The first shards of dawn spilled through the broken windows, piercing the shadows like fragile promises. Elijah was gone.
One moment, the air had been thick with his presence—cold, cruel, and merciless—and the next, he vanished, slipping through the seams of night like a ghost retreating from the harshness of day.
Elvira sat slumped against the cold stone of the throne room, breath ragged, pulse hammering against ribs that felt too tight. The pain in her neck, where Avegar's fangs had pierced her skin, throbbed with an electric ache that rippled into her bones. Her vision wavered, the edges of the room melting into a hazy swirl of grays and blues.
She blinked, trying to focus on Avegar—his silhouette framed by the softening light—his hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes burning with a tempest of guilt and something deeper, more painful.
For a long moment, she simply breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling unevenly, dizziness folding in like a slow tide.
Then her gaze found his.
It was profound and searching, a look that peeled back walls and defenses, seeking the core beneath. Her black, shimmering pupils reflected a thousand unspoken questions, a silent plea to understand the storm raging inside him.
Avegar flinched, stepping back as though the weight of her stare was something physical—something too raw to hold.
He swallowed hard, turning away with a shaky breath. His distance felt like a knife against the fragile hope stirring in her chest.
The room stretched cold and silent between them.
The weight of what had happened pressed on Avegar like a suffocating cloak. Guilt clawed at his insides with relentless claws.
I'm sorry. The words burned like acid in his mind, but he couldn't voice them.
Why? Because he knew what it meant.
Because he had promised—long ago, in a darker place—to protect her no matter the cost.
And because deep down, he feared what cost might come next.
Elijah's voice echoed in the hollow spaces of his mind. "It's not over. I will reclaim her. Now I know the princess walks again."
The sun rose higher, and with it, Elijah's powers faded like mist. The cruel vampire was bound by the light, forced to retreat until nightfall returned. But his threat lingered, a shadow heavier than any darkness.
Avegar's fists clenched, nails digging into palms.
He remembered the words of his brother Evan—the sixth of seven brothers in their clan, whose wisdom was sharpened by years of battle and broken trust.
"You're chasing ghosts if you think you can protect her without losing yourself. That blood will pull you under, Avegar. You're not just fighting for her—you're fighting against your own."
The clan was everything—a legacy forged in fire and loyalty. Seven brothers bound by blood, honor, and an unyielding code. Betraying them was unthinkable. Yet, the pull toward Elvira—the promise she held—threatened to unravel everything.
Avegar's heart was a battlefield. On one side: the fierce allegiance to his brothers, to the clan's ancient traditions and brutal politics.
On the other: the burning desire to forge something new, to build an empire—not one of conquest, but of love and power with Elvira at his side.
But there was a chasm between those two worlds that he could not bridge. Not because of politics, or danger, or the threat Elijah posed.
No.
Because he was himself—a truth he barely admitted.
He liked men.
Avegar's mouth tightened. The truth wrapped around his throat like a noose.
Could he betray six brothers, his clan, the legacy carved by their ancestors, for her?
Could he betray himself?
The question haunted him like a specter as he paced the empty throne room, shadow and light playing across the cracked marble floor.
Each footstep echoed in the cavernous space, a reminder of the solitary path he now walked.
His fingers brushed against the ornate key resting on the throne—cold metal etched with the serpent and crown, a symbol of fate's cruel weave.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice cracking in the silence. "I don't know how to be what you need."
The confession felt like blood spilled onto stone.
He sank to the floor, knees drawn up, hands clutching at his temples. The weight of the secret—the impossible love, the impossible loyalty—crushed him.
For a long moment, he simply let himself feel the ache.
Then, slowly, his thoughts drifted backward, pulling him into the shadows of a past he rarely revisited—a time before betrayal, before broken promises and shattered hearts.
The carnival was a riot of color and sound, a swirling tempest of masks, music, and whispered secrets beneath a velvet midnight sky. Gas lamps flickered like captive stars, their glow casting trembling shadows across cobblestone streets slick from a recent rain. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt sugar and damp earth, mingling with the distant smoke of bonfires.
It was a world apart — a revolution cloaked in revelry.
Avegar remembered how he had wandered through that carnival like a ghost searching for a name, his painter's soul aching to capture the chaos, the passion, the fleeting beauty of this ephemeral world. Around him, figures danced and twirled in opulent costumes that shimmered with lace and velvet, feathers brushing cheeks, and silver masks hiding smiles or snarls.
