Calyra had vanished from the face of the earth the day she was banished from royal grounds. The castle she once called home no longer welcomed her into its arms. Her titles were stripped. Her name, erased from records. All she had left was the bitterness in her blood and a rage she barely kept contained.
The hut was cold, the air thick with the scent of dried sage and fresh blood. She refused to spell the warmth into it. Let it freeze. She wanted to feel the cold—remind herself she was still human beneath the power.
Candles flickered wildly as the door creaked open. A tall figure leaned into the threshold, sharp eyes gleaming with mockery.
"You summoned me, Calyra? Don't tell me it's because you missed me."
The vampire didn't step in. He couldn't. He never had. Even when they were allies. Even when they were more than that.
She didn't look up from her grimoire. "Serpent's blood, sage, and a spell older than your brooding—don't flatter yourself."
His smirk deepened. "Charming as ever. But what's the play, witch? Planning to hex your mother, burn the kingdom, or both?"
Calyra shut the book with a thud. "My sister's Choosing is in three days. I need to stop it. And you're going to help me."
A beat of silence. Then laughter—sharp and joyless.
"You've lost your mind. You want me to sneak into Virellia? That place would rather stake me through the heart than let me breathe its air."
"I didn't ask," she said coldly. "You will help me. Because you have a reason. You just don't know it yet."
He leaned against the doorframe, amused. "Enlighten me, then."
"Lilith will be Chosen by Fire," she said, voice tight. "I've seen it. I felt it. If that happens, they'll kill her before she draws breath as a full witch. Fire is feared. Feared means dangerous. And in my family? Dangerous doesn't get to live."
He studied her face, the flicker of panic barely masked by defiance.
She stepped forward, voice low and measured. "And if Lilith dies, the curse on your bloodline stays locked. The Smirnova who could undo it will burn. So ask yourself, Alistair—how much do you love being a monster?"
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The castle was quiet, steeped in ceremonial stillness. Lilith's steps echoed softly on the polished stone floors, every breath measured. Her hair flowed down her back in perfect symmetry, brushing against her hips — a vision of controlled elegance.
They admired that about the Princess of Villiria. Long hair meant beauty. Purity. Innocence.
"Your Highness," a servant bowed as she approached, out of breath. "Their Majesties await you in the throne room. The Choosing rehearsal is ready to begin."
Servants had been running themselves ragged for weeks, but today the air buzzed with urgency. The Choosing had been announced across the kingdom, and tonight, nobles and foreign princes would gather to celebrate.
"There she is," came a familiar voice from the far end of the hall. "Radiant as ever."
A pause.
"You're the image of your mother, Lilith. Ready to become a full witch."
Lilith stiffened. A compliment, perhaps. Or a curse in disguise.
Her mother, Queen Zaphyra, once carried her own light. A girl with dreams—of sorcery, of greatness, of love. She'd fulfilled her family's demands, married a king, and earned a crown. But the day she lost her freedom was the day she began losing herself.
Now, only echoes of that girl remained — buried beneath cold stares and sharp words.
Two of Zaphyra's five children were gone. Malrick and Olrin, both killed in battle as warriors of the realm. What was left of the Queen had turned to ice.
"Lord Baelrik is due to arrive any moment," Zaphyra whispered into Lilith's ear, her voice like frost against skin. "Behave, if you wish to be wed soon."
It wasn't a request. It was a warning.
Lilith didn't respond. Her gaze drifted to the golden statues lining the corridor, the cascading ribbons, the mountain of foreign gifts piled in the hall. All symbols of honor. Celebration. Duty.
But to her, they felt like chains.
Her eyes lingered on a familiar stone column — the one she used to hide behind during hide-and-seek. Back when the halls rang with laughter, when her brothers would chase her down the corridors and lift her into the air as if she could fly. She used to twirl in her silk gowns under the stained-glass windows, pretending to be the Queen of Stars, ruling over a kingdom of dreams.
Now, the light through those same windows felt colder. The shadows longer. The magic—gone.
"And if I don't?" she murmured, still not looking at her mother.
Zaphyra didn't answer. She turned and walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a shadow.
Lilith remained still, heart fluttering in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage lined with silk.
Her gown shimmered like the forest at twilight — a deep, earthy green trimmed with golden embroidery that caught the light just so. The colors complemented her flame-red hair and piercing green eyes, making her every inch the Princess of Villiria.
She stood poised beside her parents in the throne room, shoulders back, chin high. The air was thick with incense and anticipation. Any moment now, the procession of guests would begin — nobles, suitors, foreign dignitaries. They weren't here merely to witness the Choosing, but to curry favor with the King. To win a place in the Royal Court. And for one ambitious man, the greatest prize: her hand.
"I present Lord Baelrik of House Velvren!"
The murmuring crowd stilled at once.
Lord Baelrik stepped into the grand hall with the confidence of someone used to being the center of attention. One of the wealthiest lords in Villiria, he was tall, sharply dressed, and undeniably handsome — the kind of man women whispered about and mothers plotted over. His eyes, however, locked only on her.
