Chapter 1 – The Tribute
The night the royal banners came, the sky bled red.
Not crimson like sunset—but a deep, living scarlet that seeped through the clouds as if the heavens themselves had been wounded.
Elara stood at the edge of the village square, the cold mud clinging to her boots, her mother's hand crushing hers. All around them, people whispered prayers under their breath. The children hid behind their parents' legs; the old men kept their eyes on the ground.
The King's soldiers were coming.
Their armor shimmered like oil under torchlight, black with veins of faint crimson light crawling across the metal. They moved in silence except for the slow rhythm of the drums—the same drums that had echoed every harvest season for the last hundred years.
The season of tribute.
A rider dismounted from the lead horse, his cloak heavy with the royal insignia: a crown swallowed by shadow. He unrolled a scroll, the parchment pale against the bleeding sky.
"By decree of His Majesty, Lucien, King of Nocturne—one from every village shall be chosen to serve in the palace. Refusal is treason. Acceptance… is honor."
Honor.
The word made Elara's stomach twist. No one ever came back from the palace.
The officer's eyes swept the crowd like the edge of a blade. One by one, he passed them over until they landed on her.
"You," he said, pointing directly at her.
The murmurs erupted at once. Her mother stepped forward, shaking her head. "Please! She's only seventeen—take me instead!"
The soldier ignored her, his voice unflinching. "Step forward."
Elara's body refused to move at first. Then, as if something beyond her will tugged her forward, she took a step. The crowd parted around her.
Her mother's cries were swallowed by the drums.
Two guards approached, their faces hidden behind dark helms. One reached for her arm—his hand ice-cold through her sleeve.
"Your name," the officer demanded.
"Elara." Her voice was quiet, but steady.
He smirked faintly, rolling the name on his tongue. "Elara of Davenreach. You are chosen."
They turned her toward the waiting carriage, a black thing made of wood that seemed to breathe. She caught one last glimpse of her mother kneeling in the mud, her body trembling as she reached out.
Elara wanted to call out—but the carriage door slammed shut, and the drums started again.
The road to the capital wound through the valley of dusk. The soldiers said nothing, and Elara watched the forest blur past, the branches twisted like reaching fingers. A chill seeped through the cracks in the carriage.
By the time the wheels clattered onto stone, night had deepened into something unnatural. The moon hung too low, too red. And there it was—the Palace of Shadows.
It rose like a wound upon the horizon. Towers of black marble, windows burning faintly with inner light, as if the building itself breathed.
As the carriage entered the gates, she felt a weight in the air, pressing on her chest. The torches along the path burned blue instead of gold. No guards spoke. No servants watched. Only the silence of something vast—and aware.
Inside, the palace smelled faintly of rain and iron. The floor reflected her face like dark glass. A line of armored sentinels waited at the grand staircase, heads bowed.
"The tribute from Davenreach," one soldier announced.
A deep voice echoed through the hall.
"Bring her forward."
The sound froze her where she stood. It wasn't a shout, not even a command—it was something deeper, older, like the whisper of thunder before a storm.
The sentinels stepped aside. At the top of the steps sat a throne carved from obsidian, veins of crimson light pulsing through it like blood. Upon it—motionless as a statue—sat the King.
He was not what she expected.
Tall, sharp, impossibly still. His hair was the color of midnight silk, his skin pale against the darkness around him. But it was his eyes that held her—the faint glow of dying embers, sorrow buried under centuries of cold restraint.
When he spoke, the walls trembled.
"Another offering."
The soldier bowed low. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Lucien's gaze never left her. "Tell me, girl," he murmured, his voice carrying through the silence. "Do you fear death?"
Elara swallowed hard, but her voice did not waver. "Only if it's meaningless."
The hall stilled. Even the torches seemed to pause.
Then, for the first time in centuries, the King of Shadows smiled—a small, dangerous thing. "Bold."
He rose from his throne. The air shifted as he descended the steps, each footfall echoing like the toll of a bell. When he stood before her, she realized he wasn't human—not entirely. The air around him shimmered with something ancient and cold, a storm wrapped in human skin.
Lucien's gloved hand lifted—slow, deliberate. He tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break.
The shadows around him stirred, slithering across the marble floor, reaching toward her like smoke—until his touch brushed her skin.
Then, the impossible happened.
The darkness recoiled.
Lucien froze. The air crackled between them. The curse that coiled around him like a second heartbeat—suddenly, it quieted.
For the first time in a hundred years, silence filled his mind. No whispers. No hunger. Just her heartbeat, steady and alive.
He stepped back sharply, the shadows snapping around him like broken glass. "Take her to the eastern wing," he said quickly, his voice once again a blade of command. "No one touches her. Not even the servants."
The guards bowed, guiding her away. But Elara's gaze lingered on him—on the faint tremor in his hand, the shadow that no longer obeyed.
As the doors closed behind her, Lucien turned toward his throne. He stared at his gloved palm, where her warmth still lingered.
And in a voice softer than the night itself, he whispered to the empty hall:
"Who are you, girl… and why does your light not burn me?"