A/N: make sure to give stones, add to your library, and leave comments!
————————
The silence that followed her out of the cell was heavier than any chains. Elara walked behind Cyrus, her body thrumming with a terrible, borrowed energy. The blood—the man's blood—coursed through her, a warm, humming power that made every sense vibrate. She could hear the scuttling of insects in the walls three corridors away, smell the mildew growing on ancient stone, see the individual threads in the tapestries they passed as if under a magnifying glass. It was intoxicating. It was abhorrent.
And beneath the humming power was a cold, still pool of horror. She kept seeing the man's eyes, the hope dying, the life draining away. She could still taste him on her tongue.
Cyrus led her back through the labyrinthine halls, his silence a judgment more potent than any words. He didn't look back at her. He didn't need to. She was tethered to him, a shameful, bloody secret following in his wake.
They did not return to the room where she had awoken. Instead, he led her to a different wing of the castle, one that felt less like a crypt and more like a gilded prison. The halls here were still dark, but cleaner. Sconces holding flickering gas lamps cast dancing shadows. The doors were polished dark wood, not cold iron.
He stopped before one and pushed it open. "These will be your chambers," he stated, finally breaking his silence. "You will remain here until you are summoned."
Elara stepped past him into the room. It was larger and far more opulent than the first. A sitting area with plush velvet chairs and a low table was arranged before a large fireplace, cold and empty. A bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with leather-bound tomes whose titles were in languages she didn't recognize. An archway led to a sleeping chamber dominated by another large bed, this one hung with black silk. Another door presumably led to a privy.
On the bed lay a pile of clothing. Dark, elegant dresses, nothing like the simple shift she wore or the rough-spun wool of her old life.
"You will dress appropriately for court," Cyrus said from the doorway, his voice cutting through her assessment. "Your... previous attire is unsuitable."
Elara turned to face him, a spark of her old defiance flaring through the numbness. "And when will I be summoned? To do what? To be what?"
A flicker of something—annoyance?—crossed his stoic features. "You will be summoned when the Queen wishes to see her new... acquisition. Your purpose is not for me to decide." His silver eyes swept over her, from her blood-stained shift to her bare, dirty feet, taking in the entirety of her disheveled, feral state. "Until then, you will learn to comport yourself. You are no longer a mortal scraping for crumbs. You are Sanguine. Start acting like it. Clean yourself. You smell of the kennels."
The insult was delivered with such cold precision that it stung more than a shout would have. Before she could form a retort, he stepped back and closed the door. She heard the distinct, final sound of a key turning in the lock.
She was a prisoner. A well-dressed one, but a prisoner nonetheless.
Anger warred with the lingering horror. She was alone. Truly alone. The reality of her situation settled upon her like a physical weight. She was a thing in a cage, waiting to be presented to a queen she knew nothing about, for a reason she couldn't fathom.
Her gaze fell on the clothing. With a sigh that felt like it came from the very depths of her stolen life, she walked to the bed. The fabrics were soft and expensive under her fingertips—silk, velvet, fine-spun linen. She selected the simplest of the dresses, a high-necked gown of deep charcoal grey. It seemed less ostentatious than the blood-red or midnight-black ones.
She found the privy—a surprisingly modern room with a deep, copper tub and running water, both hot and cold. The luxury of it was almost obscene after the filth of the cell. She scrubbed her skin raw, trying to wash away the memory of the blood, the feel of the man's dying pulse against her lips. The water swirled pink, then clear, but she knew the stain was not on her skin. It was inside her.
Once clean and dressed, the gown felt like a costume. It fit her perfectly, as if tailored for a body she'd only inhabited for a few hours. She looked at her reflection in a tall, tarnished silver mirror. A stranger stared back. A pale, sharp-featured woman with haunted blue eyes and hair the color of fresh blood. She looked... regal. Dangerous. The thought made her shudder.
Hours bled into one another. There was no sun to mark the passage of time, only the deepening of the shadows in the hall beyond her window. The thirst began to whisper again, a low, insistent ache at the base of her skull. The memory of the feeding, the power and the pleasure of it, rose unbidden. She clenched her fists, fighting it. She would not become that again. She would not.
