Lyanna did not raise her head when the heavy door shut with a soft thud behind the maids, nor when the low ripple of presence pressed into the room like the weight of a stormfront rolling over the sea. She had a fork in her hand and steak on her plate, and that was far more interesting, apparently, than the towering figure who had entered without so much as knocking. The room smelled faintly of roasted meats and sweet pastry, candlelight flickering against the dark oak panels, casting long shadows that danced across the floor like ghostly attendants. Alaric Blackthorn, king of vampires, conqueror of legions, the one who had bent dukes, priests, and warlords into silence with a glance, stood across from her and watched with narrowing eyes while his bride ignored him for a plate of pork and pancakes. The soft rustle of the curtains in the evening breeze and the distant chime of the castle's clock punctuated the tense silence, yet Lyanna seemed oblivious to all but the food before her.
"It seems I've become invisible to my little bride," he finally drawled, his voice low, polished obsidian threading with menace, yet tempered by a note of amused patience. Lyanna licked her spoon, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and deliberately made no move to acknowledge him, her eyes fixed on a glistening prawn, as though the sight of Alaric were mere background noise. She hummed with exaggerated pleasure as though she dined alone, cheeks puffed slightly from a mouthful, lips curling into a mischievous grin. The audacity of her calm, her utter defiance in the face of his presence, made the corner of his mouth twitch in a faint, dangerous smile.
"Hmm. I thought royalty was supposed to be punctual. But perhaps I was wrong." His words slithered through the air, commanding and heavy, yet she did not flinch. Instead, she shoved another bite into her mouth with exaggerated relish, eyes dancing in the flickering candlelight, and hummed once more, as if teasing him with her indifference. The predator realized, in that instant, that he would have to chase her—not because she fled, but because she was utterly unmoved, a challenge wrapped in a small, defiant body. And it infuriated him. And it enthralled him.
"You seem determined to ignore me, little bride." He leaned against the edge of the heavy wooden table, dark eyes tracing her movements like a hunter studying prey, though the prey clearly did not intend to be caught. Lyanna paused, finger hovering over a fork, deliberately glancing at the edge of the chandelier's crystals before returning her gaze to the prawn. "Or perhaps you are less interesting than roasted pork?" she quipped with feigned nonchalance, the words light, teasing, mischievous, yet every syllable carefully calculated to frustrate him. Alaric's dark eyes narrowed, a flash of something ancient and dangerous hidden beneath his amused facade, yet his lips curved in the slightest smirk.
"You underestimate me, my dear," he said softly, leaning closer so the shadow of his presence fell across her plate, brushing her fingers with an imperceptible cold. Lyanna's fork froze midair for the briefest moment before she continued her work, humming again, utterly unconcerned. "I assure you, I am not easily overlooked," he added, voice smooth as silk, brushing against her ears with a heat that belied the chill in his eyes.
Lyanna's laughter bubbled, soft, playful, entirely defiant. "Then I must be exceptional," she said, finally allowing her gaze to flicker toward him, one sharp, teasing glance, before returning to her meal. He leaned back, dark amusement twisting his expression. "Exceptional, indeed… and infuriating beyond reason," he muttered, and she could see the flicker of genuine fascination in the depths of his gaze.
After what felt like a slow, deliberate eternity of silent, playful resistance, Alaric finally straightened. "I see you've decided to make a sport of ignoring me. Very well," he murmured, voice heavy with threat and intrigue, as he stepped back into the shadows, leaving her to her meal. She did not look up, though her heartbeat quickened, aware of the weight of his gaze lingering like smoke in the corners of the room.
The door clicked behind him, leaving Lyanna with the faint hum of anticipation and curiosity, as if the room itself exhaled in relief at his absence. And in that silence, she tasted freedom, just a little, for the first time in her life. But the knowledge that the master of darkness would return, always returning, threaded through her thoughts like an electric current, making her pulse quicken with fear and delight alike.
