Ariella
Silvermoon keep
Silvercliff Hold,
Kingdom of Arcadia
Southern Continent
New World
April 19th 6415
The Demon Wolf's presence was suffocating—like a primal shadow stretching to fill every corner of the throne room. It wasn't just felt; it was inside the space, saturating the air until each breath felt heavy. The walls themselves seemed to bow under it, the cold stone straining to contain something that should have been running free under blood-red moons.
It was nothing like Jack Kuria's presence.
Jack's aura was a quiet ocean—subdued, repressed, layered with discipline and stillness, even when it hinted at the abyss lurking beneath. You could stand near Jack and almost forget the power was there, until it decided to wake.
King Alexander's was the opposite. His presence struck first and lingered, all teeth and fire, an unrestrained force that threatened to swallow the room whole. It was savage—feral in a way that made every instinct scream predator. And yet, beneath that raw brutality, there was an unnerving precision.
Every surge of killing intent was pulled back at the exact threshold of violence, every flare of power reined in just before it could crush the life from the room. It was control wielded with the same confidence as a blade, an irony that made the wildness feel even more dangerous—like staring into the eyes of a beast that chose not to kill you, and could just as easily change its mind.
The throne room's light shifted as he leaned forward, the glow of the silver braziers catching on his features.
King Alexander was a figure carved from the same steel as his presence—sharp, deliberate, and commanding. His hair was silver-blonde, not the dull grey of age but the burnished sheen of moonlight on fresh-forged metal, each strand catching the light with an almost predatory gleam. His skin was pale and flawless, the kind of fair that spoke of old nobility and bloodlines untouched by time.
And his eyes—cold, crystalline blue—held the room in an unblinking grip. They weren't just the eyes of a king; they were the eyes of a hunter who had seen centuries pass and had never once been bested. There was no warmth in them, only a deep, assessing calculation that measured everything it saw against its worth.
He sat on his throne like it was an extension of himself—sprawled just enough to exude dominance, but upright enough to remind you that every muscle was ready to move. His armor was blackened steel chased with silver filigree, and the pauldrons at his shoulders were shaped into snarling wolf heads, their eyes set with faintly glowing sapphires.
The crown upon his brow was no simple circlet—it was forged of intertwining silver branches, their tips ending in sharp points, like antlers shaped to frame the face of a predator.
After taking in the King, my attention shifted to the figures that flanked and surrounded him.
On the steps of the throne stood another silver-haired man, his features cut from the same noble steel as Alexander's. The resemblance was undeniable—sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and that same controlled predatory presence, though his aura lacked the overwhelming weight of the King's. Combined with the familiar facial lines he shared with Prince Erik, it was clear: he was another of the five princes of Arcadia. His posture was rigid but poised, the kind of stance that spoke of years of disciplined training and an upbringing steeped in authority.
Closer to the throne, a line of guards stood in immaculate formation, each clad in silver-white armor polished to a mirrored sheen. The moonlight caught on every plate, giving them an almost ethereal glow. Their longswords were already drawn—not in open threat, but in readiness—and they held them at attention, points angled downward in ceremonial stillness. The engraved wolf-head emblems on their chestplates seemed to snarl in the flickering torchlight, silent reminders of whose territory we stood in.
But it was the court that caught me off guard.
I had expected pureblood Lycans or perhaps the occasional allied house member. Instead, the court was a tapestry of Manaborn races—each one distinct, yet woven into the same chamber.
There were pale-faced figures draped in flowing crimson robes, their eyes faintly glowing under the shadows of their hoods. The chill in their aura was unmistakable, the scent of cold iron and old blood clinging to them like a second skin. Vampires.
Farther down the line, I saw Wytches—three women in layered dresses adorned with protective runes that pulsed faintly under the braziers' light. The air around them was thick with the tang of incense and old magic, their gazes sharp and knowing.
Among them stood Feyborns, their ears tapered and hair shimmering with subtle unnatural hues, the faint glimmer of glamour in their eyes hinting at their ability to bend perception at will.
