POV: haruki
Five more days until I head to the capital.
I have spent the better part of my hours buried in parchment and vellum, combing through records of the noble families: examining their influence, their bloodlines, their policies, their treaties.
I was halfway through annotating a particularly dull treatise on House Vorendorf's land disputes when a knock came at the door.
"Enter," I said.
The door opened to reveal Selvara.
Silver hair. It is uncanny how common that seems to be among the supernatural, though she is of a different breed than Delilah. Where Delilah carries the kind of allure that is as deliberate as it is dangerous, Selvara's beauty is quieter, less poised for seduction, though no less striking.
She bowed her head, the gesture precise and deferential.
"I came to inform you of the progress, and the various messages we received from noble houses, as you ordered," she said, her voice calm.
"Very well," I said. "Take a seat."
I gestured casually to the chair across from me.
Her eyes betrayed the briefest flicker of bewilderment. The arrangement of those chairs implies equality, something Dorian never permitted his sisters to even imagine. But she composed herself quickly and sat, her posture measured.
She began her report, detailing preparations, the letters that had come in, the invitations from various families hoping to secure our favor now that I or rather Dorian was a member of the court.
A swarm of sycophants. Predictable, but tedious. Still, I listened without interrupting.
"It is natural they wish to curry favor," I said evenly when she paused. "But take no heed, we have no need of them."
Her expression shifted, the faintest sign of conflict.
"Do you not think that is true?" I asked. My tone remained calm, but it was enough to make her stiffen. I could see her preparing to apologize for the mere suggestion of dissent.
"Selvara," I said before she could begin, "you are my sister. My most loyal advisor. Speak your mind freely."
That stopped her. She blinked at me as though the words themselves were an unfamiliar language. Dorian would never call her, nor Vaelith, an advisor. She was trying to decide if this was some elaborate cruelty.
"You will catch flies if you continue to gape like that," I said, amused.
She shook her head slightly, as though clearing it. "Forgive me, my lord. I was… surprised."
"So? What do you think?" I asked again.
She hesitated, then spoke carefully. "If I am allowed to speak freely, my lord… while you are correct that we do not require the lesser nobilities, most of these messages are from our vassals. It could serve us to answer their invitations, even to decline, rather than ignore them. It would show we respect them enough to give an answer."
Practical. And she adjusted to my change in manner quickly, more spine than her sister, indeed.
"I suppose that has merit as well. Very well, see to it," I said.
The flicker of surprise was back. Not only had I asked her opinion, but I had agreed with it. Poor woman likely thinks this is a fever dream.
She continued with the rest of her report, and with each exchange she offered her opinion more readily, though still with caution. We discussed each matter requiring my attention until there was nothing left. Silence followed.
She looked a little lost, waiting for the formal dismissal Dorian would have given.
"Lady Delilah approached Vaelith and me a while ago," she said slowly.
"Has she now?" I said, turning a page in the book before me without looking up.
"Yes. She apologized to us for her behavior," Selvara replied, and there was a faint trace of apprehension in her tone.
"Good," I said. That clearly startled her more than she expected.
"You are my sister," I added. "Do not allow others to insult you."
"Of course, my lord," she said softly.
She stood, bowed, and took her leave.
Dorian has damaged many people. It is becoming a chore untangling the mess he left behind.
Selvara's POV
I walked out of my brother's chambers with my thoughts caught in a quiet storm. The conversation had been… unnerving. That alone was strange enough. My lord brother has, at his best, been indifferent to us. Indifference was a mercy compared to his usual cruelty. We were born women, and as such, we had no right to anything save what men permitted us. No right to titles, to inheritance, to ambition. No right to dreams.
When I was a girl: fourteen, naïve, foolish enough to believe my thoughts were my own, I told my mother in secret that I wished to one day be the lady of our House. Duchess, as the Carmilla faction calls it. A dream too big for someone like me. I still remember the way my mother's eyes softened, how she smiled as though she too, for a moment, wanted to believe it could be so.
But a servant overheard. And servants in this household are never truly ours, they are the eyes and ears of the men who own us. My father heard of it before the day was done. He summoned me to the lowest dungeon, the one reserved for traitors. My mother wept when she heard his command and clung to me, apologizing again and again, but I did not understand why she was crying. I thought she was afraid for me because of the darkness of the place. I did not yet know what cruelty meant.
In the dungeon, a mattress lay on the floor. That was the first warning. Then I saw who was gathered: my three uncles, my two grand-uncles, five of their sons, seven of my cousins, and finally, my father, seated in a tall-backed chair facing the mattress. I knew then something horrible was about to happen, though I could not have imagined how far horror could stretch.
They tore my clothes away. They took turns violating me until my voice was gone from screaming, until my mind retreated somewhere beyond my body. My father watched the entire time, impassive, as though it were nothing more than a performance. When I woke, it was quiet. Everyone else was gone. Only he remained.
I remember trembling under the weight of his gaze. He rose, came to me, and forced himself into my mouth while I sobbed. When he finished, he said coldly, "You were made to serve only one purpose. This." Then he left me there.
That was four hundred years ago.
