption. You are demon. You are vampire. And now—by law and blood—you are Lycan royalty. You are what never should have been."
"Do you regret it already?" she asked.
"No," he said without hesitation.
There was a pause.
"Then why tell me all this?"
"Because I want you to understand the weight of your blood."
And so, as the carriage rolled through the ancient gates of Silverkeep—home of the Lycans—the king gave her a history not found in human books.
---
There were once six continents, each ruled by their own kind.
Fay, the land of angels—pure, radiant beings who walked with light in their veins and judgment in their hands. They were the Supreme rulers once, revered above all.
Declare, the land of demons—cunning, powerful, and ruthless. Their power rivaled the angels', for demons were born not just of darkness, but of balance. The strongest of them wielded both holy and dark magic, making them unpredictable and nearly indomitable.
Denyrus, the land of Lycans—noble, wild, disciplined. Their strength came from unity, and their loyalty to law was unmatched. Though third in power, they held firm ground against all others.
Benuma, the land of Vampires—graceful, terrifying, eternal. Their magic was subtle and cruel, their bite more than death. They nearly matched the Lycans in power, but sunlight cursed them and time could not forgive their betrayal.
Nyrus, the land of Werewolves—cousins of Lycans, lesser in strength but numerous and swift. Loyal to the Lycans by bloodline and war.
And finally, Earth, the land of humans. The weakest. The blind. The oblivious.
And for a time, there was peace.
Until the War of Thrones.
The demons, questioning why angels should rule over all, rose in rebellion. And rightfully so. Their magic was equal, sometimes stronger, and their will was unbreakable. But the angels had always been viewed as the light—blameless, chosen, divine. The demons, shrouded in ancient sins, were cast aside as evil.
The Lycans remained neutral at first. As did the werewolves. But neutrality was a luxury war refused to tolerate.
The angels, desperate and dying, turned to the Lycans for help.
King Lucien's ancestors said no.
But when the demons burned half the angelic cities to the ground and began tearing into the balance of magic itself, the Lycans acted. With werewolves by their side, they struck—and the alliance turned the tide.
The war ended, but not without cost.
Every angel was gone.
Every demon, hunted to extinction.
At least, that's what they believed.
The vampires? They had watched. Waited. And when the angels and demons were dust, they turned their gaze to the throne.
They did not like what they saw.
Lycans crowned as rulers of the Six.
And so, the vampires rebelled—not with blades, but with fangs. Not against the Lycans directly, but against the humans.
They hunted what all were meant to protect.
That was when trust shattered.
And when the vampires burned human villages, the Lycan King declared them traitors.
All vampires and demons are henceforth enemies of the realm.
Now… imagine the whispers when the new heir to the Lycan throne carried both those bloodlines.
---
Esterphania listened to every word without interruption. When Lucien finished, she turned her head to him slowly.
"So," she said, "everyone will hate me."
"Yes."
She turned back toward the window.
"Good."
Lucien arched a brow. "That doesn't trouble you?"
"It should," she said honestly. "But it doesn't."
He almost smiled.
The carriage slowed and the sound of drums echoed faintly ahead. The gates of the castle had opened. Through the slitted curtains, she caught glimpses of banners—black wolves howling under silver moons—and guards in armor saluting sharply as the carriage passed.
The royal court had already assembled in the grand plaza.
Dukes, nobles, generals, scholars, and elder wolves from both Denyrus and Nyrus waited with baited breath. Some knelt. Some refused. All stared.
As the carriage came to a halt, a footman opened the door.
Esterphania stepped out.
Her hair was a cascading flame of crimson down her back. Her skin was moon-pale, lips full, eyes glowing like old embers. She looked too young for legend, too small for fear. And yet… the silence that fell was heavy.
The Lycan King stepped forward beside her.
"This is my daughter," he said clearly. "By blood and by bond. Esterphania de Von Silver."
Gasps rippled.
"She is not to be touched. Not to be threatened. She is under my protection, and by extension, under the protection of the Silver Crown."
He did not say she was a half-demon.
He did not say she was a half-vampire.
But they knew.
They all knew.
And so the first steps were taken—into the castle, into destiny, and into a future none of them could yet imagine.
Because the girl they feared… the girl with demon fire and vampire ice…
was now a princess of the last ruling bloodline.
And some whispered she would be their end.
Or their only hope.