The grass in the meadow was still damp with morning dew, staining the hem of five-year-old Elara's dress. She had been reaching for a wildflower—something bright to show her friend—when a jagged stone caught her ankle.
A sharp cry left her lips.
"Elara!" Alistair, seven and already carrying himself with a quiet gravity, was at her side in an instant.
He didn't panic. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief embroidered with a silver T. He pressed it firmly against the scrape on her leg, his small hands steady. "Stay still," he murmured, pulling her down to sit on the sun-warmed earth. "It's just a scratch. I've got you."
They sat there together, two small islands in a sea of green, the blood blooming like a dark rose on the white silk. For a moment, the world was quiet.
"Master Alistair!"
The harsh voice of the Coachman shattered the peace. He stood by the carriage at the edge of the woods, his face pale. "We must go. Now. Your father has found your room empty. He is... displeased."
Alistair looked at Elara, a flicker of fear crossing his young face before he masked it with the stoicism expected of a Throne. He stood up, leaving the blood-stained handkerchief in Elara's hand. "I have to go" .
Elara watched the carriage disappear into the treeline, clutching the silk to her chest. She walked back to her own home—a house that felt too large and far too quiet. Her father was at the Council again, leaving her to wait in the silence, the small stain of Alistair's kindness the only warmth she had.
The iron gates of Velmora Manor groaned as Alistair stepped through the threshold. His clothes were smudged with dirt, a stark contrast to the opulence of the foyer.
Mrs. Halloway stood by the grand staircase, her hands twisting in her apron. Her face was a map of worry, but she kept her distance. She knew the young master; even at seven, Alistair was a boy who wore his solitude like armor. He didn't look at her as he passed, but she spoke anyway, her voice hushed.
"Master Alistair... your father has returned from the city. He is in the study." She hesitated, her voice dropping an octave. "And Lady Isolde... she has not woken yet."
Alistair's footsteps faltered for only a second before he turned toward the west wing.
The walk to his sister's room felt miles long. Velmora was a place of shadows—high, vaulted ceilings that trapped the cold, and corridors lined with the weeping portraits of ancestors who had long since succumbed to the darkness. The air grew thinner the closer he got to the nursery, smelling of lavender and the stale, clinical scent of failed medicines.
He pushed open the heavy oak door.
Isolde looked like a porcelain doll forgotten on the bed. Her skin was a translucent, fragile white, and her breathing was so shallow it barely stirred the lace of her gown. Alistair sat on the edge of the mattress, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.
She felt like ice. Pale, cold, and drifting further away from him every second. Without a word, he turned and walked back into the gloom of the hallway.
Dinner was a silent affair, held in a dining hall large enough to host fifty, yet occupied by only two. Bastian Throne sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the dark wine in his glass.
"I know you left your room, Alistair," Bastian said, his voice echoing.
Internally, Bastian felt a cold spike of dread. He looked at his son and saw a power simmering just beneath the surface—a power that wasn't like the other High Vampires. It was volatile. Darker. He had already lost his wife after Isolde's birth; it felt as if she had taken all the warmth of the family to her grave, leaving them with nothing but stone and secrets. He couldn't lose his son to a power he didn't understand, nor his daughter to a heart that was too weak to beat.
As a member of the High Council, Bastian had summoned every healer and physician in the territory. He had spent a fortune on "miracles" that never came. He watched Alistair across the table, unaware that the boy was reading the guilt etched into his father's every line.
Miles away, Arthur Gale slammed the door to his study.
His face was swollen, his eyes bloodshot with a humiliated rage. The High Council had looked at him today as if he were nothing—a lowly member of the Minor Council, a man to be ignored.
"The Low Council," he spat, pacing the floor. "I have given everything, and they treat me like a servant."
He stopped, his gaze falling on a leather-bound book of suppressed medical protocols. A dark, desperate light entered his eyes. He had vowed to take a seat at the High Council, and if the Throne family was desperate enough for a healer, he had exactly what they needed.
But first,
He headed for his daughter's room to find her fast asleep.if he was going to secure a place in the high council , he had to do it fast. Closing the door to his daughter room, he headed for his study.