Kaelira didn't sleep that night either.
Not after the garden.
Not after Anira.
She sat by the window, watching moonlight spill like milk across the castle rooftops. Somewhere out there, Dorian was waiting—for what, she didn't know.
Not her blade.
Not her kiss.
Maybe something worse.
She pulled off her glove slowly, revealing the scar on her wrist: a faint crescent moon, branded with iron ten years ago. The mark of a rebel. A promise to destroy the creatures of night.
And yet... the High Lord hadn't flinched. He knew. And let her live.
Why?
---
At dawn, a message arrived.
Not a scroll. Not parchment.
A book.
A tattered, cloth-bound volume with a blood-red ribbon. No title. Just the note inside:
"For your curiosity. Page 316."
– Dorian
She turned to the page.
There, etched in faded ink, was an illustration—charcoal-sketch style—of a woman in ceremonial robes, fire blooming around her. The caption read:
"Anira Veyr. First Bride. Accused traitor. Burned by order of the Elders."
Kaelira stared at the sketch. The woman's face… was her face. Softer, older, but unmistakably hers.
---
She barely heard the knock at the door. It was Marek, slipping inside like a shadow.
"You've drawn attention," he hissed. "He escorted you alone into the grave garden? That's not protocol."
"He knew."
Marek froze. "What?"
"He saw the scar. He knew the mark."
"And you're still alive?"
She nodded.
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Kaelira, if he suspects you're part of the resistance, he could be playing a longer game. Breaking you down. Baiting us."
"I don't think he wants to kill me."
Marek's eyes darkened. "That's worse. If he wants you alive, it's because he knows who you were."
Kaelira's breath hitched. "You've heard that name before. Anira. Who was she?"
Marek hesitated. Then he said quietly:
"She was the fire that started the last vampire war."
—
That evening, Kaelira was summoned again.
This time, to the Thirsting Hall—an ancient chamber where blood-feasts were once held, though now only symbolic rituals occurred there. Or so they claimed.
She was told the other brides would be present. A ceremonial blessing. Nothing more.
But when she entered, she was alone.
Except for him.
Dorian stood beside an obsidian throne, a silver goblet in his hand, untouched.
"You read the book," he said.
"I did."
"And?"
"That woman is not me."
"You're sure?" His voice was cool, but there was something in his gaze—like a man balancing on the edge of belief.
"Yes."
He approached her slowly.
"Do you dream of fire?" he asked. "Of betrayal? Of screaming your name to the stars before the flames took you?"
Her knees weakened.
She had.
Ever since she was seven.
He stepped closer. "They told me you would return. That reincarnation was the only justice cruel enough for a soul like hers."
"I'm not her."
"But you could be," he whispered.
She reached for the blade beneath her skirt- But his hand was already at her wrist, firm, cold.
"You came here to kill me," he said.
It wasn't a question. She met his gaze, furious, terrified, trembling.
"And yet," he murmured, "you're still standing here."
He let go. Turned. Sat on the throne like a king preparing to bleed.
Then said calmly:
"Tomorrow is the binding ceremony. For all brides." Kaelira took a step back. "And if I refuse?"
He looked her in the eye.
"Then you'll burn again, Anira."