The morning sun did not warm the halls of the Crimson Keep.
Its light filtered through stained glass windows, casting blood-red and violet shadows across the cold stone. Servants moved in silence, their heads bowed, their hands swift. This was not a place of kindness. It was a place of order. Power. Blood.
Lumina stood quietly just outside the dining hall, her heart drumming too loud in her chest. She smoothed the simple blue dress the maid had given her, the fabric soft but unfamiliar. Her silver-white hair had been brushed and braided neatly, though her skin still bore faint bruises from the villagers' hands.
She didn't belong here.
The door opened with a low creak. A guard gestured.
"Lord Damien requests your presence."
She stepped inside.
The royal dining hall was wide and long, its high arched ceiling held up by pillars carved with ancient sigils. A massive table stretched through the center, lined with gold-rimmed plates and crystal goblets. Velvet chairs sat on either side like thrones.
At the head sat **King Alucard**—tall, sharp, cold-eyed.
Beside him, **Queen Calypso**, draped in black silk with rubies at her throat. Her smile was all teeth.
To their left sat **Prince Stefan**, leaning back in his chair with a smirk already in place. Across from him, **Princess Drusilla**, her chin tilted high and her gaze dripping disdain.
But it was the smallest figure that broke the silence first.
**Princess Amethyst**, only nine years old, clapped softly when Lumina entered.
"You're so pretty!" she chirped, her voice bright. "Your hair is like moonlight! Can I braid it one day?"
Lumina blinked in surprise, lips parting. "Thank you... that's very kind."
Amethyst beamed and scooted over, patting the seat beside her. "Sit here! Please?"
Damien entered behind her, his expression unreadable. He gave a small nod to the king, then pulled out a chair beside Amethyst—for Lumina. She sat cautiously, folding her hands in her lap.
The servants began to pour wine, place bread, slice fruit.
Queen Calypso's voice floated through the room like silk wrapped around thorns.
"Well," she said, dabbing her mouth delicately, "I see you've brought home a stray, my dear Damien."
Lumina stiffened. Her fingers curled slightly around her fork.
"She's human, isn't she?" the queen continued, eyes glinting. "A peasant, no less. She looks like... a lovely little meal."
Damien didn't flinch. "She's under my protection."
"How charming," Calypso murmured. "You've always had such an unusual taste."
King Alucard let out a quiet sigh, running a hand down his face as if this conversation was already a familiar headache.
Prince Stefan smirked. "She's welcome to the family, I suppose. We could use a bit of... color at the table."
Lumina said nothing.
Drusilla tilted her head, inspecting her like a stain. "She looks tattered. Was the dress pulled from a servant's closet?"
"I think it suits her," Damien said calmly.
"Of course you do," Drusilla muttered.
Queen Calypso leaned forward now, her red-painted lips stretching into something that looked like a smile.
"And do you have a family, dear?" she asked sweetly. "Or did you crawl out of the earth all on your own?"
Lumina's appetite vanished. The bread on her plate blurred. Her mouth went dry.
"I..." She stopped. Her voice felt small in the vast, echoing room. "They're gone."
The queen gave a mock pout. "Oh, how tragic. Orphaned and human. What a combination."
Damien's hand touched the edge of his goblet—but he didn't drink.
"Enough," he said quietly.
The queen arched a brow. "We're just getting to know her."
"I said we're done." His voice dropped; not raised—but unmistakable in its finality. "Come, Lumina. We're leaving."
Lumina stood quickly, nearly knocking over her chair.
The silence in the hall deepened as they walked away. Even Amethyst seemed unsure whether to follow or stay seated.
The heavy doors closed behind them.
---
They walked through the corridor without speaking.
Only when they reached a quieter hallway—lined with glass and pale tapestries—did Damien stop.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded once. "I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't be."
Her eyes flicked toward him. "They're your family."
He looked ahead. "Not all of them."
They said nothing more as they continued on, down winding halls until they reached a smaller chamber—gold-paneled, warm with firelight. The seamstress's workroom.