And further back, two Chimareas—a rare sight outside of mercenary companies. Their mismatched features spoke of their mixed heritage: one with leonine ears and slit-pupiled eyes above a human jawline, the other with scaled forearms and faintly reptilian skin glistening under the torchlight. They stood together, as though aware that their kind was often met with distrust.
It was a court of predators, sorcerers, and hybrids—each carrying the weight of their own power. And all of them were watching us.
When the King spoke, his voice carried the weight of both the beast and the ruler. Low, resonant, and laced with the quiet confidence of someone who never needed to raise his voice to command obedience.
"Well," King Alexander's voice rolled through the throne room like distant thunder, "it seems the news of the Ashtarium's First Princess's demise has been… greatly exaggerated."
His gaze shifted, sharp as a blade in moonlight. "Ah—Jack's daughter as well. The Ashborne Wytch." The way he said it was neither insult nor compliment—just a statement of fact, heavy with the weight of recognition.
Then his eyes slid further, finding their mark. "And… Lilith Kain. Daughter of the Deathbringer."
There was a faint pause—barely a breath—before his gaze moved past Ben. But in that heartbeat, I felt it. A hitch. A subtle shift in his focus, like he had seen something in him that he hadn't expected.
"And if it isn't the grandson of the Glutton Queen," he continued, his tone dipping almost into curiosity. "What a peculiar group this is."
The words hung in the air, thick as smoke.
I swallowed hard, the sound loud in my own ears. My throat was dry, my tongue felt heavy, and my pulse pounded against my ribs. The suffocating weight of his presence pressed down on me—not crushing, yet—but just enough to remind me that this was a fraction of his real power.
I forced myself to straighten my posture, keeping my voice steady even as my lungs felt tighter with every breath. "Your Majesty," I said, dipping my head slightly, "it is an honor to be in your presence, and in your magnificent city of Silvercliff Hold."
His gaze stayed on me for a moment—unblinking, cold, and assessing. It was like being pinned under the stare of a predator who had decided, for now, not to bite.
Low murmurs rippled through the court, the sound like the shifting of leaves in a dark forest. Most of it came from a cluster of ten individuals gathered near the base of the throne's dais. Their stares were sharp, eyes narrowing at us with open animosity. I could feel the weight of their disapproval, the unspoken judgment threading between them.
One of them—a tall, thin man with a pale, almost moonlit complexion—broke away from the group. His robes were deep blue, trimmed in silver thread, embroidered with lunar motifs and an emblem of the full moon cradled by two wolves. He ascended the steps to the throne with measured grace, each footfall deliberate, and leaned close to King Alexander's ear.
Whatever he whispered was brief. The King listened without looking at him, his gaze never leaving us, and then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. The robed man bowed his head in acknowledgment before gliding back down to rejoin his companions. The intricate sigils stitched along his sleeves caught the torchlight, confirming what I already suspected—he was a Moon Priest of the Moon Church, one of Arcadia's most influential religious orders.
"You speak well, Princess," King Alexander said at last, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "But as you are aware, you and your group have arrived in Arcadia without official authorization."
His words were steady, even, but they hung in the air like a drawn blade.
"Normally," he continued, "when raiders come through the Dungeon in the Pillar Ocean… they do not make it back." His gaze sharpened, a sliver of cold steel cutting through his otherwise controlled expression. "And now—there is the incident in Verdelune."
The image came unbidden to my mind—the moonlit forest where Lilith and Eduardo had fought the Lunaris Wraithhounds, the clashing of steel against Lycan warriors.
"Ella had nothing to do with that," Lilith spoke suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension. She stepped forward, unflinching under the weight of the King's gaze. "That was me. I was responsible for what happened there."
The murmurs rose again, louder this time. Among the Lycans, the sound was low and growling, like the prelude to a hunt. The Feyborns' whispers were sharper, laced with intrigue. The Vampires remained silent, their stillness making them seem all the more calculating.
