Crimson Heir *18+*

A/N: I have no intention of contracting this book nor putting it behind any other paywall so all your support is appreciated!

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The cold was the first thing she remembered. Not the gentle chill of a autumn evening, but a deep, penetrating cold that seeped into marrow and soul alike. It was the cold of the grave, and it was the first sensation Elara had known after the pain.

She awoke in a room that was not her own.

Moonlight, pale and feeble, filtered through a single tall window framed by curtains of heavy, dark velvet. It was enough to see by. Her new senses, horrifyingly acute, catalogued everything. The room was vast, dominated by a canopied bed she lay upon, its posts carved into the shapes of twisting, agonized figures. The air smelled of dust, old polish, and... blood. A faint, metallic tang that made something primal and hungry stir in the pit of her stomach.

She pushed herself up, her movements unnaturally fluid. The simple cotton shift they had dressed her in whispered against her skin. Her skin. She held out a hand in the moonlight. It was her hand, yet it wasn't. It was too pale, the veins beneath too prominent, a tracery of blue beneath alabaster. It was... beautiful. And utterly alien.

This is a dream, she thought, the words hollow and meaningless in her own mind. A fever dream.

But the memories crashed down upon her, not like a wave, but like a shard of ice driven into her skull.

The marketplace. The smell of spices and roasting meat. Laughing with Liam about some foolish thing. The setting sun painting the city in gold. Then, the shadows detaching themselves from the alleyways. Not street thugs. Their movements were too graceful, their eyes gleaming with a predator's light. Liam shoving her behind him, his voice a brave, trembling command to "Get back!"

The flash of a smile, too sharp, too white. A hand moving faster than thought. Liam... not falling, but... coming apart. The sound—gods, the sound of it. She had screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth, smelling of leather and cold earth. A voice, low and resonant, by her ear. "Hush, little bird. The night has only just begun."

Then, the pain. A white-hot puncture at her throat. The feeling of life itself being pulled from her, a dizzying, terrifying drain. Darkness. Then... the cold. And the thirst.

A thirst that was now a living thing, clawing at her insides, a desert wind howling through the empty places where her humanity used to be.

The door to the chamber opened without a sound.

Elara flinched, scrambling back on the bed until her shoulders hit the cold carved headboard. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the torchlight from the hall beyond. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and he moved into the room with a silence that was more threatening than any footstep. The door clicked shut behind him.

He stepped into a patch of moonlight, and Elara's breath hitched. This was the man from the alley. The one with the voice. His face was all sharp angles and severe lines, as if carved from granite. His hair was the color of raven's wings, falling across a high forehead. His eyes were the most striking feature—a pale, piercing silver-gray, like moonlight on a frozen lake. They held no warmth, only a calculating, ancient stillness. He was dressed in the same manner as the others in the alley—impeccable, dark, tailored clothing that spoke of wealth and power, not street violence.

He stopped a few feet from the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, and simply looked at her. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling from her terrified eyes down to the frantic pulse hammering in her throat. She saw his eyes fix there for a moment, and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something—hunger?—crossed his features before it was ruthlessly suppressed.

"You are awake," he said. His voice was the same as in the alley—a low, calm baritone that vibrated through the silent room. It was not a question.

"What did you do to me?" Her own voice was a rasp, unfamiliar. It sounded like glass grinding on stone.

"I gave you a gift," he replied, his tone utterly flat. "And a curse. They are often the same thing in this world."

"Where am I? Who are you?" The questions tumbled out, fueled by a panic that was rapidly overriding the terrifying new instincts whispering in her blood.

"You are in the Court of Sanguine Crowns. The seat of what remains of vampire sovereignty in this region." He said it with the bored air of a tutor stating a simple fact. "I am Cyrus. I am the Lord Enforcer to Her Majesty, Queen Lysandra."

Vampire. Court. Queen. The words should have been madness. But the thirst in her throat, the preternatural clarity of her vision, the memory of the alley—they made a horrifying, undeniable sense.

