The great hall transformed in moments. Long tables appeared as though grown from the stone itself, draped in black velvet and lit by candelabras of bone. Platters of crimson feast were laid out — meats still bleeding, goblets steaming with bloodwine so thick it left trails on the lips of those who drank.
The crew hesitated at first.
Then the courtiers descended — vampires slipping onto laps like shadows, fingers brushing hair from mortal throats, lips grazing ears with whispers too soft to catch. The men stiffened, but their fear melted into groans as the first drops of bloodwine touched their tongues.
Soon the hall was full of sound — feasting, laughter, gasps — but Peter sat still, a dark figure at the head of the table, his grin like the edge of a knife.
Makhiha did not feast. She stood behind him, one pale hand on his shoulder, her crimson eyes surveying her court like a queen over her altar.
When the hall was loudest, she bent low, her lips near his ear.
"Shadow-lord," she murmured, "our kin grow restless. We do not wish to rot in this half-world. We wish to walk freely in Everland. It was foretold that we would drink deep of its mortals, that our fangs would crown its kings."
Her grip on his shoulder tightened.
"Our lord Dracula waits there, sent by Dark Lord Noire himself. Do not keep us from him. Open the way."
Peter tilted his head back slightly, his grin slow and dangerous.
"Then let it be known," he said, his voice carrying over the table until even the mortals stilled,
"that when I am crowned true lord of Neverland, I will open the portal. Any who wish to walk into Everland will do so, unchallenged. The age of gates and guardians will end."
The hall erupted — vampires hissing in exultation, some throwing back their heads with feral cries.
Makhiha's breath caught. She turned Peter to face her, her expression unreadable — hunger, triumph, and something softer flickering in her gaze.
"You speak as a king already," she said, her voice low, dangerous, reverent.
"But words are wind. Swear it to me. Give me proof."
Peter's grin sharpened to something almost cruel.
"Then drink of me," he said.
"And let my blood bind the vow."
The hall went silent. Every eye turned toward them.
Makhiha's lips curved — not with mockery, but with rapture.
"Come," she said simply, and the word was a command.
Peter followed her through shadowed corridors, the sound of the feast fading behind them. The air here was colder, heavy with incense and something older, metallic.
Makhiha's chambers were vast, draped in black silk, lit by green-flamed braziers. The walls seemed to pulse faintly, like veins under pale skin.
She turned to face him, her crown glinting in the witchlight, and for the first time, her expression softened.
"You understand what you offer?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost human.
"Blood is vow, shadow-lord. It will bind you to me. To us."
Peter only smiled, stepping forward until their faces were inches apart.
"Then bind me."
Her fingers brushed his chest, slow, reverent. She undid the clasps of his coat one by one, baring his pale skin to the chill air. There was no rush in her movements — only ritual, as if undressing him was a rite meant to be savored.
When he stood before her half-bared, her lips parted slightly, her fangs gleaming.
"Beautiful ruin," she whispered, almost to herself.
She drew him toward her, her robe whispering to the floor, leaving her pale and terrible as a statue carved of moonlight.
Then her fangs sank into him — not like an attack, but like a kiss.
The pain was sharp, clean — then gone, replaced by a cold fire that raced through his veins. His shadows writhed around them, licking at the walls, coiling around her waist.
Makhiha shuddered as she drank, her nails digging into his back, her breath turning ragged.
When she pulled back, her lips were stained red, and her eyes glowed like molten glass.
"It is done," she breathed.
"Your blood seals your promise. Everland will open to us."
Peter's grin was slow, wicked, dangerous.
"Yes," he said softly.
"And when it does, it will burn."
Makhiha laughed, a sound half-mad with hunger and delight, and pulled him closer as the chamber darkened, the shadows swallowing them both.
Breakfast Scene – Gothic Seduction
The long dining hall was drenched in silver light that spilled through the stained glass windows, painting the room in strange, shifting colors. The air smelled faintly of iron and rain-soaked roses.
Makhiha sat at the head of the table, pale and regal, her hair a dark river down her back. The feast laid before them was more ritual than nourishment — goblets of dark wine, bowls of ruby pomegranates, and bread blackened by the fire.
Peter sat at the opposite end, his posture loose but his eyes sharp.
Without warning, Makhiha rose from her chair and crossed the hall with the silence of a shadow. She stopped behind Peter, her fingers trailing along the back of his neck before she slid gracefully onto his lap.
Her cold breath brushed his ear as she whispered,
"Would you like to taste what only a queen can offer her lord?"
And what would that be, Queen Makhiha?" Peter's voice curled with mischief, teasing her.
She loosened her robe, the fabric whispering against her skin, and leaned close. "Would you like to taste a vampire's milk?" she murmured, voice thick with ancient hunger.
his grin was lazy, teasing.
"Tempting me so early, Your Majesty?"
Her lips curved in a dark smile. "Call it a gift — or a challenge."
He tilted his head, considering her. "A challenge, then."
She laughed softly — a sound that was both wicked and intimate — before pressing her breasts closer, letting him feel the chill of her body and the warmth that pulsed beneath her skin.
She cupped her breast and guided it to Peter's lips, asking him to open up and drink from it. Her nipple,s tip lingering on Peter's lips, But, Peter let her linger there, making her wait, his hand sliding to the small of her back.
Finally, with a look that was both defiant and inviting, he murmured,
"Then I accept."
He latched his lips on her nipples and sucked like a hungry child and with the other hand he caressed and squeezed her another breast, making her moan for him.
The hall seemed to hold its breath as their strange, dangerous intimacy deepened — the feast, the courtiers, the morning itself forgotten — until the moment.