I kept my attention fixed on the King, watching for any shift in his composure. But his face remained as it had been—no hostility, no curiosity, just that perfectly unreadable mask of control.
"And tell me," King Alexander said after the murmurs faded, his tone measured, "why a group of raiders that includes the Princess of the Crimson Dawn is wandering through the Silver Crescent Dungeon."
His gaze swept over all of us in turn, lingering a fraction longer on Greta before returning to me.
"Raiders," he said again, the word heavy with implication, "are known to keep out of it. Surely you are not here…"
He let the sentence hang, unfinished—an open snare waiting for us to step into.
The King let the silence stretch just long enough to make the entire court lean in.
Then, his lips curved—just slightly. Not in amusement. In knowing.
"Surely you are not here… on your own accord," he said, his voice low but resonant. "No, I think not."
His eyes swept past me, past Lilith, and landed on Eduardo. They lingered there with deliberate weight, the kind of look meant to draw the court's attention without saying a word.
"It would be naïve to believe a group this… particular," he continued, his gaze returning to me, "happened into Arcadia by chance. And with one among you whose blood ties trace directly to the Glutton Queen…"
The air in the throne room seemed to thicken.
"Tell me," he said, his voice edged like a knife under velvet, "does she still weave her games through proxies? Still send her kin to do her bidding while she remains comfortably out of sight?"
A murmur of recognition and discontent moved through the Lycans. The Vampires remained still as statues, though I noticed one of them—a tall, crimson-robed figure—watching Eduardo now with a predatory gleam in his eye.
The King leaned forward in his throne, the sapphires set into his wolf-headed pauldrons catching the light. "If the Matriarch of Gluttony has business in Arcadia, she will find I am… less hospitable than in years past."
His words weren't aimed at Eduardo alone—they were meant for all of us. A warning. And a probe.
I felt Greta shift subtly beside me, her eyes narrowing as she measured his intent. Lilith's expression hardened, her posture sharpening like a drawn bowstring.
The King settled back into his seat, his eyes never leaving ours. "So—tell me whose leash you wear, before I decide the answer for you."
The King let the silence stretch just long enough to make the entire court lean in.
Then, his lips curved—just slightly. Not in amusement. In knowing.
"Surely you are not here… on your own accord," he said, his voice low but resonant. "No, I think not."
His eyes swept past me, past Lilith, and landed on Ben. They lingered there with deliberate weight, the kind of look meant to draw the court's attention without saying a word.
"It would be naïve to believe a group this… particular," he continued, his gaze returning to me, "happened into Arcadia by chance. And with one among you whose blood ties trace directly to the Glutton Queen…"
The air in the throne room seemed to thicken.
"Tell me," he said, his voice edged like a knife under velvet, "does she still weave her games through proxies? Still send her kin to do her bidding while she remains comfortably out of sight?"
A murmur of recognition and discontent moved through the Lycans. The Vampires remained still as statues, though I noticed one of them—a tall, crimson-robed figure—watching Ben now with a predatory gleam in his eye.
The King leaned forward in his throne, the sapphires set into his wolf-headed pauldrons catching the light. "If the Matriarch of Gluttony has business in Arcadia, she will find I am… less hospitable than in years past."
His words weren't aimed at Ben alone—they were meant for all of us. A warning. And a probe.
I felt Greta shift subtly beside me, her eyes narrowing as she measured his intent. Lilith's expression hardened, her posture sharpening like a drawn bowstring.
The King settled back into his seat, his eyes never leaving ours. "So—tell me whose leash you wear, before I decide the answer for you."
Before Greta or I could speak, Eduardo took a step forward. The movement alone drew a ripple of attention through the chamber—Lycans' ears twitched, the Wytches glanced up from under their runed hoods, and even the Vampires' stillness seemed to sharpen.
He met the King's gaze without flinching. "You're right," he said, his voice steady, carrying clearly across the throne room. "We're here on orders."
The murmurs returned, sharper now, tinged with something between disbelief and outrage.