"Why?" she whispered, the word choked. "Why me?"

Cyrus's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "You were seen. Your bloodline... it is unique. It sings to those with the senses to hear it. It was deemed too valuable to leave wasting away in the gutters of the mortal world."

"My bloodline?" Elara's mind raced. She was a foundling. A nobody. She had no family, no history. She'd scrubbed floors at the tavern for coin since she was twelve.

"A fact you were apparently unaware of," Cyrus said, a hint of disdain in his voice. "It changes nothing. You are here now. You are one of the Sanguine. Your old life is ashes."

The finality in his tone was a slap. Liam was ashes. Her home was ashes. She was a thing, a possession, brought here for a reason she didn't understand.

The thirst chose that moment to roar back to the forefront, a cramping, agonizing need that doubled her over. A low moan escaped her lips. She clutched her stomach, her fingers curling into the thin shift.

Cyrus watched her, his expression unmoved. "The thirst will consume you if you do not feed. It will burn you from the inside out, driving you mad before it finally kills you. The gift must be sustained."

"I don't... I won't..." she gasped, revolted by the very idea.

"You will," he stated, as if commenting on the weather. "You have no choice. It is your nature now." He turned slightly, gesturing to the door. "Come."

It was not a request. It was an order. Every fiber of her being, the part that was still Elara the tavern maid, wanted to defy him, to scream and rage. But the new part, the vampire part, recognized the absolute authority in his voice, the sheer dominance of his presence. It whispered that disobedience meant pain. Meant death.

Trembling, she uncurled herself from the bed. Her legs felt weak, but they held. She followed him as he led her out of the room and into a cavernous, dark hallway.

The Court was a nightmare of gothic splendor. High, vaulted ceilings were lost in shadow. Tapestries depicting scenes of terrifying battles and decadent feasts lined the stone walls. The air was thick with the same scents—dust, blood, and a cloying, expensive perfume that failed to mask the underlying decay. They passed other figures, all moving with that same preternatural silence. Men and women of impossible beauty and cold, dead eyes. Their gazes slid over her with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. She was new. She was weak. She was prey walking among predators.

Cyrus paid them no mind, his stride long and purposeful. Elara had to hurry to keep up, her bare feet silent on the cold stone flags.

He led her down a spiraling staircase, deeper into the bowels of the castle. The air grew colder, damper. The opulence faded, replaced by rough-hewn stone and the smell of earth and iron.

Finally, he stopped before a heavy iron door. A single barred window was set at eye level. He produced a key from his coat and unlocked it, the mechanism groaning in protest.

"In here," he said, pushing the door open.

The room beyond was a cell. Straw littered the floor. In the center, chained to the wall by manacles, was a man. He was dirty, dressed in rags, and he stank of fear and sweat. He looked up as the door opened, his eyes wide with animal terror. He saw Cyrus and shrank back, a whimper escaping his lips.

Then his eyes landed on Elara. For a moment, there was confusion. Then, a dawning, pathetic hope. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please, miss. Help me. Don't let him..."

Cyrus ignored him. He looked at Elara. "Feed."

The word hung in the damp air. The man's hope turned to ashes, replaced by pure, undiluted horror. He began to sob.

Elara stared, frozen. "No." The word was a breath.

"You must." Cyrus's voice held no patience now. "This is not a lesson you can afford to fail. Your survival depends on it. Your sanity depends on it. Feed."

The thirst was a fire in her throat. The man's terror had a scent now, acrid and sharp, and beneath it... the scent of his blood. It called to the hunger inside her, a siren song that made her mouth water and her fangs—her fangs—throb with a need to descend.

"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head, tears of frustration and horror welling in her eyes.

In a movement faster than she could follow, Cyrus was behind her. His hands came down on her shoulders, not harshly, but with an immovable firmness. His body was a wall of cold strength at her back. He leaned down, his voice a whisper by her ear, his breath stirring her hair. It was the first time he had touched her since the alley, and the contact sent a jolt of something terrifying through her—a mix of revulsion and a shocking, unwanted thrill.