From that day, I learned survival. Obedience. The art of lowering one's eyes. The killing of dreams. One does not speak of hope in this house, it is an invitation for it to be crushed underfoot. I played the part well. I endured as my uncles and cousins went off to war, were hunted down, or simply vanished.
When my brother Dorian was born, I loved him as fiercely as I dared. He was sweet, once. But our father broke that sweetness and rebuilt him in his own image – a cruel lord, one more man in a long chain of men who measured their worth by how much pain they could inflict on women like us.
And yet… two days ago, something changed.
He had called me by my name. Not whore. Not cum-dumpster. Selvara.
When was the last time I had heard my name from his lips?
He has not forced himself on us since his return. He has not staged humiliations for the servants' amusement. When Vaelith erred in her duties, he did not punish her. Today, he asked for my opinion on a matter of House business and, more impossible still, he listened.
It cannot be real. People do not change. Not like this. Not overnight.
There are only two plausible explanations, and I must speak with Vaelith, the only one I trust.
I walk the corridors quickly, my steps echoing in the silence. The castle is never truly quiet, servants move like shadows, careful never to draw notice, but this part of the family wing is different. Servants here do not speak. Even their footsteps seem to vanish into the stone, as though the air itself fears to carry sound. The walls are adorned with portraits of our ancestors; grim, pale faces watching me as I pass. The House crest, the black swan pierced by a silver spear, hangs above each door.
At Vaelith's chamber, I knock once and enter without waiting for permission. She is seated by the fire, a book open in her lap. I go to her and wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to her cheek. My sister. My mirror. The only person in this House I can love without fear of betrayal.
"Are you well, Selvara?" she asks immediately, concern in her voice. She knows I went to meet Dorian alone. That her first thought is fear tells me everything about the life we have lived.
"No. It went well," I answered softly, moving to lie on her bed. Then I add, "Rather… too well." My tone is deliberately neutral; our rooms are warded against eavesdropping, but habit is habit.
"Too well?" she repeats, her eyes narrowing.
I recount the meeting exactly as it happened, every word, every glance. When I finish, she looks unsettled. "I see. That is troubling."
"What do you think?" I ask.
"People don't change that much," she says, her voice tight. "He's baiting us to drop our guard."
I beckon her to sit beside me. She does. I reach up to smooth her hair. "Perhaps. Or… it could be that he has finally come to see us as family."
"Unlikely," she says at once.
"Or," I continue, lowering my voice, "he could be someone else."
Vaelith's head tilts sharply. "What do you mean?"
"He was attacked during his mission. All his companions slain," I say slowly. "Could it be possible that our lord brother died then as well?"
Her breath catches. "You think someone took over his corpse?"
"Yes. There are many who could. The question is, why? A spirit with a taste for mischief? An enemy with a vendetta? We must be sure."
"And if he is not our brother?" she asks.
I smile faintly. "Then we avenge our brother. And with only our idiotic cousin left as the male heir, we could rule through him. We would never be subject to this again."
Her eyes widened. "You still haven't given up your rebellious nature."
"Perhaps not," I admit. "Perhaps this could be our way to finally improve our lives."
"How will we find out the truth?"
"You can see memories through blood," I remind her, "if you have enough contact."
It is one of those rare vampire abilities only few possess. I am the only one who knows she possesses this ability.
She nods reluctantly. "I would need at least an hour of uninterrupted contact."
"Then we are fortunate," I say with a sly smile. "We will offer ourselves to our lord brother to celebrate his victory. He never refuses us, when it comes to sex. Together, we will keep him too occupied to notice what you are doing."
Her lips twitch in dark amusement. "And if he really is our brother?"
"Then it will be just another night to him, and we endure as we always have."
We prepare in silence, selecting the most revealing garments we own. At his door, we knock. His voice bids us enter. He sits in a high-backed chair, reading. His gaze lifts to us, brow raised.
We bow low. "Good evening, my lord," I said evenly. "We hope we do not intrude."
"You haven't. Arise."
He is beautiful. Always has been. Beauty is no barrier to cruelty.
"We wished to congratulate you on your great achievement," Vaelith says, her voice honeyed.
"Yes, my lord," I add, lowering my eyes. "Please allow us to…please you."
"Oh?" His mouth curves. "And how do you intend to do so?"
We drop our robes. His smile widens.
An hour and a half later, we leave. Vaelith sways on her feet, her nose bleeding from the strain of using her gift. I catch her, carry her to her bed.
"He is not an impostor," she says at last, her voice shaking with relief and dread. "He is our brother."
"Then let us hope whatever he plans is not too cruel," I murmur, kissing her forehead. I sing her to sleep, as I did when we were children.
Tears burned my eyes as I stripped and knelt on the floor. I punished myself, not knowing for what. For daring to hope. For scheming. For setting my sister at risk. For thinking above my station. Perhaps all of it. Perhaps nothing at all.
But the pain was easier to bear than the thought that nothing will ever change.
AN: Yeah, that chapter was a bit edgy and cruel, I know. But that's kind of the point, it's meant to show that vampire society isn't very forgiving. Even a single act of kindness is met with suspicion.