Eduardo continued, each word deliberate. "The House of Mircalla sent us to acquire Moonstone. That is why we entered the Silver Crescent Dungeon. That is why we're in Arcadia."
The silence that followed was heavier than the murmurs had been.
The King's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no explosion of anger—only the faint curl of a knowing smile. "Moonstone…" he said, drawing the word out like he was tasting it. "And for the Glutton queen, no less. Tell me, boy—does she truly think I would let such a treasure leave my domain?"
Eduardo didn't look away. "My aunt was the one who sent us. Grandmother is in a critical situation at the moment."
That drew a low growl from the Lycans in the court, but the King lifted a hand, and the sound stopped instantly.
Alexander leaned forward, his crystalline blue eyes fixed on Eduardo. "So I guess the rumors of her assassination attempts were true. And so the Mircalla's House requires my Moonstones."
The murmurs from the court swelled again, this time like a tide rolling in. The Feyborns whispered quickly among themselves. The Vampires stayed silent, their gazes calculating. The Moon Priests' expressions tightened, as if the very mention of Moonstone in this chamber was a provocation.
The King leaned back in his throne, studying Eduardo like a predator deciding whether to strike.
The murmurs from the court swelled again, this time like a tide rolling in. The Feyborns whispered quickly among themselves. The Vampires stayed silent, their gazes calculating. The Moon Priests' expressions tightened, as if the very mention of Moonstone in this chamber was a provocation.
The King leaned back in his throne, the motion deliberate and unhurried. The silver wolf-head pauldrons at his shoulders caught the torchlight as his gaze fixed on Eduardo—cold, unblinking, calculating. He looked at him the way a predator sizes up prey, not to decide if it should kill, but when.
"And so…" His voice rolled low, like distant thunder. "…history repeats itself again."
Beside me, Lilith's brow furrowed. "History?"
Eduardo's eyes stayed locked on the King. His voice was quiet but certain. "War of the Silver Cross."
A faint glint passed through Alexander's crystalline blue eyes. "Ah," he said, his tone almost appreciative. "I see you are well aware of the history between us."
I was.
The name alone dredged up one of the bloodiest chapters of the Second Epoch—when the Lykaris civilization stood at its height. Back then, they had pushed westward across the seas, seizing control of the Apennine Peninsula. The conquest was swift and absolute. The native kingdoms were crushed, their cities razed or rebuilt under the Lycan banner, and in the heart of the peninsula, they forged their new capital: Lykaris Magna—a city of silver walls and black stone streets, the pride of their empire.
For decades, it stood as the western jewel of the Lycan dominion.
Until the war.
By the mid-Second Epoch, the Lykaris empire's western branch collapsed into ruin, its armies scattered and its capital reduced to smoldering ash. The War of the Silver Cross had gutted them, the bloodshed so vast that even now, millennia later, its scars were written into both Arcadian and Vampire history.
The academics back in Ashtarium had argued for centuries over the cause. The dominant theory pinned the orchestration on the Mircalla family—one of the most ancient Vampire houses—claiming they had engineered the conflict to bleed Arcadia of strength and reclaim lost territories.
I'd never been sure… until now.
Watching Eduardo now—how he met the King's gaze without flinching, how the faintest muscle in his jaw tensed when the war was named—I realized he knew far more than I'd guessed. Of course he did. Everything he knew about the Lycans came from his mother's side of the family, the Mircalla house.
"If you despise Vampires that much," Lilith said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the chamber, "then why do I see them here?"
King Alexander's laughter was sudden and booming, echoing through the vaulted hall like a drumbeat. "Ha! Ha! Ha! I do not discriminate against any race," he said, his voice deep with the confidence of someone who never had to justify himself. "Arcadia is for any who are strong enough to live within her walls. Strength is the only true citizenship here."
His gaze sharpened. "I have nothing against the Vampire race as a whole. But I have a very strong dislike for the Mircallas… especially those born of the Glutton Queen's bloodline."
The words dropped into the chamber like stones into still water.
