The Bay was a graveyard of sound — the wind howled, the waves slapped against the hull like ghostly hands, and the rain came down in sheets so heavy it blurred sea from sky.
Mist curled across the black water, swallowing the ship until only the creak of wood and the hiss of ropes said they still existed.
From the crow's nest came a shout, thin against the storm:
"A light! A light's approaching!"
Peter's gaze sharpened. He gave Hook a small, wordless nod.
Hook's jaw tightened.
"Stand back, all of you," he barked to the crew, his voice slicing through the storm.
"Weapons down. No sudden moves."
The men obeyed, though some gripped their belts nervously, eyes scanning the mist.
Then she came.
A figure emerged from the veil of rain — tall, pale, and beautiful in a way that made the heart falter. Her robe was a sleek, shimmering thing, clinging to her frame, soaked so thoroughly it looked like liquid silver poured over flesh.
But no one dared stare too long.
Her fangs caught the dim light first — a flash of white behind her maroon lips. Then her eyes: bluish-grey, expressionless, cold as a winter tide. She did not smile. She only looked, and the deck fell silent under that look.
Then, she bowed — gracefully, fluidly — before Peter.
"Welcome, Demon Lord," she said, her voice low and rich, like a hymn sung underwater.
"I, Kathrina, have come to escort you to the Count's castle — by order of Queen Makhiha."
She hesitated, throat working as though she could taste the air. Her tongue flicked briefly across her lips.
"But…" she whispered, almost hungrily, "I cannot promise these mortal companions of yours will arrive in safety."
Hook's hand twitched toward his sword. The crew bristled like hounds ready to bolt.
Peter didn't flinch. Instead, he turned slightly and gave a sharp, subtle gesture.
Two of the men hauled forward a massive iron-bound chest and set it at Kathrina's feet. With a groan of hinges, they threw it open.
Even over the storm, the scent of what lay inside seemed to flood the air — metallic, sweet, intoxicating. Kathrina's pupils dilated. Her perfect stillness wavered for the first time.
"Blood rubies," Peter said softly.
"Not mere stones — each one forged from the mortal blood of a siren, harvested over centuries. Each ruby can sate your hunger for two weeks."
He stepped closer, shadows curling at his heels.
"This," he said, "is my armada for your queen. And for you. A token, to ensure the safety of my men."
For a long, breathless moment, Kathrina only stared — then bent down, her wet hair falling like a dark curtain as she inhaled the ruby-laden air. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard.
When she looked up, there was something almost reverent in her cold, grey-blue eyes.
"Very well," she said.
"The queen will be… pleased."
She turned sharply, her soaked robe snapping behind her like a banner, and with a single beckoning motion, the mists began to part.
"Follow me," Kathrina commanded.
"The Count's castle waits — and so does Queen Makhiha… especially for you, Dark Lord."
The ship glided after Kathrina as though bewitched, cutting through the black water with unnatural smoothness. The rain softened but did not stop — it fell in thin, icy needles, clinging to every face, every lash.
The mist thickened, not lifting but shaping around them. Pale arches of bone appeared first — ribs of titanic creatures long dead, rising from the water like drowned cathedrals. Moss and glowing fungus hung from them like lanterns, casting sickly green light over the deck.
No one spoke.
Hook's men gripped their belts, their knuckles white. Some crossed themselves, others muttered prayers under their breath.
Peter stood very still at the prow, his shadows stretching like curious fingers toward the skeletal arches.
"This is no place for the living," muttered one of the crew.
"Then be still," Hook hissed. "And pray we stay that way."
The fog thinned just enough to reveal the shape ahead — a cliff rising out of the sea, jagged as broken teeth.
And there, clinging to the cliffside like a predator at rest, was the castle.
It was a cathedral of nightmares — spire after spire of black stone, every peak crowned with pale fire that burned green against the storm. Great chains as thick as masts hung from the cliffside, as though the whole fortress was bound to the rock to keep it from stalking away.
Windows glowed faintly, each like an open, watching eye.
The air changed.
The rain grew colder, until it felt like it might freeze on skin. A stillness pressed over the ship, so heavy it was hard to breathe.
And then they saw them —
Figures standing along the battlements, pale as the moon, their hair streaming in the wind. Each one grinned — an empty, expressionless grin that did not reach the eyes.
And their eyes —
Bluish-grey, silver, violet — all too bright, too sharp, like poisoned jewels. When a man met their gaze, his breath caught. It felt like drowning.
