The throne room was a cathedral of silence, lined with columns of black marble that rose toward a ceiling painted with silver constellations. Every sound — the shuffling of robes, the clink of armor — was swallowed by the heavy air of obedience.
Malion sat upon his throne, a dark figure crowned by flickering light from the torches. His expression was calm, almost bored, but the faint gleam in his crimson eyes warned that he missed nothing.
"Your Majesty," Duke Rorren said, stepping forward and bowing deeply, "there has been an alarming increase of wolves in the northern forests. The villagers report attacks… and bodies. Dozens, perhaps more. The soldiers stationed there found torn carcasses along the old route of Welsire."
The words stirred the room. Murmurs rose, cautious and fearful.
Malion's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his throne.
"Wolves?" he said softly. "Or something pretending to be wolves?"
The duke swallowed. "We cannot confirm, Your Majesty. But they are unusually large — stronger than normal beasts. The people are panicking."
"Then let them panic inside their walls.....since that's what they do best," Malion said coldly. "Make an announcement. No one enters the northern forest until further notice."
The royal scribe scribbled furiously.
Malion leaned forward, his tone lowering into command. "We will discuss the matter at the next council. If it is the wolves of Welsire… then their king has grown careless."
A few of the gathered nobles exchanged nervous glances. They knew better than to speak when Malion's voice had that edge.
The king's gaze shifted — sharp and unrelenting — to another duke standing to the right. "Duke Philemon," he called.
The man straightened instantly. "Your Majesty?"
"I need an explanation," Malion said. "Why are the cotton prices in this region nearly double what they are in Dewshake? You do oversee trade, do you not?"
The duke's throat tightened. "There were… complications in transport, Sire. The—"
"Complications," Malion interrupted, voice quiet, dangerous. "I see. Then I expect those complications removed by the next moonrise. Otherwise, I will remove the person responsible for them instead."
Philemon paled, bowing hastily. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty. I will look into it immediately."
Malion stood. The sound of his movement — the rustle of his long coat — silenced the room. Every noble present bent low in a synchronized bow, as if compelled by instinct more than loyalty.
When the heavy doors closed behind him, the council finally exhaled.
"Who keeps feeding His Majesty these details?" one whispered. "He knew about the cotton before any report reached the castle."
"Someone's talking," another muttered. "We'll need to watch for traitors."
"Perhaps," an older voice said quietly, "His Majesty simply listens better than we think."
None dared say it aloud — that the king's mysterious informant was none other than the young woman no one had yet met, but who already owned more of Malion's attention than anyone else in his kingdom.
In the King's Study
Malion walked alone through the long corridor leading to his study. The echo of his boots on the stone floor was measured, rhythmic, like a slow heartbeat. He entered the chamber, closed the door behind him, and walked straight to the corner cabinet.
Rows of glass bottles lined the shelves — poisons, wines, blood reserves, and one particular bottle of a dark amber liquid: Twinshold.
A rare liquor. Powerful enough to put a grown man into a three-day sleep with a single shot. It burned like molten fire. It was not made for mortals.
Malion poured a full glass.
The scent alone was enough to sting the eyes. He raised it to his lips and drank without hesitation. The fire slid down his throat, curling into his veins like lava. He barely blinked.
The door opened quietly behind him.
Theron entered, his silver armor catching the candlelight. He took one look at the half-empty bottle and sighed. "That's not a drink, that's a weapon," he said dryly. "Even for you, Majesty."
Malion didn't glance back. "A weapon keeps me entertained."
Theron walked closer, frowning. "That's Twinshold. You shouldn't—"
"I've had worse," Malion cut him off, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass.
"Yes," Theron said, "but those 'worse' drinks didn't melt a vampire's veins."
Malion's lips curved faintly. "You worry too much."
"I should worry," Theron retorted. "You're my king. If you collapse drunk, the realm falls apart. Again."
Malion chuckled softly, then gestured lazily toward the window. "You can make yourself useful instead. Go to Welsire. Tell their king to leash his dogs. If I see one more wolf crossing my border, I'll train them myself."
Theron raised a brow. "Train them or slaughter them?"
"Whichever makes them quieter," Malion said, finishing his glass and pouring another.
Theron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."
Malion stood, glass in hand, and walked toward his private chamber. Theron followed — as usual.
