CHAPTER SIX: The Wounds We Carry
Of course she heard everything.
Vampires, even half-blooded ones, had exceptional hearing. Esterphania had been lying there in her bed, beneath the silk canopy, when the king had spoken to his commander with such calculated calm, revealing the very truth she had always expected.
But it didn't matter.
Nothing in life was ever truly free. No kindness came without cost, especially not for someone like her—half demon, half vampire, raised on ash and abandonment. She had always known that her welcome here came with strings. But that was fine.
Because despite it all, she had already made her choice.
This kingdom—this strange, cold, beautiful place—was hers now. She would protect it. She would belong here.
No matter what.
---
The next morning, breakfast was a silent affair.
The clinking of cutlery and the rustle of napkins were the only sounds in the grand dining hall. No one spoke. Not the king, not Melody, not even Esterphania, who usually had something sarcastic to offer whenever Alexander wasn't around to rile her up.
Everyone was consumed in their own thoughts.
Until the double doors burst open.
"My king!" the commander shouted, storming in with armor half-fastened and panic etched across his features.
Lucien looked up, brows knitted. "What is it?"
"There's another invasion. The border outpost is under attack. It's... it's a big one."
The king shoved back his chair and stood instantly. "What? Again?!"
"Yes, my king. Our scouts say they've never seen anything like it."
As Lucien started to march out, his son stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Dad," Alexander said firmly. "Let me handle this one."
"No."
"Father," he insisted, his tone almost pleading. "You're already 5,000 years old. You can't keep doing this. Let me go. It's not my first battle."
Lucien hesitated. His golden eyes searched his son's face—the stubborn jaw, the fire behind his glare—and sighed. "Fine. But if you mess this up, you're done."
Alexander smirked slightly. "You know I won't."
---
Esterphania didn't go to see him off. She had her studies to tend to, and frankly, she had no intention of standing in the sun and watching him swagger his way onto a horse with Melody cooing at his side.
Instead, she focused.
Day after day, she honed her powers under Marilena's strict supervision. Demonic energy was unpredictable and wild, but her vampire side gave her control and focus. Her growth was astounding—even the servants whispered about it in the halls.
Weeks bled into months.
She turned eleven.
And still, the war dragged on longer than anyone expected.
Messages came only through Melody now—carefully written scrolls stained with blood and ash, but bearing Alexander's signature flourish at the end. He was alive. That was enough for most.
Esterphania didn't bother reading the letters. But over time, she began to tolerate Melody. The older girl was kind—gentle with her words, never condescending, always soft-spoken. She laughed easily, baked cookies for the servants, and even once defended Esterphania when an arrogant noble insulted her hybrid blood.
"She'll make a great wife," Esterphania admitted once, to herself.
But then her thoughts paused. Queen...?
She shook her head. She wasn't going to go there.
---
The day before his supposed return, the palace was a whirlwind of preparation. Melody was fluttering around excitedly, making sure the tailors embroidered a crest onto the returning prince's cloak, while kitchen staff doubled the menu for the celebratory feast.
Esterphania ignored it all.
She went to bed early, exhausted from another intense training session with Marilena that had ended with her fainting in a pool of her own summoned fog.
But her rest didn't last long.
A sound woke her.
Click.
Then the faint groan of window hinges.
She sat up slowly, her heart pounding—not in fear, but in reflex. In a flash, a spear of dark matter twisted into her hand, glowing faintly like obsidian flame.
Then a voice—soft, hoarse.
"It's me… Alexander."
She froze. Her spell dissolved.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and locked onto the tall figure crumpled against her floor.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, lighting the candle beside her bed.
"I... I…" His voice faltered, and he leaned heavily against the wall.
She turned the lamp toward him.
And gasped.
"Oh my gods…"
A long, deep gash ran across his stomach—nearly from rib to hip—and it wasn't healing. In fact, it was widening, the flesh slowly peeling open with every shallow breath. Blood soaked through his shredded shirt, pooling beneath him and seeping into her rug.
"What happened to you?" she asked, kneeling beside him, horrified.
"Ambush… Dark spells… They used something…" His hand trembled as he tried to gesture. "Didn't want… anyone to see me like this…"
"Idiot," she hissed, ripping her sheets to form a bandage. "Why the hell would you crawl into my room instead of the palace healer?!"
"I didn't want Melody to panic…"
Esterphania ignored him. Her hands were already glowing faintly with a purplish light, her vampire instincts kicking in to seal some of the blood flow.
"You've been cursed," she murmured, running her fingers near the wound. "This gash is spreading from the inside. Some sort of rot magic—dark elven maybe, or... worse."
He groaned. "Can you fix it?"
"No. But I can slow it down." She pressed her palms to his skin, chanting in a dead tongue that made the shadows in her room ripple.
He gasped as her energy entered him—cold and searing all at once.
His hands gripped her wrist, but she didn't stop.
When she finally pulled back, the wound was still open, but the bleeding had lessened. The cursed spread had stopped—for now.
He was sweating, his breath shallow.
"You'll need a full cleansing ritual," she said, breathless. "Tomorrow. With a proper spell-weaver. Not me."
Their eyes met.
And for a brief second, the prince and the outcast simply looked at each other. No biting remarks. No arrogance. Just exhaustion... and a strange understanding.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She blinked, caught off guard.
"Don't mention it," she said, grabbing a towel. "Ever."
He smirked faintly, his usual confidence dulled but still present. "You're really not what I expected."
"Neither are you," she muttered.
He laughed—then winced.
"Okay, okay. No laughing."
She helped him to the couch near her fireplace and covered him with a blanket. "now tell me, what actually happened?"