The quill felt like a lightning bolt in her hand.
Elara stared at the fresh, black ink on the ledger page. It was done. She had forged the Abbot's signature, authorizing a "diplomatic mission" to Sanguinea and withdrawing a small sum of coin from the monastery's meager treasury. Guilt was a cold stone in her stomach, but it was outweighed by a terrifying, thrilling surge of hope. This was the most rebellious thing she had ever done.
The pre-dawn light was just beginning to stain the sky when she slipped out of the monastery's side gate, a small pack slung over her shoulder. She didn't look back. Looking back would have meant seeing the only home she'd ever known, and that might have been enough to make her lose her nerve.
The journey to the capital was a blur of crowded steam-coaches and suspicious glances. She kept her hood up, her hands tucked into her sleeves to hide any accidental glowing. The world outside the monastery was louder, smellier, and far more colorful than she had imagined. And everywhere, on every public scrying-board and in every newspaper, was the face of the Vampire Progenitor and the words: THE CRIMSON TITHE.
The excitement was a palpable force. She heard whispers in inns and on street corners.
"heard Prince Lysander himself is competing for the Court of Starlight!"
"The Captain of the Guard, Kaelen, is the favorite for the Court of Blood. They say he's never been beaten in a duel."
"I've placed fifty crowns on Lady Isolde. Her family line is impeccable."
Elara's confidence, so fierce in the silent scriptorium, began to waver with every step closer to Sanguinea. These people were legends, warriors, and aristocrats. She was a librarian with a light trick.
Finally, she stood before it: the Veil. It was the shimmering, magical barrier that separated the human city from the eternal twilight of the vampire capital, Sanguinea. On this side, the warm, golden light of the sun. Through the archway of the gate, a perpetual, star-dusted night. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm her nerves, she stepped through.
The change was instantaneous. The air turned cool and crisp, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and cold stone. The sky above was a deep, velvety purple, with two pale moons and a tapestry of impossibly bright stars. The buildings were carved from obsidian and moonstone, their spires reaching for the false sky. It was terrifyingly beautiful.
Following the flow of gawking tourists and serious-looking officials, she found her way to the base of the Crimson Palace. It was even more immense up close, a mountain of polished ruby and jet. A line of spectacularly beautiful, powerful-looking individuals snaked towards a grand entrance, each being processed by a severe-looking vampire clerk at a stone desk.
This was it. The registration.
Elara's heart thundered in her ears, so loud she was sure every vampire could hear it. She clutched her forged documents, the parchment damp with sweat from her palm. She watched a tall woman with crystalline wings and a man who seemed to be made of shifting shadows present their credentials and be waved through.
Her turn came.
The clerk didn't even look up. "Name and House."
Elara's voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat. "Elara. Of… of the House of the Evening Star." She'd made it up on the spot.
The clerk's head snapped up. His nostrils flared. His eyes, a flat, bored grey, narrowed. He could smell it. He could smell the human on her.
"You are in the wrong line, girl," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The servant's entrance is around the side. The Tithe is for competitors, not for the refreshments."
A few of the vampires behind her snickered. Heat flooded Elara's cheeks. This was it. This was where her stupid plan ended.
But then, the defiance that had made her glow in the library surged back. She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the tremor in her knees.
"I am not a servant," she said, her voice stronger now. "I am a competitor. The Progenitor's decree called for 'unmated souls.' It did not specify a species."
The clerk stared at her, utterly stunned by her audacity. The snickering behind her stopped. A tense silence fell over the registration area.
"Preposterous," the clerk finally spat. "I will not allow"
"Allow what?"
A new voice cut through the tension, smooth as silk and cold as the grave. It was a voice that commanded absolute attention.
The crowd parted. Standing there, having just descended the palace steps, was a vampire who made all the others look like pale imitations. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a uniform of black and deepest crimson. His hair was the color of raven's wings, and his eyes… his eyes were the shade of old gold, and they were fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
It was the Captain of the Guard. Kaelen.
He didn't even glance at the clerk. His gaze swept over Elara from head to toe, taking in her simple travel-worn clothes, her mortal posture, the faint, terrified scent of her sweat. A slow, infuriatingly arrogant smile touched his lips.
"Well," he drawled, the single word laced with amusement and contempt. "What do we have here? A lost little lamb who's wandered into the wolf's den." He took a step closer, and the air around her seemed to grow colder. "The Tithe is not a game for children, mortal. Run along home."
Elara's fear evaporated, burned away by pure, unadulterated fury. She met his golden gaze, her own starting to spark with inner light.
"I'm not a lamb," she said, her voice clear and sharp. "And I'm not lost. I am Elara of the Evening Star, and I am here to compete."
She turned from the stunned Captain, slammed her forged documents onto the clerk's desk, and looked the flustered vampire dead in the eye.
"Now. Are you going to register me, or do I need to tell the Progenitor that his Captain is turning away willing competitors?"