"Do not look at them," Kathrina warned, without turning her head.
"Their eyes are not meant for mortal hearts. They will drink your will before they drink your blood."
The men tore their gazes away, some shaking as if waking from a fever dream.
The ship finally reached the stone dock. No one moved until Kathrina turned, her robe still glistening, and gestured toward the towering doors that yawned open as if the castle itself was breathing them in.
"Enter," she said, her voice like a blade drawn in the dark.
"Queen Makhiha waits in her hall. And she does not like to be kept waiting."
The crew exchanged fearful glances, but Peter only smiled — a slow, dangerous curve of lips that looked too calm for a boy about to walk into the jaws of the dead.
"Then let's not keep her," he murmured, stepping forward first, his shadows slithering over the stone.
The doors closed behind them with a sound like a coffin sealing.
The hall stretched impossibly far, lit only by green fire braziers that hissed and spat, casting long, restless shadows across the black marble floor. Blood-colored tapestries hung from the walls, soaked so deep they seemed to weep.
At first, the hall seemed empty.
Then the shapes moved.
From the pillars, from the alcoves, from the very ceiling, they slid into view — vampires, dozens of them, pale as carved bone, each dressed in silks that clung like mist. Their faces were blank, mouths curved into that terrible grin, eyes glowing with that jeweled, poisonous beauty.
They surrounded the mortals, silent, staring.
No one dared to breathe too loud.
Hook's hand hovered over his sword. His crew stood stiff as corpses, their boots echoing far too loud against the wet marble.
Then — a sound.
A low hum, almost like a choir, rose from the gathered vampires. It was not music but hunger given voice. The braziers' flames leaned toward the dais at the far end of the hall.
And from the shadows behind it, she appeared.
Queen Makhiha.
Her entrance was not walked but glided — as though the ground itself rose to meet her feet. Her robe was black glass stitched with veins of crimson light, trailing behind her like a river of night. A crown of bone and coral rested on her head, slick with sea-water, dripping onto her pale shoulders.
Her face was expressionless, her lips the color of a bruise. Only her eyes burned — a deep, molten red that made the braziers flare brighter with every step she took.
When she reached the throne, she did not sit.
Instead, she looked at Peter — only Peter — and the hall went silent as if the sound had been sucked away.
Her voice was soft, but it carried like thunder:
"Shadow-lord."
The vampires bowed, every one of them bending low, their grins widening until fangs caught the firelight.
Makhiha tilted her head, and for the first time, her lips curved. It was not a smile. It was something sharper, like a blade unsheathing.
"You bring me gifts," she said, her tone amused, though her hunger pulsed through every syllable.
"And yet… you walk into my hall with mortals."
Her gaze slid past Peter to Hook and his crew, and a ripple of delighted hunger ran through the court. The vampires leaned closer, silent but eager, as if waiting for permission to pounce.
Peter stepped forward, shadows coiling at his feet. He did not bow, but he set the chest of blood-rubies before her throne.
"For you," he said softly.
"A tithe of hunger, a feast for your kin. A price for safe passage."
The hall seemed to hold its breath as Makhiha's eyes lingered on him, then the chest.
At last, she descended the dais. Each step was slower than the last, deliberate, ritualistic. When she reached him, she bent low, her pale fingers trailing over the edge of the chest before plucking a single ruby free.
She held it to the light.
And then she crushed it between her fingers.
Blood ran down her hand, bright and hot, steaming against her cold skin. She raised it to her lips and licked it slowly, her lashes lowering in something close to ecstasy.
The vampires hissed, every one of them, the sound a chorus of rapture.
Makhiha's lips glistened as she smiled — this time fully, fangs flashing.
"You bargain with blood," she murmured, stepping close enough for Peter to feel the frost of her presence.
"You tempt me with hunger."
Peter's grin sharpened.
"No," he said, his voice a quiet blade.
"I feed you with hunger. And in return, you do not feed on mine."
The court went still.
And then Makhiha laughed — low, dark, rich. The sound rippled through the hall like a spell breaking, and the vampires straightened, hungry eyes blazing.
"Very well," she said.
"The bay is yours, shadow-lord. But understand this — what you give me tonight makes you… dear to me."
Her fingers brushed his jaw, cold enough to burn.
"And what is dear…" her smile turned dangerous, "…is destined to be devoured.