And then he saw him.
Elijah.
Elijah stood near the carousel, framed by the fragrant embrace of the garden's wild roses and ivy. The rain's gentle kiss still clung to petals and leaves, the earth beneath them soft and dark. Lanterns hung from branches overhead, their soft golden light falling on Elijah's silver filigree mask, accentuating the cold glint in his eyes. His costume was a cascade of midnight velvet and deep crimson lace—dark elegance laced with danger. He moved with a grace that was both predator and poet, every step measured and deliberate.
Their worlds collided the moment their eyes met.
Avegar's painter's heart thrummed wildly — the colors of the carnival dimmed beside the blaze Elijah ignited inside him.
"Elijah," he whispered, the name tasting like a promise.
The music swelled — violins, harpsichords, and distant drums — weaving a frantic rhythm that pulled them together. Without hesitation, Elijah extended his hand, the masked fingers cold but steady. Avegar took it, heart pounding beneath silk and lace.
Their dance was a collision of fire and shadow.
The carnival's chaos melted away as they spun beneath the lantern-lit canopy, the night swallowing them whole. Around them, masked revelers faded to silhouettes, their laughter a distant echo.
Elijah's hand was firm, guiding Avegar with the confidence of one who knew every secret of the dance — every step a language, every turn a confession.
Avegar matched him, brush and canvas replaced by breath and movement, their bodies painting stories in the air.
For a moment, it was just them — two souls tangled in a world that promised freedom and danger in equal measure.
But beneath the glittering surface, a darker game was unfolding.
Elijah's voice was a whisper in his ear, smooth and intoxicating: "Trust me."
He slipped a tiny vial into Avegar's palm — a dark liquid that gleamed like liquid night.
A poison, sent by enemies cloaked in shadow, intent on destruction.
Avegar's breath hitched, the vial heavy and cold in his hand.
Fear should have surged, but instead, something else rose — a fragile, aching tenderness that cracked through years of isolation and wariness.
Their lips met — a collision of defiance and surrender.
The kiss was fire and frost, desperate and fierce.
The poison never had a chance.
They fell into each other's arms, the carnival's masks and lies peeling away to reveal two artists bound by passion, betrayal, and hope.
Both painters and writers — they crafted worlds in stolen moments, brush strokes and ink blending with whispered verses.
Avegar saw in Elijah the storm he himself carried — wild, untamed, and aching for a home.
Days melted into nights filled with laughter and secrets, paint-splattered studios, and stolen kisses in the garden's tangled embrace.
The garden became their sanctuary — where roses bloomed defiantly amid thorns, and moonlight wove silver threads through tangled vines.
It was there, beneath the shadowed canopy, that their love blossomed — fierce and fragile.
But even paradise is edged with shadows.
Avegar left Elijah.
Not because the love faltered, but because a fear buried deep within whispered that their worlds could never truly merge.
He traced the faint scar along his collarbone — a whisper of pain and memory.
A wound he touched only in moments of solitude.
His breath caught; a tear threatened to fall.
Vulnerability shattered the mask he wore for the clan and the world.
The scar was a secret no one knew.
A reminder of the fear that chased him, even in dreams.
He buried it deep, but it never truly faded.
Avegar's fingers brushed again against the scar near his jaw — a line barely visible, but one he knew by heart. It burned under his touch, and with it came the weight of memory.
He remembered the dance.
The clash of steel against steel beneath a painted glass ceiling. Elijah's dark curls falling into his eyes as they circled each other, the edges of their swords skimming past fabric, skin, breath. It was a rhythm — seductive, dangerous. They moved in tandem, blade to blade, like a ritual older than the stars.
Then — a slip.
The red diamond ring on Avegar's sword hilt, loosened from its setting, flew from the pommel.
It arced through the air, catching firelight as it spun.
And landed.
Right on Elijah's finger.
A pause. The world held its breath.
Elijah looked at the ring, then up at him — eyes wide, unreadable.
Neither of them spoke.
But something changed in that instant. Something neither could name.
Avegar blinked.
And the memory cracked apart.
---
He was back in the throne room. The cold crept into his bones again.
Elvira was still there.