A pale woman with delicate fingers and silver-threaded hair stood waiting. **Mistress Calera**, royal tailor for generations.
"My lord," she said, bowing. Her eyes landed on Lumina. She curtsied stiffly. "And... guest."
"She needs a wardrobe," Damien said. "Fit for court. Travel. Something that suits her."
Calera gave a pinched nod. "Of course. We'll do what we can."
As Lumina stepped forward to examine a fabric swatch, the chamber door opened again.
Three women entered—tall, graceful, sharp-eyed.
Vampire nobles.
They were dressed in silks and velvet; their skin like porcelain, their lips like crushed roses. Their eyes flicked toward Lumina—and narrowed.
One, with raven-black curls and a jeweled hairpiece, stepped forward.
"Lord Damien," she purred. "We weren't told you'd be here. What a... pleasant surprise."
"Lady Eryndelle," Damien replied with a nod. "Ladies."
The tallest one, wearing amethyst and silver, glanced at Lumina like she was a stain on the rug.
"Is she the tailor's apprentice?" she asked, voice sharp.
"No," Damien said evenly. "She's with me."
A beat of silence.
Eryndelle smiled tightly. "Of course she is."
The third girl leaned toward the others, whispering something behind her hand. All three of them giggled softly.
Lumina stood still.
They weren't even hiding it.
They turned their backs to her as Mistress Calera approached with a measuring ribbon.
"We'll need to take your sizes, dear," she said gently. "Try to relax."
Lumina lifted her arms slowly, letting the ribbon pass around her waist. The whispering continued in the background.
"She's so plain—"
"Did you see her collarbones? So bony—"
"Does he like strays now?"
Every word felt like a needle.
Calera's hands were steady, but her face was tight with restraint. Damien stood at the side of the room, arms crossed—but his jaw had gone rigid.
"Is this really necessary?" Eryndelle asked, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "You could have any woman in the court, and you bring home... that?"
Damien turned to her.
"I could," he said, voice smooth. "But none of them are interesting enough to keep my attention."
Eryndelle blinked.
The other two stopped whispering.
Mistress Calera coughed once—choking back a laugh.
Lumina said nothing... but her eyes met Damien's for just a second.
Something passed between them.
Not affection. Not yet.
But a shared understanding.
The vampires didn't speak again. They left with stiff shoulders and forced smiles.
---
An hour later, Lumina stood in front of a tall mirror, wearing a deep blue gown embroidered with soft gold thread. Her silver hair had been brushed again, pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. The bruises on her face had faded. She didn't look like a peasant anymore.
But she didn't look like a noble either.
She looked like something in between.
Something waiting to become.
Damien stepped behind her, his reflection joining hers.
"You don't have to stay," he said quietly. "I can take you somewhere safe. Somewhere far."
She looked at him in the mirror. "Would you come with me?"
He hesitated.
Then said, "No. I have responsibilities here."
She nodded slowly.
She looked at him in the mirror. "Then I'll stay," she said.
Not because she trusted the court... but because, somehow, she trusted him.
Damien didn't move; his gaze remained steady on her reflection.
After a beat, Lumina asked, softly, "How did you know me?"
His eyes flicked to hers in the glass.
"I don't," he said at first... then added, "But I've seen you. In ways I can't explain."
She turned slightly, facing him for real now—not through a mirror. "You speak in riddles."
He gave the faintest curve of a smile—too subtle to be a smirk. "I know a lot of things, Lumina."
Her name on his tongue felt heavier than it should.
She hesitated, then lowered her gaze. "What do I owe you for your kindness, my lord?"
There was a pause... a silence wrapped in something unreadable.
Then Damien exhaled a soft sound—almost a chuckle... though it carried no humor.
"I guess we'll find out soon," he said, stepping past her toward the door. "Little star."
The nickname hung in the air long after he was gone.
And Lumina stood very still... her heart caught somewhere between dread and something dangerously close to curiosity.