Eva drifted in fever, her body heavy, her mind burning. The darkness around her shimmered, fractured, and then unfolded into light.
She was fifteen again. The mirror before her shimmered with candlelight, silk ribbons wound through her hair by steady, graceful hands. The chamber smelled of rosewater and pressed linen.
"Hold still, little flame," her mother murmured, fingers deft as she pinned a strand in place.
Eva's reflection smiled faintly, nerves fluttering in her chest. "Mother… will I be like Clara? Or Elise? Will you and Father arrange my marriage too?"
Her mother's hands stilled. For a moment, her dark golden eyes met Eva's in the mirror—so sharp, so alive they seemed to see through time itself. Then she smiled, soft and certain.
"No, my daughter. You are not like them. You are special. No creature can dictate your fate. You will not be given away. You will find him yourself."
Eva's brow furrowed. "But… how? How will I know who he is?"
Her mother bent low, lips near her ear, voice low as a prayer. "Because the husband of a Spear is chosen by the God of War Himself. You will know him the moment you try to end him. You will strike, again and again… but he will be the one death you cannot give."
Eva turned in her seat, wide-eyed. "How many times did you try to kill Father before you married him?"
A mischievous spark lit her mother's smile. "Five times and a half."
Eva blinked, baffled. "Half? How can you try to kill someone half a time?"
Her mother only laughed, a bell-like sound. She kissed Eva's brow and whispered, "That is a tale for when you're older."
The dream blurred—her mother's warmth fading, her laughter echoing into fevered silence.
Days passed, measured in the slow rhythm of healing. Fevered nights bled into mornings where she could sit upright without the world tilting beneath her. Her body, though mending, regained its strength, each movement a reminder that she was no ordinary woman. Yet the castle pressed down on her still—a gilded cage she had no key to.
The servants came and went like wraiths. They were polite, careful, always deferential—but never spoke to her beyond the barest necessity. Sometimes Eva caught the ripple of their whispers beyond her door, quick and hushed, until her footsteps silenced them. Then heads would bow, eyes drop, hands move with mechanical precision. As though the sound of her name itself might condemn them.
The guards were worse. Always present, always silent. Their stillness was not protection. It was containment.
In time she understood the shape of it: she stood within a court — and the court, for the moment, would not step forward. Perhaps they dared not be seen meddling with her captor's charge; perhaps, as the elders often chose, they preferred to wait and watch, confident the matter of a human would soon resolve itself.
Suspicion gnawed at her, but she refused to let ignorance chain her.
She began to wander the wing in careful increments, testing her boundaries. Corridors stretched like veins of stone, heavy with gilded trim and tapestries of victories she did not recognize. The sheer scale of the place spoke for itself—impossible wealth, impossible power. This was no fortress. No provincial hold.
And then she saw it.
The portrait loomed across an arched hall, larger than life. A vampire wrought in oil and shadow, sharp-faced and pale as carved marble. His amethyst eyes with molten-gold rings burned even through paint, a mark impossible to mistake. His hair was a tousled cascade—black giving way to silver, as though frost had claimed it strand by strand. Thick and wavy, it fell just past his ears, styled with deliberate care that softened the severity of his features, making him look young—almost charming.
Her gaze dropped to the plaque beneath, its script etched deep into the bronze:
His Highness,
Lucarion of House Vaelthar,
Crown Prince of the Night Throne,
High Commander of the Blood Legions.
Eva's stomach turned. The painter had captured a prince. She had met a predator.
She stood very still, forcing herself to look longer, harder, as though facing the image of her captor might grant her power over it. Only when her pulse steadied did she turn away and resumed her exploration.
When she finally found the library, the last pieces fell into place.
Bookshelves soared, carved wood groaning under their weight. Excitement flickered in her chest… only to wither as she scanned the titles. History? Geography? Nowhere. The shelves had been curated, cleansed, rewritten.
