The moon was hidden behind heavy clouds when the council of Frizington gathered in the King's hall. Torches burned low, their flames bending toward the open windows as if even fire dared not linger in the tension that hung thick in the air.
At the center of the long table sat King Eldritch Rhodes, his face shadowed by exhaustion and doubt. The carved sigil of his line — the phoenix rising from ashes — glinted on his crown, but there was little warmth left in his eyes.
"Her recovery is remarkable," said the high Priestess Elara, her voice soft but sure. "The white moon's blessings were strong. The Princess is healed."
A hum of agreement rippled across the table.
King Eldritch nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the empty seat beside him — the place where his daughter should have been. "I have seen it myself," he said. "Eleanor walks again without pain. The witches have proven their worth."
Commander Tony Tamra, ever the blunt soldier, leaned forward, his voice cutting through the chamber. "Then let her ride tomorrow, Your Majesty. The longer we delay, the greater the insult to Blueshire. The wedding was to seal peace between our realms through a marriage between the King and our Princess "
A murmur of tension followed.
The King's jaw tightened. "Eleanor has only just regained her strength. I will not have her collapse on foreign soil. She will travel when she is ready — in three days' time."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "Three days? Or are we to believe, my King, that you've grown reluctant to send your only daughter into that monster's arms?"
The chamber froze.
Even the torches seemed to flicker in shock.
Prince Alaric, seated at the far end, lifted his head. "Commander Tony speaks only what others whisper," he said coolly. "Are you perhaps... reconsidering the alliance?"
King Eldritch turned sharply, his voice hard as steel. "Watch your tongue, Prince of Blueshire "
Alaric's lips curved in a faint smirk. "But surely you see how this delay might appear — especially when the Princess herself was chosen as the bride. Unless…" He leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting. "Unless you plan to let Ronita complete the seventh marriage ritual and become the King's wife instead of the Princess"
The accusation cracked through the hall like thunder.
For a long moment, no one moved.
The King's breath grew heavy. He rose slowly, his robes whispering against the marble floor. "You dare question my loyalty to the treaty? You dare imply deceit?" His voice rose, echoing off the chamber walls. "If proof is what you require, then proof you shall have."
He slammed his hand upon the table. "The Princess will depart for Blueshire at dawn."
The council fell silent.
Prince Alaric's smile widens, replaced by a flicker of ease he quickly masked. Tony bowed low, though a trace of triumph curved his mouth– He could not wait to go back and share the news with Laura. The High Priestess said nothing, but her gaze lingered on the King — and in her eyes, there was pity.
When the meeting ended, thunder rolled faintly in the distance — far away, over another kingdom, where a storm still raged.
Morning came grey and heavy. The air hung thick with the scent of rain and distant lightning.
Ronita's carriage cut through the mist, wheels creaking on the soaked path as they left Trencth behind. Inside, the air was silent except for the rhythmic clatter of hooves.
Princess Jewel stared out the window, her expression solemn. "It's strange," she murmured. "The sky has been weeping since yesterday. As if the heavens know something we don't."
Ronita said nothing. Her mind kept drifting back to the chill she'd felt in her bones that morning — a sense that something vast and terrible had already shifted.
Jerome rode beside the carriage, his cloak drenched, his eyes scanning the dark forest that flanked the road. Even the animals were silent.
Two hours passed before the black spires of Blueshire Castle rose in the distance — towering, jagged, and half-shrouded in rain.
But something was wrong.
The roads were empty. The usual hum of market stalls, the laughter of servants, the music of eternal revelry that filled Blueshire even at night — all gone. Only the sound of rain striking stone remained.
Ronita's voice broke the silence. "Where are the people?"
No one answered.
As they passed beneath the great iron gates, she felt the air change. It was heavier here — colder. Even the torches seemed to burn slower, dimmer, as though mourning.
"Stay close," Jerome warned as the carriage came to a stop before the palace steps.
Dozens of guards stood waiting, motionless in the rain. Their eyes gleamed faintly crimson, their faces expressionless. The moment Ronita stepped out, they surrounded the group.
"State your names," one demanded.
"I am Ronita Tamra," she said, her voice steady despite the unease crawling up her spine. "Envoy of Frizington, accompanyed by the young royals for the King's marriage procession."
The guard's gaze flicked to the Princes and Princess behind her, then back. "Follow us."
There was no warmth in his tone — only command.
They were led through the silent halls. The marble floors were slick with water and streaked faintly with something darker. Ronita's heart pounded as her boots echoed through the corridor. The scent of iron — old and sharp — hung in the air.
When the doors of the throne room opened, she froze.
The vast chamber, once radiant with chandeliers and crimson banners, now felt like a tomb. The walls dripped with candle wax and shadows. The torches burned low, their light trembling as if afraid.
And upon the throne — where the Vampire King should have sat — lounged a figure that stole the breath from her chest.
He was shirtless, his pale skin glistening with rain and blood. His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath calm, deliberate. His dark hair clung to his face, and his eyes — gods, his eyes — were pools of ancient fire and sorrow.
Prince Karter Vauclair.
The weak prince.
Except there was nothing weak about him now.
He looked every inch a fallen god, better than he looked in paintings and books— beautiful, terrifying, broken and divine. The chains that had once bound him still clung to his wrists like ornaments, glowing faintly red.
Around him, the remains of the wedding decorations fluttered in the storm wind — ribbons soaked in rain and streaked with something darker.
Ronita couldn't speak. Her lips parted, but no words came. She had imagined meeting the Vampire King — proud, regal, cold. But the sight before her stole her reason.
Karter's gaze lifted slowly to meet hers. When he smiled, it was soft — almost tender. Yet beneath it, something vast and dangerous stirred, like a tide about to break.
"Welcome," he said, his voice low and smooth, carrying through the hall like music. "My wife."
Ronita's breath caught.
She wanted to look away — she couldn't. His beauty was unbearable, his presence magnetic, commanding. Even the air seemed to bend toward him.
"Your… wife?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Karter rose from the throne, blood still tracing down his chest like ink. He stepped closer, each movement slow, graceful, deliberate. The storm outside howled louder, as if echoing his heartbeat.
"Yes," he said, his crimson eyes locking onto hers. "You arrived just in time."
Behind her, Jerome's hand went to his sword, but Ronita barely noticed. The rest of the world had fallen away — the storm, the guards, the trembling royals.
There was only the man before her, and the dreadful certainty that whatever bound them had been decided long before she arrived.