There is something deeply inconvenient about discovering your possible past life was a legendary vampire king with catastrophic romantic choices.
Especially when the woman telling you this looks like she might still be emotionally involved after a thousand years.
History had terrible timing.
I stood on the balcony of the Crimson Church guest chamber, the cold night air doing absolutely nothing to help my thoughts.
Below us—
white gardens.
Silver fountains.
The quiet arrogance of holy architecture.
Beside me—
Elena Voss.
Saint.
Judge.
Ancient regret in elegant human form.
And somewhere inside my blood—
Lucian.
The First Vampire King.
Waiting.
Remembering.
Possibly judging my life choices.
Fair.
Very fair.
I looked at Elena.
"So let me summarise."
I folded my arms.
"A thousand years ago, you were sent to kill a dangerous vampire king, accidentally developed tragic feelings, and watched history collapse, and now you're looking at me like fate has a bad sense of humour."
She took a slow breath.
Then nodded.
"That is annoyingly accurate."
Good.
I preferred clarity.
I leaned against the railing.
"Excellent. I hate it."
That actually made her smile.
Soft.
Tired.
Real.
Beautiful people with ancient trauma were becoming an unfortunate pattern in my life.
Elena looked at the moon.
"There is more."
Of course, there was.
There was always more.
I sighed.
"Please continue ruining my evening."
She ignored that with saintly professionalism.
"The throne was never just power."
Her crimson eyes darkened.
"It was alive."
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I straightened slightly.
"Explain."
She turned toward me.
"The Vampire King's throne was built from the first covenant of blood."
"Not metaphor."
"Blood."
That felt appropriately dramatic.
She continued.
"It remembers every king who touches it."
"Every betrayal."
"Every promise."
"Every queen."
The marks near my neck pulsed.
Hard.
Recognition.
Something old responding.
I asked quietly—
"And Lucian?"
Her answer came like a confession.
"He did not die with the throne."
Silence.
I already disliked where this was going.
She stepped closer.
"The throne rejected death."
"His bloodline fractured."
"His power scattered into the ten noble clans."
Ah.
Wonderful.
Of course.
Ten wives.
Ten clans.
Ten pieces of a dead king refusing proper dramatic closure.
Excellent writing by the universe.
I rubbed my forehead.
"So let me guess."
I looked at her.
"The ten wives, the rituals, the blood bonds—"
Her lips curved faintly.
"Yes."
I pointed at the sky.
"I would like to file a complaint with Destiny."
She laughed again.
Dangerous.
I was starting to understand how Lucian made poor emotional decisions.
She walked slowly across the balcony.
"The ten clans believed they were preserving power."
"They were wrong."
Her voice lowered.
"They were preserving inheritance."
Not a throne to control.
A throne waiting to return.
Interesting.
Terrible.
Mine.
I asked—
"So all of this…"
I touched the mark near my neck.
"…was never about creating a king."
Elena met my eyes.
"It was about calling one home."
Silence.
That one stayed.
Heavy.
Because somewhere beneath the jokes, beneath the survival instincts, beneath the assassin and the monster—
Something ancient had always been waiting.
Not becoming.
Returning.
I hated how much that made sense.
I looked away.
At the white gardens.
In the world, pretending normality still existed.
"Do the others know?"
"Lilith suspects."
"Evelina knows more than she says."
"Alaric knows enough."
She paused.
"The wives know only fragments."
Reasonable.
My life had become a collection of people dramatically withholding information for my emotional development.
Excellent.
I turned back.
"And what exactly happens if this throne fully awakens?"
Elena was quiet for too long.
Bad sign.
Finally—
"The world chooses."
Absolutely unhelpful.
I stared.
"That sounds like prophecy written by someone avoiding specifics."
She almost smiled.
"It means one of two things."
Good.
Finally.
"Either you unite the bloodlines and become the king Lucian could not…"
Her voice lowered.
"...or the throne devours you and history begins again in fire."
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
No pressure.
I nodded slowly.
"So, success or catastrophic mythological death?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
I looked at the moon.
"I miss simpler problems. Like assassins."
Elena stepped beside me.
Close enough that the strange familiarity between us returned.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Something older.
Recognition.
She asked softly—
"Do you fear becoming him?"
Interesting question.
The honest answer?
Yes.
Because Lucian sounded like the kind of man who loved too much and trusted too late.
Which felt dangerously familiar.
I answered—
"I fear losing myself while everyone else keeps calling it destiny."
Silence.
She understood immediately.
Of course she did.
She whispered—
"That is why you are not him."
I looked at her.
She continued.
"Lucian accepted being a king because he believed monsters should carry the burden alone."
Her eyes held mine.
"You…"
A pause.
Soft.
Certain.
"…keep choosing people."
Seraphina.
Selene.
Lilith.
Valeria.
My parents.
My sisters.
The ridiculous, impossible family I had somehow found.
Yes.
Maybe that was the difference.
I smiled faintly.
"Apparently, I have poor boundaries."
Elena smiled too.
"Apparently."
Then—
The mark near my neck burnt.
Not gently.
Violently.
Pain.
Recognition.
Blood Resonance.
I staggered slightly.
Elena caught my arm instantly.
The world blurred—
and suddenly—
I was somewhere else.
A throne room.
Black stone.
Crimson banners.
Ten women standing around a throne of blood and shadow.
And on it—
him.
Lucian.
Not memory.
Presence.
Real enough to feel.
He looked exactly like a king should.
Like war, given patience.
Like loneliness wearing a crown.
And his eyes—
my eyes.
He looked directly at me.
No surprise.
As if he had been waiting.
Of course, he had.
He spoke one sentence.
Only one.
His voice was mine and not mine.
Deep.
Ancient.
Certain.
"A king who fears love deserves his enemies."
Then—
Everything shattered.
I was back on the balcony.
Breathing too fast.
Heart violent.
The night is colder.
Elena is still holding my arm.
Her expression was sharper than I had ever seen.
"You saw him."
Not a question.
I nodded once.
Still staring at nothing.
"Yes."
Her voice lowered.
"What did he say?"
I laughed.
Once.
Sharp.
Disbelieving.
Because apparently, even ancient kings enjoyed emotional sabotage.
I looked at her.
And answered—
"He gave terrible relationship advice."
For one second—
The Saint of the Crimson Church stared.
Then—
She laughed.
Really laughed.
Bright.
Alive.
Like grief had forgotten itself for a moment.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
And somehow—
That felt like the first honest thing Heaven had offered me.
But beneath the humour—
beneath the warmth—
One truth remained.
The throne remembered blood.
And now—
It reminded me.