The murmurs stopped instantly. A heavy silence settled, broken only by the faint creak of armor as the guards shifted their stance. All eyes turned toward Eduardo.
I could see the way some of the Lycans' expressions hardened, how the Wytches' eyes narrowed, calculating. Even the Vampires—those pale, crimson-draped figures—remained still, but their stillness felt like the calm before a strike.
That was when Greta stepped forward.
The shift was immediate—attention slid from Eduardo to her like metal drawn to a lodestone. They all knew who she was. The daughter of Jack Kuria—a Paragon whose name still carried weight in Arcadia's warrior culture. Jack's strength was legend, and in a society that respected power above bloodline, Greta's presence commanded an instinctive, grudging respect.
"We're not here just for the Mircalla," Greta said, her tone even but firm. "We're here to ensure that the alliance between House Ashtarmel and House Mircalla holds firm. To ensure that Princess Ariella takes her rightful place as Queen of Ashtarium."
A ripple of reaction moved through the court—some murmurs tinged with surprise, others with open skepticism.
King Alexander's lips curved faintly. "And there it is." His crystalline gaze locked onto me. "So, Princess… you aspire to take the throne of Ashtarium. To reclaim your father's seat."
I met his stare without flinching. "Yes. I do."
The faintest smile touched his mouth, but it was not one of warmth. "Do you know what it means to be a king?" he asked. His tone was calm, almost conversational, but the weight in it was heavy enough to make the air between us feel sharper.
Around us, the court leaned in, the tension building again—waiting to see if my answer would falter.
King Alexander's gaze didn't waver, his voice dropping into a steady, resonant tone that carried through the chamber without need to rise.
"In Arcadia," he said, "a king is not a man who sits on a throne because he was born to it. A king is the one who can keep the throne when every challenger comes for his blood."
He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the carved arms of his seat, the silver wolf heads at his shoulders glinting in the torchlight. "We are not like the soft courts of the east, where crowns are inherited and rulers are coddled. Here, a crown is a hunting trophy—won in battle, and only worn so long as you can fend off those who would take it."
His blue eyes swept the room, touching the faces of his court before coming back to me. "A king is the pack's strongest hunter, the first to face the storm, and the last to eat when his people starve. A king bleeds for his land, and if he stops bleeding… he is no king at all."
There was a growl in his voice now—not anger, but the natural rumble of conviction, of belief carved into his bones.
"A king protects his people, yes," he continued, "but never at the expense of his own strength. Because the moment a king grows weak, he dooms the pack. Mercy has its place, but strength—strength is the law. And law," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "is teeth."
The last word hung in the air like a threat.
Around the chamber, the Lycans nodded in grim agreement, some thumping a fist lightly against their chests in silent affirmation. Even the Vampires and Feyborns remained silent, listening, perhaps weighing how much of his philosophy was bluster and how much was the truth that had kept him on this throne for centuries.
He sat back again, his gaze never leaving mine. "So tell me, Princess… if you wish to be a queen in Ashtarium—do you know what it means to rule?"
I held his gaze, letting the silence between us stretch. The weight of his words pressed down on me, but I didn't let it push me into retreat.
"I won't pretend I know everything it means to be a ruler," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the throne room. "I wasn't raised to wear a crown, and I haven't fought for one the way you have."
A faint murmur rolled through the court, but I didn't take my eyes off the King.
"What I do know," I continued, "is that Ashtarium cannot survive another war between its two greatest houses. The last time blood ran between Ashtarmel and Mircalla, it nearly tore the realm apart. I will not be the one to let it happen again."
I stepped forward, just enough to close the space between his throne and where we stood, the silver light of the braziers catching on the edges of my armor. "If taking the throne means I have to bleed, then I will bleed. If it means I have to fight, then I will fight. But I will do it to keep my people from dying in another war."
I let the words hang for a beat before adding, "Because no matter how sharp the teeth, they should never be turned on the pack itself. Not again. Not in my reign."
