The silence of her chambers was a living thing, fed by the echoes of Valerius's taunts and Cyrus's non-denial. He hunted your family. The words coiled in her mind, a venomous serpent. Every interaction with the Enforcer was now cast in a new, sinister light. His coldness wasn't just professional detachment; it was the demeanor of an executioner comfortable with his work. His lessons weren't for her survival; they were a prelude to her slaughter.
The thirst, a constant companion, gnawed with renewed urgency, fed by her anger and fear. She paced the room, her body still humming with the phantom aches of the training session, her mind a whirlwind of betrayal and confusion. The servant girl's warning, Cyrus's own admission, Valerius's gloating—it all painted a picture of a gilded cage with a blood-soaked floor.
A soft knock at the door broke her frantic pacing. It wasn't Cyrus's firm rap. This was hesitant, almost timid.
Warily, she approached. "Who is it?"
"It's Kaelen, my lady," a young, male voice whispered. "The Enforcer sent me. I've brought... your studies."
Studies. The word felt absurdly mundane. She unlocked the door—a privilege that seemed to come and go with Cyrus's whims—and opened it a crack.
A young vampire, likely turned in his late teens, stood there. He had a shock of unruly red hair and freckles dusting his pale nose, which gave him a perpetually youthful look at odds with his undead nature. He clutched a stack of large, heavy books to his chest like a shield. He looked nervous, his eyes darting around the hallway.
"The Enforcer said you are to begin your historical instruction," Kaelen said, shifting his weight. "May I...?"
Elara stepped back, allowing him to enter. He hurried in, placed the books carefully on the table, and made to leave just as quickly.
"Wait," Elara said. He froze, turning back to her with wide, apprehensive eyes. He was afraid of her. The realization was startling. "You're... not like the others."
He gave a jerky shrug. "I'm just a scribe, my lady. From the Archives. I keep the records. I don't... mingle." He said 'mingle' as if it were a contagious disease.
"The Enforcer sent you specifically?" she pressed.
A faint blush, a trick of his human-like complexion, rose on his cheeks. "He knows I prefer books to... people. And that I can be discreet." He glanced meaningfully at the door.
Elara understood. Cyrus was sending someone he considered harmless, a non-threat. Or perhaps a spy so unassuming he would be overlooked. She decided to test the waters.
"Valerius came to the training salle today," she said, watching his reaction.
Kaelen's face tightened with immediate distaste. "Lord Valerius is a... complication. He enjoys stirring trouble. It is best to pay him no mind." His tone was the careful, neutral one of someone who had learned to survive by not taking sides.
"He said the Enforcer hunted my family. The Arcadias."
Kaelen flinched as if she'd struck him. He looked genuinely pained. "The fall of House Arcadia is... a complex matter. It is not a story for whispers in hallways." He gestured to the books. "It is all in there. The truth is often less dramatic than the court's gossip, but more tragic." He bowed his head. "I should go. I am not supposed to linger."
He practically fled the room, leaving her alone with the weight of the past.
Elara approached the table. The books were ancient, their leather bindings cracked and faded, their pages thick parchment that smelled of dust and time. The first was a massive tome entitled "Genealogies and Bloodlines of the Sanguine Crowns". The second was slimmer, its title etched in fading silver: "A Chronicle of the Arcadian Reign". The third was a current ledger, its pages crisp and new, labeled "Decrees and Judgments of Her Majesty, Queen Lysandra, Vol. XXI".
Her hands trembled as she opened the chronicle. The script was elaborate, difficult to read, but her enhanced eyes deciphered it with effort.
It spoke of House Arcadia. A lineage known for its strength, but also its compassion. A rule that valued stability and the well-being of both vampires and the mortal populations under their watch. They were depicted as just, if stern, rulers. There were illustrations—beautiful, haunting woodcuts of a king and queen who looked regal and kind. King Theron and Queen Lyra. Her... grandparents? Great-grandparents? The timeline was vague, centuries blurring together.
She read of their reign, of treaties brokered, of threats quelled. It was a history of order.
Then, she turned the page.
The tone shifted. The script became tighter, more agitated. It spoke of the rise of a new faction within the court, led by a charismatic, ambitious noblewoman: Lysandra. It detailed her arguments for a more aggressive expansion, a stricter subjugation of mortals, a consolidation of pure vampire power. House Arcadia resisted. They were called weak, sentimental, outdated.
The book described the growing tension, the political skirmishes, the poisoned words in court. It spoke of a blight that struck the mortal crops, a plague that swept through human cities—calamities Lysandra's faction blamed on Arcadia's "soft" rule.
Then, the entries stopped.
The next several pages had been torn out. Rough, jagged edges were all that remained.
A cold dread settled in Elara's stomach. She frantically flipped through the rest of the book. Nothing. The history ended with the tension at its peak.