She sat slouched against the wall, chest rising and falling. Her eyes found him — searching, uncertain, hurting.
Avegar's jaw tightened.
The scar throbbed beneath his fingertips.
He stepped forward, hesitated, then whispered:
"…I'm sorry."
His voice trembled.
Deeply, truly.
She blinked. "What?"
But he was already fading, light touching his shoulder, dissolving his edges.
"Avegar—wait."
"I'll see you…" he murmured, eyes lingering on her, "…at the atelier."
And then he was gone.
The space he left behind was colder than before.
---
The silence after his disappearance was deafening.
Elvira remained on the ground, back pressed against the crumbling wall, the cold seeping through the fabric of her gown. Her fingers trembled where they touched her neck, still wet with blood, still warm. The skin pulsed beneath, like it remembered him — his fangs, his breath, the way he hesitated… or didn't.
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't wipe them.
She sat there and let the questions tear through her chest, raw and merciless.
"Did he really want to kill me?" she whispered aloud, as if saying it would make the confusion vanish.
Her voice cracked. It didn't help.
She swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. "Did he even know I was like him…?"
A vampire. Royal blood, ancient lineage, hidden in exile. She'd spent her whole life concealing it, even from herself some days. But when Avegar looked at her that way… when he touched her, hovered so close his breath mingled with hers… had he known?
Or had he just not cared?
That possibility made something inside her twist. Her eyes closed tightly.
Was it all a game?
The look in his eyes when she stared too deeply — was it disgust? Or fear? Or something real, something he tried to run from?
She wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
She remembered his fangs in her. The pierce of it — yes, pain, but also… something else. The moment he bit her, the world had narrowed down to nothing but him. His scent. His pulse.
And then it hit her.
A vampire's bite — from a different dynasty — wasn't just violence.
It was a seal.
A spiritual tether that crossed bloodlines.
She gasped.
They were bound now.
Not just physically. Not just emotionally.
Magically. Spiritually. Permanently.
It was ancient law — forgotten by many, but not by her. Not by someone with royal blood in her veins. A bite like that, without consent, was a claim. It meant something sacred had begun between them. Something unbreakable.
She shuddered, the realization crashing into her like a storm.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered, voice trembling. "Why did you do it…?"
Her fingers dug into her chest, as if she could claw out the feeling, cut the cord that now linked her to him.
But it was already there.
Deep.
Threaded through her blood.
She couldn't run from it.
She couldn't even hate him for it — and that made her cry harder.
The tears came in waves. Hot. Shameful. Exhausting.
She curled in on herself, sobbing into her sleeves, shaking, her body feeling too small to hold everything that was breaking inside her.
It hurt.
Not just the bite.
Not just the betrayal.
But the way part of her had hoped — even now — that he would come back.
That he would look at her again, with something true.
That he would explain.
Or say her name.
Or stay.
But he hadn't.
He left.
And still… her heart whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
The silence in the throne room stretched, heavy but no longer unbearable.
Elvira wiped her face with the back of her hand, her breath unsteady. Her mother was gone, and the grief sat somewhere deep inside her — not breaking her, just pressing inward like a stone she couldn't shake loose. She didn't need to fall apart. Not now. There would be time for tears later.
The only thing that mattered was the key.
She pulled it from the inner lining of her corset, feeling its weight — warm from her skin, sharp at the edges, the serpent carved along the side glittering faintly in the dim light. It hadn't left her side since the Queen had slipped it into her palm with her dying breath.
Elvira didn't fully understand what it meant. Only that she had to use it.
The dark hollow corridor was colder than the rest of the castle. Long shadows stretched along the cracked floor, vines pushing through the stone in places, the scent of old earth rising as she walked.
The door stood at the very end — tall, sealed tight, with no handle, no markings except for a narrow keyhole shaped like a serpent's eye.
Elvira stepped forward, pulse spiking. Her fingers tingled.
A strange rush filled her chest — part adrenaline, part curiosity, part instinct — like something ancient in her blood had just stirred awake. She didn't know what lay beyond, but every part of her told her to move.
She raised the key and pushed it into the lock.
It slid in smoothly.
Her breath caught.
And slowly, she turned it.
The stone shuddered. A deep sound echoed through the walls, old and slow like something breathing for the first time in centuries.
The door began to open.