The chamber fell into a tense stillness. The Lycans exchanged glances—some skeptical, others faintly intrigued. The Vampires remained still, their expressions unreadable. Greta watched me with a flicker of something like approval in her eyes, and Lilith's lips curved, just slightly.
King Alexander's stare didn't soften, but something in it shifted—a faint spark of interest beneath the frost.
Before the King could answer, the sound of fabric shifting broke the silence.
The tall, robed figure I had noticed earlier—the same one who had whispered to Alexander when we first arrived—stepped forward from the ranks of the Moon Priests. His deep-blue robes shimmered faintly under the moonlight spilling in from the arched windows, every thread woven with silver sigils that caught and held the eye.
The crescent-shaped mask covering the upper half of his face hid his features, but not his presence. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and resonant, the tone of a man who was used to being heard in the most sacred halls.
"Your Majesty," he said, inclining his head toward the King, "if I may."
Alexander gave a single nod. "Speak, High Seer."
The High Seer's masked gaze turned, landing squarely on Lilith. The silver-threaded runes along his sleeves began to faintly glow as he spoke again, his words sharp and deliberate.
"There is the matter of Verdelune Forest," he said, his voice cutting through the chamber. "Where this woman,"—he inclined his head slightly toward Lilith—"committed acts of blasphemy against the sanctity of the Moon's domain."
The murmurs in the court reignited instantly. Among the Lycans, low growls rumbled beneath their voices, their ears twitching as they listened. The Moon Priests themselves murmured in hushed tones, some casting sidelong glances at the High Seer as if unsure how far he would go. The Vampires watched in silence, their expressions unreadable but their interest unmistakable.
The High Seer continued, each word carrying the weight of accusation. "The Verdelune is not merely a forest—it is a sacred place, woven into the rites and lifeblood of Arcadia itself. To defile it, to spill the blood of its guardians… is to invite the Moon's judgment."
His voice deepened slightly, resonating in the ribcage. "We cannot, in good conscience, overlook such an affront."
He turned his masked face toward the King. "Your Majesty, I counsel that this offense be addressed before any other matter is considered. The Moon Church will not see the sanctity of Verdelune tarnished without reparation."
The room's attention shifted entirely to Lilith now, the air thick with expectation—and danger. The tension in the throne room coiled tight, every gaze fixed on her. The High Seer's words still hung in the air like the edge of a blade, and I could feel the court waiting for the King's decree.
Greta stepped forward before Lilith could speak. Her movement alone was enough to draw attention—her presence cutting through the atmosphere like a fresh wind.
"Your Majesty," she began, her tone measured, carrying both respect and weight. "Verdelune was not an act of blasphemy, but a battlefield incident—an unfortunate collision of circumstance and miscommunication. Lilith did not march into that forest with the intent to defile its sanctity."
She met the King's gaze directly. "The Lunaris Wraithhounds struck first. Their attack put both her and our group in mortal danger. The Lycan warriors who were injured that day did so in the chaos of battle—not in an act of sacrilege, but in self-defense."
Greta's eyes swept the court, letting her words sink in. "To condemn her as if she were an enemy of Arcadia would be to mistake an ally for a foe. And in these times, alliances are worth more than blood feuds born of misunderstanding."
A murmur ran through the court again—some bristled at her words, but others seemed to consider them.
King Alexander leaned back, his crystalline eyes unreadable as he studied Greta, then Lilith, and finally the High Seer. The silence stretched long enough to make my pulse quicken.
At last, he spoke. "The Verdelune matter… will be set aside for now." His tone was cool, final. "I will hear more from my advisors, and I will consider the political weight of what has been said before I decide on a fitting punishment—if one is warranted at all."
The High Seer's head inclined in acknowledgment, though I could sense the displeasure beneath the motion. The Lycans' growls subsided, and the room's oppressive tension eased by a fraction.
"For now," the King continued, "you remain in Arcadia as my guests. Do not give me a reason to reconsider that status before my judgment is made. You are dismissed."
_
Gilded Thorn club
Vel cora street,
Pandemonium City
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 28th 6412
Lilith's gaze lingered on the church's black spires for a moment longer before she started to turn away from the alley. That's when a familiar figure stepped into view.
