At Nightfall
Through the long, dim corridors of the palace, the tall figure of the Dark Lord moved with silent intent. His cloak, midnight black, trailed behind him like spilled ink. The chandeliers above barely flickered at his presence, the candlelight dancing faintly, as if afraid.
He entered one of the grandest chambers in the palace, a dining hall carved from obsidian and trimmed with ancient silver. It was a space that radiated luxury and authority. At its center stretched a vast dining table, ornately carved, each chair flanking it resembling miniature thrones. No mortal craftsman had ever designed such a masterpiece, only the most revered artisans of the realm, working with materials not found on maps, had laid hand upon it.
The armrests were coiled serpents of solid gold, the headrests inlaid with rare jewels that shimmered like dying stars. Candle flames reflected in their facets, setting the entire room alight with an otherworldly glow. This was not just a table, it was a throne room in disguise. And the feast upon it was no less divine.
The dishes shimmered. Some radiated with glowing herbs, others shimmered with oils that carried ancient enchantments. Cuts of rare meat bathed in rich crimson glazes, platters of exotic fruits from cursed lands, and golden goblets brimming with thick, blood-red liquid.
Every aroma that escaped the plates seemed to tell a secret, or dare you to taste the forbidden.
Lazarus, the Dark Lord, took a seat, not at the central throne, but beside it, a silent declaration that the crown may no longer rest on his father's head, but he would never deny its shadow. The seat at the table's heart was already occupied.
The presence of the figure there was vast, looming even while seated. His physique broad and sharp, like a war-hardened statue defied his age. His aura was louder than his voice ever needed to be. Lord Alexander. Former king. And though lines had begun to mark his face, his authority had not dimmed. It lingered in the sharpness of his gaze, the firm set of his mouth.
Across from him sat a woman draped in silver silk. Queen Julie. Her beauty had not dulled over the centuries, it had refined itself like wine stored under moonlight. Her features were poised, but her gaze was distant. Yet when her eyes found Lazarus, something gentle flickered in them- warmth held tightly behind cold glass.
The three sat, a family etched by history. Father. Mother. Son.
Servants emerged, trained to never make a sound. Their hands shook only slightly as they carried forward a grand decanter of thick red liquid- aged blood from noble lines- and delicately arranged plates of rare meat, soaked in fresh blood and spices not spoken aloud. The plates were placed, utensils arranged in perfect symmetry, and then the servants vanished again into the walls like ghosts.
Lord Alexander reached forward, filled a crystal glass to the brim, and handed it to Queen Julie with a subtle bow. She accepted it without looking.
The meal began.
For a while, the only sound was the quiet clinking of silverware and goblets. Even the fire dared not crackle too loud.
It was Alexander who broke the silence, his voice layered with sarcasm and affection.
"My dear son appears so devoted to the kingdom, he's forgotten how to greet his bloodline."
Lazarus didn't flinch. His response was as dry as the wine he sipped.
"Good evening, former King and Queen."
The word "former" made a vein pulse slightly at Alexander's temple, but he masked it with a smirk, leaning back in his chair as if unbothered. He had learned to pick his battles with his heir.
Julie, however, barely reacted. She wasn't concerned with formalities tonight. Her mind was wrapped around something heavier.
She needed to tell Lazarus about his younger brother.
Regan had found his mate and in mere hours, a public mating ceremony would declare their union. While she was genuinely pleased for her younger son, a dull ache stirred within her heart as she looked at Lazarus.
She had watched Lazarus grow colder through the years, not with hatred but with hollowed longing. She had seen it quiet as breath in the shadows under his eyes.
It wasn't fair.
Still, she braved her voice and said gently,
"Lazarus… I wished to tell you something important. Your brother Regan has found his mate. He has chosen to make it official. A mating ceremony has been arranged. It will be held… at dawn."
His goblet stilled mid-air.
Julie's voice turned tender. "If the timing is-"
"There is no need," he interrupted, voice like a blade. "Let it proceed as planned."
And without another word, he stood.
He left the table without ceremony, his footsteps quiet but heavy with something far more suffocating than rage.
In the Chamber of the Dark Lord
His chambers were far from princely. There were no ornate drapes, no playful luxuries. The room stood like a crypt: dark, cold, and still. A vast bed lay untouched, sheets perfectly folded, as if no soul had ever slept there.
The walls bore no paintings, no warmth. Just towering shadows and a silence that spoke louder than any wail.