Frustrated but unbroken, she turned her attention to what remained. Flora. Fauna. The natural world could not be censored. She traced her fingers over delicate sketches, maps of rivers and forests, descriptions of beasts and roots. And then, tucked between volumes on medicinal herbs, she found it—a scrap of parchment, a map and a note.
It described a tree, silver-leaved, flowering only in the very center of the vampire kingdom. Her pulse quickened. Between the parchment, the weight of the halls, and the memory of those golden rings, the truth was undeniable.
The capital. She was in the capital itself.
Triumph and fear tangled in her chest. She had her answer. But the walls still towered, the guards still watched, the cage remained. She was clever but still trapped.
Her fingers lingered on the parchment as the faintest echo of footsteps broke the silence. A shadow lengthened across the floor—tall, deliberate, unhurried.
—
Lucarion rode through the gates of the capital, tension coiled in his chest like a blade. The rebellion at the eastern border had been crushed, the human insurgents scattered. Orders had been clear: return immediately. The king's summons carried the weight of expectation.
By the time he reached his wing and dismounted, the dust and blood of the eastern border had settled into memory. In his chambers, hot water washed away sweat and grime, yet his mind remained sharp—tracing troop movements, noting border threats, and, increasingly, considering Eva.
A month had passed since his father's decree—that he would marry her, that she would bear his heirs. During that time, he had let the idea settle, letting each report shape her into someone real: bold, intelligent, fiercely independent. The abstraction of "future bride" had given way to a formidable presence he could imagine at his side.
Clad in fresh attire, Lucarion stepped from his chambers and summoned a servant with a sharp gesture.
"Where is she?" His voice left no room for delay.
The servant's eyes flickered briefly to him, cautious. "Library, Your Highness."
His boots made no sound on the polished stone as he approached the library.
He paused at the doorway, not yet stepping inside.
Eva sat on the floor, hand tracing the lines of a parchment, thick waves of bronze hair tumbling over her shoulders. He cataloged the subtle movements, the set of her shoulders, the way she held the parchment, the way her gaze, though downcast, measured everything around her. Everything about her told him she was no longer broken.
He had always known his marriage would be strategic, a consolidation of power dictated by his father—but he had never imagined she would be like this. Eva was not a vampire noble, not molded by courtly training or expectation. She carried no polished grace, no practiced flirtation, no subtle mastery of the court's endless games.
Vampire women of his class were statuesque, pale as moonlight, every motion deliberate, every glance measured. They were trained to charm, to submit, to command attention without ever seeming to do so. Their value was their lineage, their control, their ability to bear heirs—and they knew the rules instinctively.
Eva was different. Every gesture spoke of her control, her instincts. She would not be a passive piece in his father's plan.
"Should you not have killed me already?"
Her voice was low, raspy, slicing through the quiet of the library. Her eyes stayed fixed on the parchment, as if he weren't even there.
Lucarion stilled, surprised by her audacity.
He stepped inside, a smirk curving his lips.
"Why would I kill my bride?"
Her head snapped up at that. Sharp, unblinking eyes locked onto his.
"I beg your pardon?"
The words were measured, deliberate—but disbelief simmered beneath them.
Lucarion's gaze did not waver. His voice was smooth, edged with amusement.
"I think you heard me."
Shock flickered across her face, quick but undeniable.
He let it hang between them, then continued, calm and imperious.
"Go change. Tonight we dine together."
She did not move. Anger burned through her stillness, nostrils flaring as she forced herself to rein it in. But her thoughts seared hotter: if the vampires had brought her here not as a prisoner, but as a bride, then they knew. They knew the truth in her blood. And if this monster believed he could make her his broodmare, he would soon learn how wrong he was. She had been stolen as a bride before—and every time, she rid herself of the groom. This would be no different. She would kill this one too.
Lucarion turned to leave, but the flare of her fury reached him like a live wire.
The scent of her blood sharpened—wild, untempered—and tangled with his pulse. It made his mouth water, his blood stir, and a slow, knowing smirk tug at his lips.