The king stopped halfway down the corridor and turned sharply. "Why are you still here?"
Theron met his gaze, unimpressed. "Because you don't look well."
Malion's tone dropped into a low murmur. "I never look well."
He turned and continued walking, pushing the door open to his chamber. The room was vast and dimly lit, filled with dark velvet curtains and polished obsidian. Malion set his glass down on the shelf and began undoing the clasps of his royal coat.
When he stripped it off and replaced it with a simple robe, he looked almost human — almost.
He picked the glass back up, took a slow sip, and leaned back in the chair beside his bed. His gaze flicked to Theron, who still stood at the door, watching him silently.
Malion's voice broke the stillness. "You ever wonder why there are so many strays running loose lately?"
Theron tilted his head. "Strays?"
Malion's crimson eyes glowed faintly. "A certain… pet that isn't mine seems to think he can roam freely around what is."
It took Theron only a moment to realize who he meant. His expression darkened. "Rowan?"
Malion nodded, expression unreadable.
"Should I take care of him?" Theron asked. "Quietly?"
Malion smirked, swirling his drink. "No. That would make her sad. And I don't have the patience to comfort her over another man's corpse."
Theron gave him a look that was half amusement, half disbelief. "You're jealous."
"I'm aware," Malion said calmly.
"Then what's your plan?"
Malion drained the rest of the glass and stood. "I'll find another way."
Theron folded his arms. "Never let them alone for long. Be there. Let her see who you are."
That caught Malion's attention. He gave a slow, dangerous smile. "Intrusive, possessive, and everywhere she looks?"
"Exactly," Theron replied dryly.
Malion hummed. "I can do that."
"Of course you can," Theron muttered. "You're a vampire king; it's in your nature."
Malion chuckled — low and amused. "I don't need to compete with a human, Theron. I can claim her any time I want."
"That," Theron said, walking to the door, "sounds exactly like your pride talking."
"Then it's honest pride," Malion replied smoothly.
Theron shook his head, smiling faintly. "I'll head to Welsire. Try not to burn the castle while I'm gone."
When the door closed, silence returned — the heavy kind that only Malion seemed to enjoy.
He stood still for a long moment, staring into the flames of the fireplace. Then, in a low tone, he called, "Maids."
The door opened almost immediately, and a line of them entered — heads bowed, hands trembling. The air shifted when he looked at them. Even silence could feel dangerous around him.
"Raise your heads," he said.
They obeyed — all except one. She met his gaze directly, calm and steady.
Malion's eyes flicked toward her. "Step forward."
She did, unflinching.
"Bold," he murmured, almost approvingly. He lifted her chin lightly with his finger. "That's rare."
"I am ready to serve you, Your Majesty," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I need clothes," he said, stepping back. "Something that hides what I am. No gold. No crest. I want to look ordinary."
She nodded quickly, turning to the wardrobe. Within minutes, she returned with a black velvet shirt and matching trousers — simple, elegant, and strikingly mortal.
Malion examined them, then gave a soft hum of satisfaction. "Good taste."
She helped him dress — careful, efficient. When done, he waved her away. "You may leave."
When she was gone, he reached for the bottle of Twinshold again. He drank the last of it in a single swallow, his eyes flashing red briefly from the burn.
Then he vanished.
The evening wind outside the castle was cold and scented with rain. Malion's cloak fluttered as he appeared near the edge of the village — silent, unseen. His presence dimmed the light of the lanterns as he passed.
He made his way to the place where Aurelia usually waited — the little clearing near the stream. Empty.
"Late," he murmured, eyes narrowing.
"Nyx."
The air behind him rippled, and the shadow servant emerged from the darkness, head bowed low. "My lord."
"Find her."
Nyx disappeared instantly, the darkness stretching like a trail of smoke across the rooftops.
Moments later, he returned, his voice nervous. "She's… at her home, my lord."
"Good," Malion said.
"With… Rowan."
Malion's gaze turned sharp. "In her home?"
"Yes. They seem… familiar. He knows her family."
For the first time, something almost human flickered across the king's face — not anger, but something far colder.
"I see."
Nyx hesitated. "Should I—"
"No," Malion said. "I'll handle it."
His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "If they're so eager for company… let's join them."
And with that, the wind shifted — carrying the faintest echo of his laughter, low and dark, as he vanished into the night.