The great iron gates of the palace groaned as they closed for the night, their echo rolling across the cobblestoned courtyard like a drum of finality. Lanterns flickered, carriages rattled over the stones, and lords and ladies were gathered by their attendants, returning to the warmth of their estates after an evening drenched in politics, whispered promises, and unspoken threats.
Lady Rowena Vale stood apart, her pale gown swaying in the faint wind, her face carefully composed though her eyes carried shadows. She was waiting, but not anxiously; waiting, but watchful. The night smelt of polished wood, horse sweat, and candlewax still clinging to perfumed sleeves.
From the corner of her vision, Lord Tobias Thornfield detached himself from a small cluster of nobles. His every step was self-assured, his smile faint but deliberate, as though every gesture were designed to disarm. His presence had a quiet command that made several ladies turn their heads.
"Lady Rowena," Tobias said smoothly, inclining his head. "I see your carriage is not yet here. Would you permit me the honor of escorting you? My carriage waits nearby."
His words were courteous, his tone effortless, but there was a sharpened edge beneath them—an invitation that was also a test.
Rowena's lips curved into the faintest smile. She bowed her head slightly, allowing her dark hair to curtain her face for a heartbeat before she answered.
"Your kindness humbles me, Lord Thornfield. But my own carriage will arrive shortly. I must refuse, though with gratitude."
Tobias's brow lifted, his expression unreadable, though his eyes narrowed just slightly in interest.
"How bold of you, Lady Rowena. I do not recall another who has turned away my offer."
"I would never dare to offend you, my lord," Rowena replied, her tone light but layered with meaning. "Your nobility deserves only respect. Forgive me, but ah—" Her words broke as the dark-lacquered carriage of Duke Vale rolled forward, stopping neatly before her. She curtsied quickly. "My ride has arrived. I must take my leave."
Without waiting for further discourse, Rowena stepped into her carriage, the door shutting with a soft thud. The wheels rumbled as it carried her away into the night.
A soft, affected sigh broke the silence that lingered between Tobias and the retreating figure of Rowena. Lady Marissa of the Baron's mansion approached, her gown gleaming like molten silver beneath the lanterns. Her beauty was deliberate, constructed from hours of preparation. She dipped her head demurely, though her eyes gleamed with intent.
"My lord," she began, her voice sugar-sweet, "it seems fate has spared you one lady's company. Perhaps you might grant me the privilege of sharing your carriage until mine arrives?"
Tobias's gaze slid to her—cool, distant, almost dismissive.
"I do mind, my lady. Unfortunately, there is no space for us both. I must advise you to wait for your own ride."
He offered nothing more. With an almost careless flick of his cloak, Tobias mounted his carriage and was gone before Marissa could summon another word.
Her face burned with humiliation. She clenched her gloved hands, nails biting into her palms as her own carriage finally approached. Fury trembled in her chest. He never even looked at me… Yet Rowena—always Rowena.
They were agemates. Their statuses, near equal. And yet Rowena's presence seemed to cast her into shadow. No matter the pearls in her hair or the rouge on her lips, Marissa was never enough. Never chosen. Never noticed.
But one thing she knew with a certainty sharp as steel: Tobias Thornfield would be hers. One way or another.
The Duke's Mansion
At the Vale estate, the grand halls were dimly lit by amber sconces, their glow painting shadows across stone. Duke Cedric Vale sat rigidly in the drawing room, a half-empty goblet at his side, his fingers drumming lightly on the carved oak armrest of his chair. Every minute that ticked by felt stretched, frayed by uncertainty.
When the carriage finally arrived, the door flung open and Rowena swept in, her face drawn with equal parts weariness and restrained fury. Cedric rose immediately.
"My daughter," he said, relief bleeding into his tone. "You have returned. Tell me—how was the gathering? Did the king—?"
Rowena cut him short with a bitter laugh.
"How do you expect me to answer that, Father?"
Cedric frowned. "I will not know unless you tell me."
"Then hear this," she said, stepping closer, her eyes burning. "If the king desires Lyanna, why not hand her over? Why risk our family's safety? Why place me in peril for your secrets?"
Cedric's face hardened, though his fingers tightened against the chair. "What are you saying?"
"I nearly lost my life tonight. One misplaced word, one wrong gesture before the king, and I would not be standing here."
"You did not give your sister away, did you?" His voice was sharp now, every syllable laced with urgency.
"No," Rowena said coldly. "Nor did I deny it outright. It depends entirely on what the king chooses to believe."
Cedric let out a strangled breath, anger flashing. "Oh, what a fine daughter I have. A simple task, and you falter."
Rowena snapped, her voice rising. "And what a fine father I have—casting me into the jaws of death to protect another! I am not a pawn to be sacrificed. I will not risk my life for anyone's sake, not even Lyanna's."
Silence stretched between them, tense as drawn steel.
At last Cedric exhaled slowly, his anger folding into thought. "Enough. Go and rest. You have done enough for tonight."
"I will rest, Father," Rowena said, her voice softening but her words cutting still, "but remember this: from what I glimpsed of the king's nature, he will not wait long. Expect him here, and soon."
She swept past him, her skirts whispering across the stone floor, leaving Cedric alone with the crushing weight of her words.