A sharp click at the door broke her concentration. It swung open, and a young woman slipped inside. She was perhaps a year or two younger than Elara, with mousy brown hair pulled into a severe bun and wide, nervous brown eyes. She was dressed in a simple black dress, an apron tied around her waist—a servant.
She carried a silver tray upon which sat a crystal goblet. The contents were thick and vividly, unmistakably red.
The scent hit Elara like a physical blow. Blood. Fresh blood. Her fangs descended in an instant, a sharp, painful pressure in her gums. Her body went rigid, every instinct screaming at her to lunge, to take, to drink.
The servant girl flinched, seeing the predatory gleam in Elara's eyes. She quickly set the tray down on the table near the fireplace and took several hurried steps back, bowing her head.
"M-my lady," the girl stammered, her voice trembling. "The Lord Enforcer sends this. He said... he said you would require sustenance before your audience."
Elara couldn't tear her eyes from the goblet. The thirst was a roaring in her ears now. Her hands shook. "Audience?" she managed to grit out, the word strained.
"With Her Majesty, the Queen," the girl whispered, keeping her eyes firmly on the floor. "At the midnight court."
"Get out," Elara breathed, the command barely audible.
The girl didn't need to be told twice. She scurried out of the room, and the lock turned once more.
Elara was alone with it.
She backed away from the table, until her legs hit the bed and she sat down hard. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain the tremors. She wouldn't. She would not drink it. It was a test. Another one of Cyrus's cruel tests. He was trying to break her, to make her accept what she was.
But what was the alternative? To let the thirst take her? To go mad with hunger before she even met this Queen? To be weak, feral, powerless?
The memory of the euphoria, the sublime rightness of the feeding, whispered to her. The blood in the goblet wasn't a person. It was just... sustenance. It was fuel. It was the price of staying sane, of staying strong enough to maybe, one day, find a way out of this nightmare.
The rationalization was smooth and seductive.
With a cry of frustration that was half a sob, she launched herself from the bed and stalked to the table. Her hand trembled as she wrapped her fingers around the cool stem of the goblet. She brought it to her lips, hesitating for one last second, battling the ghost of the man in the cell.
Then she tipped it back.
It was different. Colder. There was no struggle, no life, no pulse. It was just... blood. It slaked the thirst, fed the power humming in her veins, but it was a hollow echo of the feeding in the cell. It was consumption without connection. It was manageable. It was, she realized with a sinking heart, civilized.
When it was empty, she set the goblet down with a hand that was now perfectly steady. The hunger was gone, replaced by a calm, deadly clarity. She had done it. She had chosen to feed. The line had been crossed, and there was no going back.
Precisely as some unseen clock tolled a deep, resonant midnight, the lock turned again. This time, it was Cyrus who entered.
He had changed his clothes. He now wore a formal jacket of black velvet, tailored to his powerful frame, with silver thread embroidering the cuffs and high collar. At his hip hung a slender, elegant sword. He looked every inch the Lord Enforcer—impeccable, lethal, and cold.
His eyes swept the room, noting the empty goblet on the table, then landed on her. He gave a slight, approving nod. It made her feel sick.
"Come," he said. "The Queen does not like to be kept waiting."
He didn't offer his arm. He simply expected her to follow. And she did. The blood had quieted the rebel in her; it had made her compliant, sharp, and ready.
He led her through the castle to a part she had not yet seen. The halls grew wider, the ceilings higher. The air hummed with a low murmur of voices and the scent of perfume, blood, and ambition grew thick enough to taste. They passed courtiers now in earnest—groups of vampires dressed in breathtaking finery. They paused their conversations to watch her pass, their eyes glittering with open curiosity and undisguised malice. Whispers trailed in her wake.
"...the new one..."
"...see the hair? It can't be..."
"...Cyrus found her himself, I heard..."
"...looks half-feral still..."
Cyrus ignored them all, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed ahead. He was a shield and a jailer all at once.
They arrived before a set of enormous double doors made of polished ebony, inlaid with silver designs that swirled like captured moonlight. Two guards, larger and more imposing than any she had seen, stood at attention. They looked at Cyrus, nodded once, and pushed the doors open.
The throne room was a spectacle of terrifying grandeur.