Lilith felt the weight of that gaze as he bowed low, not just to her father, the King, but to her. A bow of genuine respect, not obligation. He stopped a mere foot from the marble steps that led to the throne.
He looked up, meeting King Varkul's eye with quiet reverence — a man not hiding his ambition. Someday, Baelrik meant to wear a crown. And this was his first move.
One by one, the nobles filed in after him. Their voices filled the space with rehearsed greetings, their arms full of extravagant offerings — enchanted silks, ancient grimoires, rare stones that glowed faintly in the light. There were more gifts than even a princess could imagine.
But Lilith stood silent, still, a statue carved in grace. Inside, she was drowning.
Who were these men?
Why must she marry one of them?
Why must her future be gifted away like a trinket at a feast?
She dared not voice those thoughts. Not here, not now. A princess could think them — but a queen would be punished for them.
What if she didn't choose anyone? What if she became her own Queen? The idea curled in her chest like flame, dangerous and alive.
But she knew better. The people of Villiria would never tolerate such defiance. A Queen without a King was a myth, a provocation. A rebellion in waiting.
And rebellions often ended with heads on pikes.
Lilith blinked slowly, her face unreadable. She wanted to live.
For now, that meant playing her part.
The music was lovely — a waltz that stirred memory as much as motion. It didn't just fill the room; it filled the heart. That was the point, after all.
"The whole celebration centers on you, yet you sit here alone. Why is that?"
His voice was smooth, confident, and startlingly unafraid. Most men would never dare address the Princess without permission — not from the King.
"I never asked for this celebration. That would be selfish, wouldn't it?"
She was smaller than him by far. An average-height girl, not even fifteen yet. And he, tall and grown — a man. But she had what he wanted: a crown he could only earn by marriage.
"Or perhaps you're simply so beloved that your people insist on honoring you."
He smiled — and whether it was sincere or expertly practiced, Lilith couldn't tell. He offered her his hand. The implication was clear: he wanted to be the first suitor to dance with her.
"Lord Baelrik, as flattering as that offer is, I must decline. I don't dance."
It wasn't a lie. She had never liked dancing, and the court knew it. Still, more couples glided across the floor, perfectly in step. All of them waited for the same moment — the one when the Princess would choose her partner.
The nobles watched. Their sons watched. Her parents watched.
Her mother, expectant.
Her father, silent.
Her own eyes turned to the King, pleading — save me.
But her father had never been her savior. He had long since surrendered that role to her mother.
"Lord Baelrik," the King finally said, rising. "Will you honor my daughter with her first dance?"
Whatever light had flickered in Lilith's eyes snuffed out completely.
"It would be my greatest honor, Your Majesty."
Baelrik's hand closed around hers. She shivered beneath his warmth — strange, for someone whose skin had always run hot, even in the dead of winter.
The orchestra resumed. He placed one hand at her waist, the other gripping hers far too tightly. His steps were clumsy, overconfident. He twirled her again and again, more for show than skill.
"I believe His Majesty would be pleased if I proposed," he said at last. "But what about you? Would you be?"
She blinked. No one had ever asked what she wanted. The question stunned her.
"I don't know you, my Lord. And even if I did, my opinion doesn't matter."
Something shifted in his expression — a flicker of regret, perhaps.
"My sister was wed against her will," he said. "I watched her lose everything. I wouldn't wish that on my bride."
His tone was gentler now. "Perhaps a walk in the gardens might improve your opinion of me?"
She nodded faintly, unable to hide the relief as she stepped away from the crowded hall. Baelrik chuckled under his breath — amused, perhaps, by how clearly she longed to escape.
The guards opened the doors. She stepped into the night and breathed, finally. The stars were brilliant. The cold was sharp. But for the first time that evening, she didn't feel entirely suffocated.
"Didn't enjoy the ballroom?" Baelrik asked, hands in his coat pockets.
"I felt trapped," she said. "A castle this large, and yet it's just a cage. The Choosing means I'll finally get to train. Real work, finally — not embroidery and etiquette."
She laughed, soft and bitter.
"I hope you survive it," he said. "I never believed Her Majesty's story. I met Calyra once, briefly. She was strong. Too strong to die of an illness. If anything, I suspect you'll be just fine."
Her breath caught. "My sister died of an illness, Lord Baelrik."
His expression didn't change.
"Your Highness... I believe you've been misinformed. Everyone knows Calyra died during her Choosing."
Her world tilted. She'd never left the castle. She only knew what she'd been told.
"That's not possible. The Choosing is just—it's symbolic. They brand you, they bless you, and it's done. That's all. Please... tell me what you know."
Her voice trembled. He saw it in her eyes — the realization. The fear.
Her parents had lied.
Her life was in danger.
Baelrik hesitated, his jaw tight. "It's better if we go back."
"I'll follow in a moment," she murmured.
He nodded and disappeared into the hall, unaware — or perhaps entirely aware — of what he'd just sparked in her.
For the first time in her life, Lilith stood alone.
No guards. No eyes. No mother pulling strings.
Just the wind, the stars, and a question louder than any music:
Run... or die?