Emmet Levine.
Her fellow Royal Guard moved with that unhurried, grounded stride of his, eyes assessing her even before he closed the distance. She'd sensed him the moment she'd arrived—his presence a quiet shadow at the edge of her awareness. And while a small part of her had been relieved knowing someone had trailed Ariella, the relief was outweighed by a sharper thought: they hadn't stopped the princess from leaving the palace grounds in the first place.
Then again, guarding Ariella wasn't their official duty. That was hers, and hers alone.
"You okay?" Emmet asked, his tone neutral but not without concern.
"I'm fine." The clipped answer was enough to make him shelve whatever follow-up he'd been about to voice.
"Are you the only one here?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "Nettle, Ray, and Tasha are on the ground."
A faint hum left her throat. "Nettle's good."
The name carried a flicker of genuine approval. Nettle was a chimera girl of Fey and Daemon blood, her magical aptitude rivaling most court mages. If anyone could keep Ariella safe, it was her.
Lilith's attention drifted back to the church, the stained glass glinting like frozen blood in the dim streetlight. Emmet followed her gaze, a frown tugging at his brow.
"Come with me," she said.
She didn't wait to see if he'd obey, simply crossed the street, and moved toward the looming structure. He fell in step behind her, his boots crunching faintly against the gravel at the church's edge.
They stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Lilith immediately noticed it—the unnatural chill clinging to the air, sliding over her skin like damp fingers. It wasn't just cold; it was as if a thin mist had seeped into the stone itself, coiling along the ground in slow, deliberate trails.
Emmet broke the silence with a wry murmur. "Feeling religious all of a sudden?"
Her lips twitched—though it was unclear if it was amusement or annoyance.
Lilith's boots met each step of the staircase without hesitation, the cold deepening the closer she came to the great wooden doors. They loomed tall and narrow, carved with reliefs of cloaked women whose faces had been smoothed away by time—or perhaps deliberately defaced.
Emmet trailed behind her, silent now, his earlier quip fading into watchfulness.
When Lilith pushed the doors open, the hinges groaned, and a low draft spilled out to meet them. The interior was dim, the air thick with the scent of old incense and candlewax that had long since burned to stubs. Shafts of colored light cut through the gloom, filtered through the stained glass depiction of a woman cloaked in night, the crimson swirl at her womb almost pulsing in the quiet.
The pews were empty. No congregation. No low murmur of prayer.
Only one figure stood at the far end of the aisle—an older man robed in deep burgundy, his head bowed over a small black-bound book. His lips moved soundlessly, the flicker of the votive candles catching the curve of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
A Lilithism Bible.
The golden emblem on its cover—a veiled woman crowned with thorns—gleamed faintly in the dim.
Lilith slowed her steps, her senses pushing outward, searching for the presence of others. Nothing. Just the old man, his aura calm and unhurried, like still water concealing something beneath.
When he finally lifted his head to acknowledge them, his gaze was steady, deliberate.
"Welcome, children," he said, his voice low but carrying easily through the emptiness. "You've come seeking something."
Emmet's glance flicked to her, waiting for her lead.
"Doesn't seem like this place gets many visitors," Lilith said, her voice low, eyes drifting over the rows of dust-laced pews and the faint cobwebs clinging to the corners of the rafters. The church felt hollow—not abandoned, but starved of life.
Emmet moved without a word, his boots whispering against the stone as he swept along the aisle, peering into the shadows between pillars, checking alcoves for movement.
From the far end, a figure shifted. He stepped forward slowly, the dim candlelight revealing the man in fragments—first the long fall of white hair, then the outline of broad shoulders wrapped in a burgundy robe, and finally, his face. His skin was deathly pale, almost translucent, as though it had never felt sunlight. A shaggy beard framed his cheeks and jaw, the strands coarse and uneven.
The air around him was unnaturally still, and yet a cold presence seemed to bleed outward from his body, crawling across the flagstones to meet her feet.
