Thunder cracked across the sky like a whip, echoing through the spires of Blueshire Castle. The great stone fortress trembled with the force of it, and the storm clouds above twisted like black silk, heavy with the promise of ruin.
In the royal chambers, King Lucian Vauclair awoke with a start — his eyes snapping open, breath sharp, sweat cold against his pale skin. His heart hammered as if it had been gripped by unseen claws. The nightmare still clung to him: a woman cloaked in smoke whispering his name, fire bleeding from her mouth, and a boy standing over his throne, eyes like the abyss.
Another nightmare
"Summon the court," he growled. "And fetch the Queen."
Moments later, the Grand Hall filled with the shuffle of robes and murmurs of courtiers. The high torches burned blue, casting the assembly in a ghostly glow. Queen Aries Vauclair, regal in her dark silver gown, sat beside her husband, her expression unreadable. She had been through decades of his paranoia, his wars, his cruelty — and though she bore no affection for him, she knew better than to defy the throne.
The king's voice thundered through the hall. "The dreams persist. Each night I see the cursed one standing where I sit. The r red moon goddess mocks me — they send visions of rebellion from my own blood."
A low murmur rippled through the court.
"Your Majesty," spoke General Vayne, the warlord of the southern front, "perhaps they are but shadows of your fears. The weak prince is hardly capable of treachery."
Lucian's hand slammed the armrest. "Fear? Do you call my sight fear, General? The boy's mother was a demon, not a woman. Her blood runs through his veins, sleeping, waiting. Shall we wait until he rips the kingdom apart before we act?"
Silence followed.
Queen Aries's gaze flicked to the king. "And what do you intend, my lord?"
Lucian rose from his throne, eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. "Chain him. Beneath the palace."
The words dropped like stones.
The Court of Elders erupted into protest. "My King!" cried Lord Arwin, "the dungeons below were built to hold devourers and shades! The air itself devours life there! He is your son—"
"A son cursed by the gods," Lucian hissed. "He will not die, only sleep. Let his weakness rot where no light dares to touch."
Half the court fell silent in obedience; the other half lowered their eyes, unwilling to challenge him further. Aries said nothing. Her silence was not agreement — it was resignation. She had seen the way Lucian looked at Karter. Not as a father, but as a man who feared his reflection.
By noon, the storm outside had grown monstrous. The heavens wept as if mourning what was to come.
In the courtyard, the seven princes gathered — six proud and cruel, one trembling in silence. Prince Karter Vauclair, was dragged forward in chains. The rain soaked his hair and robe until they clung to him like second skin. His wrists bled where the silver bindings dug into flesh.
"Do not resist, brother," sneered Prince Alistair, tightening his grip on the chain. "It's the only honor Father ever intended you."
The people of Blueshire — vampires and slaves alike — had gathered to watch. Whispers rippled through the crowd like smoke.
"Why chain a prince?"
"He bears his mother's curse."
"They say he dreams of blood and fire."
Karter's gaze drifted upward, to the dark tower where his father stood watching from the balcony. Even through the rain, he could feel the weight of that gaze — cold, unloving, final.
He wanted to hate him. But hatred was too warm a feeling. What he felt was emptier — a hollow ache carved by years of silence.
They dragged him through the palace gates, down the stone stairway, past the torch-lit halls into the depths where light dared not linger.
The Chamber Below — a prison older than the castle itself — smelled of rust and sorrow. The walls were black stone etched with ancient runes meant to suppress power. There, even demons had begged for death.
Karter was thrown against the floor. The guards affixed his chains to the rune-marked pillars. He did not resist.
As the final lock clicked shut, a single droplet of blood slid down his wrist and hit the cold stone. The rune beneath him flickered — a faint red spark, unnoticed by all but him.
In the darkness, Karter smiled — faint, broken....
"Do you feel her, Father?" he whispered into the void. "Mother is closer than you think."
Above, thunder rolled again.
The storm that had begun at dawn over Frizington had now spread across kingdoms, drenching roads and forests alike.
Far from the castle, Ronita Tamra's carriage sat waiting under the drenched canopy of Trencth's inn courtyard. The rain came down in relentless sheets, hammering against the carriage roof like a thousand fingers.
She stood at the doorway, clutching the ribbon Princess Jewel had given her. "We can't leave in this," she said softly, peering out at the dark clouds.
Prince Liren, small and wide-eyed, tugged at her sleeve. "Is it a bad omen?" he asked. "Mother says storms like this happen when the dead are restless."
Ronita forced a smile, kneeling to meet his gaze. "It's just rain, little one," she said. But the tremor in her voice betrayed her doubt.
Jerome stood nearby, his expression grave. "It's not a normal storm," he muttered. "The air tastes of iron."
Ronita looked up at the clouds, and for a moment, she could have sworn the lightning shaped itself into a claw — then vanished. "We leave at first light," she said, though dawn had already passed.
The storm raged on till afternoon, drumming like war on the rooftops. Inside the inn, the young princes played quietly while Princess Jewel sat near the window, watching the sky.
"Do you feel it too?" she whispered to Ronita. "It's as if the air itself is mourning."
Ronita hesitated, her eyes softening. "Perhaps it is," she said. "Perhaps something in Blueshire has been lost."
In the depths of Blueshire's underground, Karter's chains pulsed faintly in the darkness. Each clap of thunder above made the runes flicker brighter. His eyes fluttered open, glowing with dim crimson light.
Far above him, the wedding bells began to ring.
The King's marriage procession had begun — the feast, the celebration, the promise of unity between Blueshire and Frizington. The storm crashed louder, drowning the music, shaking the stained glass windows till they cracked.
Lucian Vauclair stood in his chamber, staring at his reflection. His crown gleamed like a noose of gold. Behind him, the thunder rolled again — this time sounding almost like laughter.
When the lightning struck the highest spire of the castle, the earth trembled. Servants screamed. The torches flickered and died.
And in that single, blinding instant — the King of Blueshire disappeared.
Far away on the road from Trencth, Ronita's carriage lurched suddenly as the horses neighed and reared in panic. The rain stopped all at once.
"Jerome?" she called.
But the air had gone eerily still.
A strange whisper moved through the wind — faint but unmistakable.
"The King is lost."