He sat at the edge of the bed, eyes vacant. The fire inside him, what little remained sputtered quietly, like a dying ember under ash.
His thoughts spun violently. He wasn't jealous. No. But something inside him something buried, long forgotten ached.
He wished, just once, to be chosen. Not for his power, not for his name. But for the soul beneath the scarred armor. Someone who would see him beyond the title.
A quiet sigh broke the silence. His eyes wandered to the window.
The stars above glittered, mocking him.
And in his mind, the prophecy returned, haunting.
"No! Never shall he have such a mate!"
"He does not deserve one!"
The words echoed again and again. Damning. Unrelenting.
His throat tightened. Was it true? Had he, without ever seeking, already been denied?
A sigh escaped his lips.
Yes, he had never sought his mate but those cruel, damning words had shattered every last hope he once dared to hold.
He hadn't asked the Goddess for much. He had ruled. He had bled. He had served his people with honor. But even fate turned her face from him.
His eyes closed, and once again, he sank into the dreams that came too often and never offered peace.
The Celebration
The palace had transformed overnight. Drapes of crimson silk cascaded from towers. Peonies and roses hung in swaying garlands. Candles lined the marble walkways. The throne room itself glittered like a dream tulips, lilies, and moon lotus flowers adorned the pillars.
The air was thick with incense and celebration.
Lazarus entered, his cape trailing behind like the night itself. His guard Drew followed, alongside a dozen elite soldiers clad in ceremonial black.
He took his place on the throne cold, composed, immovable.
"Let the celebration begin," he declared.
The hall doors opened again, revealing Prince Regan. He entered like spring after storm, youthful, glowing, hand in hand with his mate, Lily. Her presence was quiet but certain. She moved like someone who had always belonged in this world.
They bowed before Lazarus, and then to their parents.
For a brief moment, Lazarus' heart tugged.
A fleeting flicker of something unwelcome.
Jealousy.
But he swallowed it. Let it sink back into that familiar void inside him.
Queen Julie rose. Dressed in flowing silver, she stepped forward with poise. A servant approached, holding a silver plate draped in velvet. Atop it rested a ceremonial dagger, ancient and sacred.
She took it.
With practiced grace, she pierced the palms of Regan and Lily. A soft gasp rippled through the crowd. The mingled blood shimmered unnaturally as it joined in a small crystal bowl.
Julie's voice echoed across the hall :
"In the name of the Goddess Agnes, Guardian of Bonds,
Prince Regan and Lily are joined in sacred union.
From this moment forth, they are eternally bound as mates."
The crowd roared in celebration. Blessings poured forth for the couple. Goblets were raised. Music flared from hidden corners.
But on the throne, Lazarus remained still.
Drew, watching the expressionless face of his master, felt a quiet ache in his chest. "Oh Goddess Agnes," he prayed silently, "Take away my mate if you must, but grant him one. He longs for love. He craves it more than breath. Even you, divine as you are, should see it…"
And then he realized, He'd said it out loud.
Cold dread seized him. He glanced up and there was Lazarus.
Staring. Hard.
Beside him, Regan had a mischievous glint in his eye, feigning sympathy.
Drew paled. He fell to his knees, speaking dramatically
"Oh my Lord, please end me here. Behead me for such insolence. I deserve to die, though I've served you all my life, taken blades meant for your heart.. let this foolishness be my end!"
Lazarus arched an eyebrow lazily.
"Very well. Call the royal executioner."
"LORD-! HOW-!" Drew began to shout, but shrank beneath a warning glare.
He changed his tone immediately. "My Lord! My dearest Lord! Surely you wouldn't waste such loyalty, let's make peace-"
Lazarus exhaled sharply. "Regan, wasn't the palace garden in need of grooming? Let our brother here do it."
"But Lord, it's nine acres-"
"You're a vampire, Drew. You keep forgetting. Fifteen minutes. One minute late earns another acre."
Drew blinked. "My Lord… I must object. This- this is cruel."
Lazarus turned to Regan, "Where's the executioner?"
"LORD! Lord, dearest Lord!" Drew flailed. "What's a mere nine acres?! A morning jog! A warm-up!"
"Good," Lazarus replied. "Regan, count the minutes."
As Lazarus left, Drew's face was twisted in horror. Regan's, however, was lit with wicked delight. "Come, childhood brother," he smirked,
"Let's begin your warm-up."