Lilith's gaze sharpened. She didn't need to catch the faint sharpness in his eyes or the stillness of his breathing to recognize the truth. That pallor wasn't merely age.
New blood vampire, she thought, the words cutting through her mind like a quiet verdict.
And he was watching her with the unblinking patience of someone who had already guessed why she had come.
The man's pale eyes—grey, but with a faint red sheen that flickered when they caught the candlelight—shifted between her and Emmet. He stepped closer, the hem of his robe whispering across the stone floor.
"What can I do for you?" His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, but there was a measured weight to it, like a hand pressing down just enough to test your strength.
Lilith didn't answer right away. Her gaze swept over the altar behind him, the carved sigil of the cloaked woman gleaming faintly in the low light, before settling back on his face.
"Does the Lilithism Church," she said evenly, "ever do business in King's Crown City?"
Something in the priest's expression tightened—so quick and subtle that most would have missed it. His fingers tapped lightly on the spine of the book he held, a deep black volume stamped with the crimson symbol of his faith.
"That," he said, his tone now careful, "depends entirely on what you mean by business."
Lilith tilted her head, letting her voice carry an almost careless lilt. "Hmm… I'm just curious what kind of outreach programs the church offers," she said. "Sorry, but lately I've been feeling a… sense of generosity toward the Great Mother, you know?"
The priest's cold gaze softened only slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting into a thin, knowing smile.
"Ah," he murmured, adjusting the Lilithism bible in his hands, "if that is so, then the Church offers many acts of mercy—charities for the homeless, shelters for the destitute, warm meals for the poor." His voice smoothed into something rehearsed, like a sermon recited countless times.
Lilith's eyes narrowed a fraction, watching the way his knuckles tightened around the book, the faint twitch in his jaw that contradicted his polished tone.
Lilith let his answer hang for a moment, the faint echo of his words dissolving into the vaulted silence. She stepped closer, the heels of her boots clicking softly on the marble floor.
"That's generous," she said, her tone almost conversational. "And when the church runs those kinds of programs… do you normally rent buildings for them? Special events, perhaps?"
The priest's smile didn't falter, but his eyes flickered—just once, a brief flash of something caught between calculation and caution.
"From time to time," he replied evenly. "The needs of our flock sometimes require… different venues." Lilith caught the pause before "different venues." Her fingers brushed the hilt at her hip, not in threat, but as if to remind him she wasn't here to play pilgrim.
"Though the main church handles all the community event programs," the man said, his voice dipping into that slow, patient cadence priests used when trying to sound harmless.
"Is that so?" Lilith replied, tilting her head slightly, her eyes fixed on him. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it—a quiet razor waiting to draw blood. She took another step forward, closing the space until the faint scent of old parchment and incense reached her.
"Then maybe you can explain," she said, her gaze never leaving his face, "why a property in King's Crown City was rented in the church's name… and yet wasn't hosting anything remotely charitable."
Emmet, still sweeping the shadowed corners, slowed his steps at her words. He glanced toward them, the subtle shift in his stance saying he was ready if the conversation turned into something sharper.
The priest's pale fingers tightened around the worn leather of the Bible, his knuckles whitening. His gaze didn't waver, but there was a subtle change—like a man measuring his words.
"If you truly want the answer to that question," he said slowly, "then you'll need to speak to the Main Church. They are… better equipped to explain such matters."
Lilith's eyes narrowed a fraction. There was no hesitation in his tone, no attempt to deny it—only a clean redirect, too clean. The kind given by someone who already knew she'd come asking.
Her mind turned over the pieces quickly. If the Main Church wanted her to come to them, this was exactly the kind of bait they'd leave dangling in the open. Not to chase her off… but to reel her in.
"Is that so," she murmured, a faint smile curling her lips without reaching her eyes. "Then I'll have to make a pilgrimage."
The priest dipped his head, the gesture almost ceremonial. "They will be expecting you."
And that was all Lilith needed to hear to know for certain—this wasn't just chance.