Alaric's steps echoed down the corridor as he moved to his study, candlelight reflecting in his eyes, the flickering shadows of the grand hall following him. Eamon awaited him, quietly, ever vigilant, his sharp features lit by the crimson glow of the lanterns. "Your Majesty, the preparations for the Crimson Festival…" Eamon began cautiously, voice betraying both awe and concern.
Alaric's dark gaze swept the throne room, shadows flickering over ancient tapestries depicting wars of old and rituals long-forgotten. "The festival must proceed as planned," he said, voice even, controlled, yet threaded with a dangerous undercurrent. "The Black Fang cult has unsettled the fragile balance. Their recklessness will not be tolerated." The ancient festival, known for centuries as the Night of the Crimson Moon, drew nobles, humans, and creatures from the shadows, and its air of decadent danger promised a perfect stage for their strategy. Candlelight glinted on silver goblets, red wine swirling like blood as Alaric and Eamon plotted the measures to expose and crush the cult.
Eamon's sharp voice cut in, hesitant but persistent. "And the lady, Your Majesty? Miss Lyanna… will she be safe amidst such… darkness?" Alaric's lips curved faintly. "She is not just safe; she is mine. I intend to make her my queen," he stated plainly, the words weighted with command and promise. "She may test me, defy me, and tease me endlessly… but she belongs in my world now. Watch her carefully. Morgana watches too, with intentions I will not tolerate."
The night deepened, the castle silent but alive with whispers of stone and candlelight, corridors echoing with history, the very air thick with anticipation. Lyanna, unaware of the plotting, had taken her night bath and wandered into the long corridor, a rare sense of freedom filling her chest. For the first time, she no longer felt caged. She moved softly, her bare feet whispering over the polished floors, lost in thought, when she nearly collided with the wall.
Alaric appeared suddenly, stepping between her and the unforgiving stone. "So sorry," she murmured, startled, about to turn back. But he reached out, catching her by the arm with a strength that made her gasp, spinning her gently into his chest. Her forehead bumped slightly against him, and she felt the warmth of his body, firm as stone, unyielding. "Oh my goodness… Lord, what is he even made of? Stone or brick?" she thought, frowning as irritation mixed with fascination.
" Is that how you thank who saved you from colliding with the wall?" Alaric asked playfully.
"I'd prefer you let me collide with the wall," h
She murmured, amusement flickering in his dark gaze. "After all, there's little difference between the wall and your body—they're both hard."
Alaric pursed his lips, clearly annoyed yet intrigued. "I'll take that as a compliment," he added with a smirk. "You seem very interested in my body."
"Dream on," she said defiantly, freeing herself and continuing toward her room.
"Refrain from wandering the halls at this hour," he warned, attempting to instill fear. "There may be dark creatures roaming the night."
Lyanna's eyes sparkled, fearless. "I'd like to meet one of them," she said, curiosity and excitement lacing her voice.
"Relax, my little bride," he said, a faint growl in his tone. "It will not be a pleasant sight."
"I do not consent to this marriage, Your Majesty," she sneered, emphasizing the title with defiance, drawing a shadow of annoyance across Alaric's face.
"And last I checked, my dear Queen Lyanna, I did not ask your permission," he replied, voice smooth, challenging her, a playful glint in his eyes.
Lyanna pouted and scoffed, retreating into her room and locking the door, clearly displeased. Alaric smiled in the darkness, the shadows of the corridors stretching before him like dark fingers. She was utterly different from the girl in the forest, playful, defiant, alive in ways that delighted him. He would bind her to himself, he realized, and she would have no escape.
"This is getting more interesting," he murmured, a faint smile curling his lips. "It'll be a lot of fun than I imagined." And with that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving the corridor bathed in the pale silver light of the moon, Lyanna's defiance echoing in the quiet castle halls, a promise of storms, games, and pleasures yet to come.