The room was vast, a cathedral of darkness and decadence. Black marble floors reflected the light of a hundred floating witch-lights that drifted near the vaulted ceiling like captured stars. Pillars carved with bas-reliefs of ancient, bloody battles reached towards the heights. Along the walls, on tiers of obsidian seating, the court of vampires watched. Hundreds of them, the most powerful and ancient of their kind, their beautiful, ageless faces turned towards the center of the room.
And at the center, on a dais of bone-white marble, sat the Queen.
Queen Lysandra was breathtaking. She looked no older than twenty-five, with hair the color of spun platinum that fell in a perfect cascade over one shoulder. Her features were delicate, ethereally beautiful, but her eyes... her eyes were old. They were a piercing, venomous green, and they held a cold intelligence that saw everything. She was dressed in a gown of liquid silver that seemed to move like water, and on her head rested a delicate circlet of twisted silver and sharp, clear diamonds—the Sanguine Crown.
She did not smile. She simply watched as Cyrus led Elara into the center of the room, their footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.
Cyrus stopped at the base of the dais and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. "Your Majesty," his voice rang out, clear and respectful. "As you commanded."
Elara stood frozen, unsure what to do. Every eye in the room was on her. The weight of their scrutiny was immense, a physical pressure. She felt like a rabbit surrounded by wolves.
Queen Lysandra's gaze shifted from Cyrus to her. It was like being pierced by shards of ice.
"Rise, Cyrus," she said. Her voice was melodious, sweet, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the sound of a silver bell ringing in a tomb.
Cyrus rose fluidly to his feet and stepped slightly to the side, leaving Elara exposed.
"So," the Queen said, her green eyes raking over Elara from head to toe, lingering on her red hair. "This is the little bird you found singing in the gutter. The one with the... remarkable bloodline. She does not look like much."
A titter of laughter ran through the court. Elara's cheeks burned, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to look away from the Queen.
"Appearances can be deceiving, Your Majesty," Cyrus replied, his voice neutral.
"Indeed." The Queen leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, child. Do you know who you are? What you are?"
Elara found her voice, though it was smaller than she wanted it to be. "I know what you made me."
The Queen's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose a fraction. A murmur of shock went through the court. Such impudence was clearly unexpected.
"I made you nothing," Lysandra corrected softly, the threat lying just beneath the sweetness of her tone. "I merely... reclaimed what was always mine. Your blood belongs to the Crown. Your life belongs to the Crown. You are a asset. A resource. Do you understand?"
Elara said nothing. The defiance was still there, simmering beneath the fear.
The Queen's lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. "You will need to be trained. Broken in. Taught obedience." Her gaze flicked to Cyrus. "You have done well to get her this far presentable, Enforcer. The rest of her education will be your responsibility. See that she learns her place. I would hate for such a promising resource to go to waste because of a stubborn disposition."
It was a command, and a death sentence, wrapped in polite words.
Cyrus bowed his head again. "As you command, Your Majesty."
The Queen waved a dismissive hand, her attention already moving away from them, as if Elara were a mildly interesting insect she had grown bored of. "Take her away. The sight of such... rustic confusion offends me."
The audience was over.
Cyrus's hand closed around Elara's upper arm. His grip was like iron, compelling her to turn. He guided her back through the silent, smirking court, away from the throne, away from the Queen's chilling gaze.
They did not speak until they were back in the empty hallway outside her chambers. He released her arm and turned to face her, his expression grim.
"That was a warning," he said, his voice low and harsh. "The next time you show disrespect to the Queen, it will not be a lesson. It will be an execution. She does not make idle threats."
"What does she want with me?" Elara demanded, the fear and anger finally boiling over. "What is this 'bloodline'?"
Cyrus's silver eyes held hers, and for a moment, she saw something in their depths—not pity, but a flicker of understanding. The understanding of one prisoner to another.
"You are the last descendant of the previous ruling house," he said, the words stark and simple. "The house Lysandra slaughtered to seize the throne. Your blood is the only claim to power that can challenge hers. She did not 'reclaim' you. She captured you. You are not an asset. You are a threat. And she will either break you into a useful tool..."
He paused, his gaze intense.
"...or she will destroy you. Your education begins now. Your first lesson: trust no one. Especially not me."
With that, he unlocked her door, pushed her inside, and locked it once more, leaving her alone with the terrifying weight of the truth.