"The thirst is your master now," he murmured, his voice hypnotic. "It is more honest than any king or queen. It does not lie. It does not bargain. It only takes. Give in to it. Let it show you what you are."

He gave her a slight push forward. Elara stumbled, catching herself against the damp wall, just feet from the chained man. He was crying openly now, begging, pleading.

Her vision began to tunnel. The world narrowed to the frantic pulse in the man's throat. She could see it beating, see the delicate skin stretched over the artery. She could almost taste the life that pumped beneath it. The hunger rose, a black tide, swamping her fear, her morality, her very self.

A low growl rumbled in her chest, a sound she didn't recognize as her own.

She took a step forward. Then another.

The man screamed.

It was the last sound he made.

Elara was on him. It wasn't a decision; it was an inevitability. Her body moved with an instinct she didn't know she possessed. Her mouth found his throat. There was a moment of resistance, then a sharp puncture. And then... warmth.

The blood flooded into her mouth, rich, coppery, and alive. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever tasted. It was life, heat, power. It coursed down her throat, quenching the terrible fire, filling the hollow places, singing through her veins. The world, which had been cold and sharp and terrifying, suddenly softened, warmed, made sense. A euphoria, thick and dark, wrapped around her mind. This was right. This was what she was for.

She drank deeply, lost to the sensation, to the power of it.

She didn't know how long she knelt there, locked onto the source of life. It was only when the flow began to slow, when the heart beneath her lips faltered and stilled, that she came back to herself.

She pulled away, gasping.

The man was dead. His head lolled to the side, eyes glassy and vacant. Blood stained his neck, his rags, her lips, her chin.

Reality returned in a nauseating wave. The euphoria vanished, replaced by a gut-wrenching horror. She stared at her hands, at the body, at the blood. A sob wrenched itself from her chest. She had just killed a man. She had enjoyed it.

She scrambled backward, away from the corpse, until her back hit the opposite wall. She drew her knees to her chest, trembling violently, trying to wipe the blood from her face with the back of her hand, only succeeding in smearing it.

Cyrus had not moved. He stood by the door, watching her with that same impassive silver gaze. He looked from her terrified, blood-streaked face to the dead man, and back again. There was no judgment in his eyes. No approval. No disgust. There was only observation.

"It is done," he said, his voice flat once more. "The first is always the hardest. And the most revealing."

He walked over to her. Elara flinched, expecting violence, punishment, something. He simply knelt in front of her, ignoring the straw and the filth. He reached into his coat and produced a spotless white handkerchief.

He didn't hand it to her. He reached out and, with a startling gentleness, wiped the blood from her chin himself. His touch was cold, but the cloth was soft. She was too shocked, too broken, to pull away. She could only stare into his unreadable face.

"The hunger is sated for now," he said, his voice low. "But it will return. It always returns. You exist now between the thirst and the guilt. It is the eternal dance of our kind."

He stood up, looking down at her as if she were a fascinating, pitiable specimen. "Welcome to your inheritance, Elara. Welcome to the Court of Sanguine Crowns."

He turned and walked out of the cell, leaving the door open. An invitation. A command.

Elara remained on the floor, surrounded by the evidence of her damnation. The blood on her tongue was still sweet. The memory of the power was still electric in her veins. And warring with it was a shame so profound it threatened to drown her.

She was a monster. He had made her one. And as she finally, slowly, pushed herself to her feet and walked out of that cell on trembling legs, she knew one thing with a terrifying certainty.

Cyrus was right. The thirst would return. And the next time, she wouldn't hesitate.

The old Elara was indeed ashes. Something new had risen in her place. Something hungry. Something dangerous.

And something that now belonged, body and soul, to the shadows of this gilded cage.

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A/N: ignore this part It's just for the 10,000 words

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