The sun was already high in the sky when they finally crossed the threshold of vampire territory.
Dust clung to their skin. Their bodies ached. Blood had dried on their clothes, and neither of them had shifted in over a day. They were too exhausted. Too exposed. And far too desperate to stop.
Historia dragged her feet up the steep incline, every muscle in her legs burning. She didn't dare glance at Kelly—because she already knew. Her cousin's breathing was ragged, her face pale, her steps uneven. The gash on Kelly's thigh had worsened over the last few days, slowing their journey with every hour. If Kelly hadn't been so stubborn, they would've collapsed long ago.
"We're almost there," Historia muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.
"For three days straight, you've been saying that," Kelly rasped.
Historia didn't argue. She didn't have the strength to.
They had been running since the attack—since their home became a battlefield. The night Dimitri launched his full assault on the Thunderclaw Pack, their world cracked open. Historia's father, Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack, had stood shoulder to shoulder with Alpha Kane, her grandfather. Her mother had led the warriors. Her twin brothers, Jackson and Jayden, had flanked her when the enemy breached the northern line.
But none of it had been enough.
Dimitri came prepared. Stronger. Smarter. And far more ruthless.
Their parents had stayed behind to fight. Her brothers and grandfather had covered their escape, holding off Dimitri's forces long enough for her and Kelly to flee into the wilderness in their wolf forms.
They'd shifted whenever they could—running through rivers, across mountains, over frozen plains. But Kelly's injury from a silver-tipped arrow had made their pace uneven. And now, after days without food, sleep, or healing, they were worn down to the bone.
But Historia would not stop. She couldn't.
Because she had made a decision. One that terrified her more than Dimitri ever could.
She would go to the vampire king.
The border between kingdoms wasn't marked with signs or walls. It didn't need to be. You could feel the change in the air.
It grew colder. Sharper. The trees were older here—taller, twisted, with bark so dark it looked scorched. Even the birds didn't sing in this part of the world. The silence was thick and unnatural, pressing into their skulls like an unseen force, warning them to turn back.
They didn't.
Kelly collapsed first, falling to one knee as they reached a clearing surrounded by stone pillars carved with ancient runes.
"Shit," she whispered, gripping her thigh. Her hands trembled.
Historia rushed to her side and knelt. "You're okay. Just a little further."
"Easy for you to say," Kelly gritted out. "You're not bleeding all over their cursed forest."
"Don't talk," Historia whispered as she helped her up. "Save your strength. We're not alone."
She felt it—the shift in the wind. The way the shadows stretched toward them like curious fingers.
Then he appeared.
One moment, they were alone.
The next, a tall figure stepped out from between the trees, silent as death.
He was... breathtaking.
Black hair fell just above his shoulders in smooth waves, a stark contrast to his pale, perfect skin. His grey eyes were sharp—icy and intelligent—with the kind of piercing focus that made your breath hitch. He wore black from head to toe, his coat lined with silver embroidery, and his presence alone made the air feel heavier.
A vampire. A powerful one.
Historia instinctively moved in front of Kelly, spine straightening despite the weight of her exhaustion.
The man tilted his head slightly, studying them like they were insects beneath his boot.
"Werewolves," he said coldly. "Two of you. Injured. Stupid enough to trespass in broad daylight."
His lips curled into something between amusement and disdain.
"Did you come to die?"
"No," Historia said, squaring her shoulders. "We came to speak with your king."
That earned a laugh. Soft. Humorless.
"You think the King of Vampires will grant an audience to two stray mutts dragging their guts across his borders?" He stepped forward. "You should've died in your war. It would've been cleaner."
Before they could react, he moved.
Faster than lightning.
In a blink, he was in front of them. Historia barely managed to shove Kelly behind her before a cold hand gripped her throat and slammed her against a tree. Her feet left the ground.
Kelly screamed, trying to lunge forward, but the man didn't even glance at her.
"Speak one more word," he hissed, "and I'll end you here."
Historia choked, legs kicking, but her glare didn't falter.
"I came... to make a deal," she rasped.
He narrowed his eyes. "A deal?"
"With your king."
The vampire's gaze lingered on her—then, abruptly, he dropped her.
She crumpled to her knees, coughing hard.
"You're lucky he enjoys strange entertainment," the man muttered. "If you live long enough to regret this, remember this moment."
---
The vampire court was more beautiful and more terrifying than any nightmare Historia had ever imagined.
Massive pillars of black marble rose toward a domed ceiling inlaid with silver constellations. The floor was polished obsidian, so smooth it reflected their broken forms as they entered. Lining the walls were figures in regal attire—vampire ministers, advisors, generals. Silent. Watching.
At the head of the court sat the throne. Silver and onyx. Sharp. Jagged.
And upon it... the king.
The court fell silent as the grey-eyed vampire stepped forward.
He bowed. "My King. Two werewolves seek audience. Persistent pests. I nearly ended them."
"Bring them forward."
The king's voice rolled like thunder. Deep. Unrushed. Final.
The vampire obeyed, stepping behind them. Historia pushed herself up and grabbed Kelly's arm, helping her stand. Together, they limped across the gleaming floor, each step echoing like a drumbeat through the silence. Dozens of eyes followed—ministers in dark silks and ancient insignias, their faces etched with contempt and curiosity.
Kelly's hand trembled. The wound on her leg had reopened, fresh blood trailing down her calf. She was barely upright.
But neither of them stopped.
Not until they stood at the foot of the king's throne.
Historia forced herself to meet his gaze.
This was him.
At the head of the grand hall, raised upon a dais of blackened stone, loomed a throne that looked less like a seat and more like a curse—forged from dark iron and twisted bone, shaped into jagged edges that mimicked a crown of thorns. Shadows clung to it unnaturally, as if even the light feared to touch its master.
And seated upon it was the king.
Nicklaus Drayven.
He sat motionless—silent, sovereign, and terrifying. His presence weighed on the room like a storm waiting to break, pressing against every breath, every heartbeat. Even without speaking, he commanded the space so utterly it was as if the court itself only existed because he allowed it.
His attire was as dark as his legacy—shadow-black robes stitched with silver sigils that pulsed faintly with ancient magic. A long cloak spilled over the throne like ink, edged in deep crimson—suggesting blood, not ceremony.
His skin was pale, not like moonlight—but like old marble, cold and timeless. His features were sharp, godlike in their perfection, yet utterly devoid of warmth. No life stirred behind that face—only stillness and judgment.
His right eye, open and glacial blue, gleamed with something far older than rage. The pale scar that ran through the lid didn't touch the eye, but framed it—enhancing its merciless chill. That eye didn't just observe.
It stripped you bare.
His left eye stayed shut, closed to the world, as if what lay behind it should never be seen.
His hair—thick, black, and untamed—framed his angular face and fell past his shoulders, casting deeper shadows across the throne.
He did not blink. He barely seemed to breathe.
Yet the force of him was suffocating.
He wasn't merely a king.
He was the executioner history forgot to name.
And as he sat upon that throne—unmoving, unblinking—he watched them.
Watched her.
With that cold, merciless eye that felt like it could see every secret she had ever tried to bury.