She grabbed the book of decrees, the modern ledger. She flipped through it, her eyes scanning the precise, bureaucratic script. It was all dry proclamations and legal judgments from Lysandra's reign. Then, near the beginning of the volume, she found it.
A decree, dated just over two decades ago. The heading was simple, cold, and final:
"Regarding the Treason of House Arcadia"
The text that followed was a masterpiece of political spin. It accused the royal family of conspiring with mortal hunters, of plotting to overthrow their own kind, of weakness amounting to high treason. The sentence was unequivocal:
"...the entire bloodline of House Arcadia is hereby attainted, their titles and holdings forfeit to the Crown. All members are to be found and executed for crimes against the Sanguine Crowns. By my order, Lysandra, Queen."
It was signed with a flourish. And below, in a different, familiar, precise script, was another signature—the signature of the officer tasked with carrying out the order.
"Cyrus, Lord Enforcer."
Elara's breath left her in a rush. She stumbled back from the table, her hand flying to her mouth. There it was. In cold, undeniable ink. Valerius hadn't been lying. Cyrus hadn't denied it. He was the instrument of her family's destruction. He had signed the warrant for their extinction.
The door opened without a knock this time. Cyrus stood there. He must have been waiting. Watching. He saw her face, pale and horrified, her eyes fixed on the open ledger. He saw the damning signature.
He didn't speak. He simply entered and closed the door behind him. His expression was unreadable, but the usual cold certainty was absent. He looked... tired.
"You read it," he said. It wasn't a question.
"You killed them," she whispered, the words raw. "You killed my family."
"I carried out the law," he replied, his voice low. He didn't approach her. He stood by the door, a statue of duty and death.
"They were innocent! The book... it said they were just! It was lies!" Her voice rose, trembling with a grief for a family she'd never known.
"The book," Cyrus said, a hint of bitterness finally coloring his tone, "is a history written by the victors. The pages that were torn out? They were the truth. They contained the evidence of Lysandra's machinations. The blight, the plague... they were her doing, engineered to destabilize the realm and turn opinion against the Arcadias. She fabricated the evidence of treason."
Elara stared at him, confusion cutting through her rage. "You knew? You knew they were innocent and you still..."
"I am the Lord Enforcer," he said, and for the first time, the title sounded like a chain around his neck. "My duty is to the Crown. Not to the truth. Not to justice. To the Crown. The law, however corrupt, must be enforced. Without that, there is only chaos."
"You're a monster," she spat.
A flicker of something—pain, anger—crossed his features. "Yes." The admission was stark and simple. "I am the monster who ensures the greater monster remains on the throne. I am the sword that keeps the peace, however bloody that peace may be."
He took a step forward, and she flinched back. He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"Why am I alive?" she demanded, tears of fury and despair welling in her eyes. "Why not kill me in the alley? Why bring me here? Why any of this?"
"Because the law was clear," he said, his gaze intense. "'All members are to be found and executed.' I searched for two decades. I found no trace of an heir. The line was declared extinct. The decree was fulfilled." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Then I found you. A living, breathing remnant of a house I had legally erased. Your existence is a paradox. To kill you now would be to admit the decree was never fully carried out. It would be an imperfection in Lysandra's perfect victory. She cannot allow that."
The logic was cold, twisted, and terrifyingly plausible.
"So she keeps me as a trophy," Elara said, understanding dawning. "A pet to prove her victory is absolute."
"She keeps you because your blood is a threat she cannot eliminate without admitting fallibility," Cyrus corrected. "And because she believes she can break you and use you. A tool forged from the ashes of her enemies... it appeals to her vanity."
"And you?" The question was out before she could stop it. "What appeals to you? Why are you doing this? Teaching me? Telling me this?"
For a long moment, he was silent. The only sound was the frantic beating of her heart.
"The court is a web of lies," he said finally, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it. "Lysandra. Valerius. The others. They will feed you half-truths and poison. They will use your ignorance against you." His silver gaze was unwavering. "I am giving you the only weapon that can truly protect you in this place. The truth. However ugly it may be."
"Why?" she insisted, her voice breaking. "Why would you help me?"
He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and she saw the ghost of the man he might have been before duty and blood had carved him into this weapon. He saw the red hair she had inherited from a queen he had killed, the blue eyes of a line he had extinguished.
"Because a weapon that knows its own edge is less likely to cut its wielder," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "And because sometimes, the only way to serve a corrupt crown is to prepare for the day it falls."
He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. This time, she did not hear the key turn in the lock.
She was left standing in the middle of the room, the truth lying heavy on the table before her. Her family was gone, murdered under a false flag by the man who was now her keeper. Her life was a political paradox in a court of monsters. Her only ally was the architect of her ruin.
And his help felt like the most dangerous threat of all.