The Chains Below
The moon was full that night, silver light spilling over the castle like liquid ice. In the underground chamber, deep beneath stone and silence, chains clinked as they tightened.
Alaric, King of Velrathis , half-vampire, half-dragon, sat upon the cold floor, shackled in iron laced with runes. His breath came ragged, his hands trembling, veins of black and crimson webbing across his skin. The dragon within clawed for dominance, its hunger gnawing, roaring for release.
Eamon stood nearby, his loyal steward's face etched with worry. "Your Majesty," he murmured, voice low but urgent, "should I bring someone to—"
"No." Alaric's voice was hoarse but resolute. He tightened his fists against the chains, the iron biting deep. "One or two souls will not sate this hunger. To indulge it would be slaughter. I would rather endure the pain."
"But the transformation," Eamon pressed, "the strain could kill you."
Alaric's lips curved into a faint, grim smile. "I will not die so easily. Not until I have crossed my bridge. You are dismissed."
Reluctantly, Eamon bowed.
"See that the gates remain sealed. Release the tigers to guard the walls. None must suspect my state tonight."
"Yes, my lord."
As Eamon withdrew, Alaric leaned back against the cold stone, chains rattling as the first tremor of fire surged through him. His eyes flared orange in the dark, and his low growl echoed like a beast caged too tightly.
By dawn, the castle thrummed with unease. The throne room glittered with light from high arched windows, banners of crimson and black swaying in the draft. Nobles of every rank filled the chamber: humans in gilded doublets, half-bloods draped in finery, and vampires with their ageless poise. Their whispers rippled like a restless tide.
"What delays His Majesty?" muttered Moses, a third-rank official, half-vampire, his impatience poorly veiled.
"Mind your tongue," Silverclaw, a pure-blooded vampire of the first rank, replied icily. "If the king tarries, it is for matters far above your understanding. We wait."
Baron Voss, human and bold, scoffed. "We are subjects, not statues. Must we linger like his bodyguards?"
"Enough," Tobias Thornfield interjected, his voice silken, his presence commanding. "If you would dare test the king's patience, then be prepared to wager your neck."
A tense hush followed. Duke Cedric Vale, standing among them, added quietly, "Patience costs us nothing. Let us not provoke what we cannot contain."
The doors burst open.
Alaric entered, cloak trailing like shadow, eyes calm now, though faint embers lingered in their depths. His presence was overwhelming; all murmurs died as every head bowed.
"Rise," he commanded, settling onto the throne carved from obsidian. "Forgive my delay. An urgent matter detained me."
Silence thickened as he gazed across the chamber. "Why was this council called?"
Baron Voss stepped forward, bowing stiffly. "Your Majesty, reports have come from the North. Deaths, strange illnesses, whole villages vanishing. We seek your judgment."
Alaric's gaze turned to Moses, sharp as a blade. "And what has the Department of Investigation done?"
Moses flinched. "Your Majesty, we followed every clue, yet all leads ran cold. We—"
"Cold?" Alaric's voice cut like steel. "I hear you have grown lax in your duties. Neglectful."
"Mercy, my king," Moses stammered, falling to his knees. "I am framed! I will redouble my efforts, I swear it."
"Framed?" Alaric's voice rose, his eyes glowing with molten orange. The chamber trembled with his rage. "Shall I wait until all my people are slaughtered before you find a spine?"
The officials as one chorused, "Calm yourself, Majesty, for your health—"
Alaric laughed darkly. "My health? Stronger than any of you. Bring him in!" he roared.
The doors slammed open. Guards dragged in a middle-aged man, bound and terrified.
"Your Majesty, mercy!" the man begged, voice breaking.
Baron Voss frowned. "Who is this?"
Alaric rose, his figure a storm contained. "From my own inquiry, this man is the hand behind the horrors in the North. He dares beg for his life. Tell me—what is his fate?"
Duke Vale's voice cut the silence. "Your Majesty, hand him to the Ministry of Justice. He will be tried, and from him, accomplices revealed. Surely, one man cannot orchestrate such terror alone."
Alaric considered, then shook his head. "The accomplices are for justice to uncover. But his fate is mine to decide."
He drew his sword in one smooth, swift motion. Before the man could scream, the blade sang through the air. His head rolled across the marble floor, blood arcing crimson in the stunned silence.
Gasps filled the chamber.
Alaric's voice was iron as he lowered his blade. "Mount his head upon the city gate. Let all know the price of betrayal. If within one month the accomplices remain unnamed, then the Ministry of Justice will hang beside him."
"Yes, Your Majesty," came the chorus, trembling, fearful.
"Court dismissed."
As nobles scattered like leaves before a storm, Alaric's voice halted one figure. "Duke Vale. Remain."
Cedric froze, dread clawing his chest. He turned, bowing low. "Yes, my lord."
Alaric's eyes narrowed, studying him with the keen gaze of predator to prey. "At the last gathering, I saw your daughter Rowena. She bears a striking resemblance to someone I seek. Tell me, Duke—what do you know of this?"
Cedric's throat tightened. He bowed deeper, hiding his eyes. "Your Majesty is mistaken. There is no such resemblance. It is impossible."
"Impossible?" Alaric's tone was mild, but his eyes flared briefly with dangerous light. "We shall see. You are dismissed."
Cedric backed away, his heart hammering, every step heavy with dread.