The Realm of Night stretched beneath a sky the color of old bruises—hazel fading to purple at the edges, painted across a canvas that never quite darkened to full night.
The sun hung perpetually low on the horizon, massive and pale with a faint blue hue that cast everything in strange, cold light.
No clouds marred the expanse.
Just endless sky and that watchful, colorless sun.
The terrain rolled in gentle hills covered with forests unlike any in the Realm of Light. Trees grew tall and ancient, their bark nearly black, their leaves a deep crimson that rustled like whispered secrets.
When wind moved through them, it sounded like distant rain—soft, persistent, melancholy.
At the heart of this landscape stood a castle.
Not built so much as grown from the earth itself—dark stone rising in elegant spires, towers that seemed too slender to stand yet stood anyway, defying logic with their impossible grace.
Stained glass windows caught the pale sunlight and fractured it into colors that shouldn't exist—shades between purple and red that had no names.
Below the castle, a city spread across the valley.
Not dense or crowded. The streets were wide, paved with white stone that seemed to glow faintly in the perpetual twilight.
Homes built from dark wood and grey rock lined the avenues—simple but elegant, each one designed with the kind of aesthetic care that came from centuries of tradition.
And the people—
Pale as moonlight. Eyes the color of fresh blood or old wine. Hair ranging from pure white to midnight black, but always with those distinctive silver strikes running through it like veins of ore in stone.
Vampires.
This was the Duchy of Nocthera.
***
In the castle's eastern training courtyard, two figures moved through forms as old as the duchy itself.
Luciel—twelve years old now, taller than when Violet had known him but still lean with youth—moved through sword patterns with mechanical precision.
His dark hair, longer than before, was tied back to keep it from his face. Those red eyes—cold as ever—tracked his opponent's every movement.
Sweat dampened his training clothes despite the cool air. His breathing came hard but controlled.
Across from him stood his instructor.
Aldric Serev was a study in dignified age. Tall, shoulders still broad despite the silver that had overtaken his hair completely. His face was lined but handsome—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes that had seen centuries pass and remembered every lesson.
He wore simple training garb that somehow looked formal on his frame, and he moved with the style of someone who'd forgotten more about combat than most would ever learn.
His own blade—a slender rapier—danced through Luciel's defenses as if they were suggestions rather than barriers.
"Young lord," Aldric said, voice carrying that particular cadence of aristocratic disappointment, "your sword is still hesitating."
He parried Luciel's thrust almost lazily and riposted. The blade stopped a hair's breadth from Luciel's throat.
"Each and every strike," Aldric continued, "should aim for my life. Not my guard. Not my blade. Me. As if you truly intend my death."
Luciel stepped back, chest heaving. His legs trembled slightly—exhaustion finally catching up.
Then they gave out entirely.
He dropped to one knee, using his practice sword to brace himself. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the white stone beneath.
"There is no hesitation in my blade," Luciel said between breaths. His eyes lifted to meet Aldric's. "The only thing I lack now is strength."
Aldric studied him for a long moment. Then his stern expression softened fractionally—approval hidden beneath layers of formality.
"Perhaps," he conceded. "But strength without—"
"Young master."
A servant appeared at the courtyard's edge—a young vampire woman with the household's colors on her uniform. She bowed deeply.
"The Duke requests your presence."
Aldric sheathed his rapier with a fluid motion. "That's enough for today. Go. Don't keep your father waiting."
Luciel pushed himself to standing, muscles protesting. He bowed to his instructor—proper depth, proper duration—then turned and followed the servant.
Behind him, Aldric watched with eyes that had seen this pattern before. Young heirs pushed too hard, too fast, trying to prove themselves worthy of names that weighed more than crowns.
He hoped this one would survive the pressure.
Most didn't.
***
The Duke's office was located in the castle's western tower—deliberately positioned to catch the setting sun's light, though in this realm that meant eternal twilight rather than true sunset.
Dark wood paneling covered the walls. Shelves lined with ancient texts and formal documents.
A massive desk carved from a single piece of blackwood that legend claimed had been a gift from the realm's founding families.
Behind that desk sat Xavier D'Nocthera.
Duke. Patriarch. A man who carried centuries like other men carried coats—visible but not quite touching what lay beneath.
He was handsome in the way statues were handsome—all sharp lines and perfect proportions with none of the warmth that made beauty approachable.
Long hair, pure black without a trace of silver, fell past his shoulders. Scarlet eyes that could have been carved from rubies. A face that might have been thirty or three hundred, ageless in the way only old vampires managed.
He wore formal attire even in his private office—high collar, fitted jacket, everything precise and proper. Not a thread out of place. Not a wrinkle to suggest he was anything other than an ideal rendered in flesh.
When Luciel entered, Xavier didn't look up immediately. He finished reading the document before him with deliberate slowness. Signed it with practiced flourish. Set it aside with exact placement.
Only then did his eyes lift.
"How was your practice?" His voice was cold. Not cruel—just utterly devoid of warmth. Formal. Indifferent. The tone a supervisor might use with a competent but unremarkable employee.
"Adequate," Luciel said, standing at attention. "Master Aldric continues to surpass me in every engagement. But the gap narrows."
"Mm." Xavier steepled his fingers. "When will you defeat him?"
"Within a year. Perhaps sooner if I can awaken my blood resonance before then."
"See that you do. A heir who cannot best his instructor is no heir at all."
The words carried no anger. No disappointment. Just statement of fact, cold and absolute.
"Yes, Father."
Xavier picked up another document, glanced at it, then set it aside. When he spoke again, his tone hadn't changed at all.
"I have decided on your blood tie."
Luciel's expression didn't shift. "Yes, Father."
"You will form the bond with House Salera. Count Salera's daughter—Elira. She's your age. Suitable bloodline. Acceptable magical aptitude." He said it the way another man might discuss purchasing horses. "The engagement will be announced at the Crimson Moon festival. Three months hence."
Silence settled into the office like dust.
Xavier's eyes lifted slightly. "You have objections?"
"No, Father." Luciel bowed—perfectly proper, perfectly controlled. "I have no resistance to your order."
"Good." Xavier returned to his paperwork. "You may go."
Luciel turned and left without another word.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded final.
***
The castle library was Luciel's refuge.
Not the grand public library that visitors saw—this was the family collection. Smaller, more intimate.
Books that had been in House Nocthera for generations, their pages yellowed with age, their knowledge preserved through careful stewardship.
Luciel sat in his usual chair near the eastern window. The pale sun painted everything in cold light. He'd changed from training clothes into something more formal—habit so ingrained he barely noticed doing it anymore.
A book lay open in his lap. Advanced magical theory, focusing on blood resonance and how it interacted with mana circuits.
He read with the same mechanical focus he brought to sword practice.
Absorbing information.
Processing.
Filing it away for future use.
A flutter of wings.
White feathers scattered across the page he was reading.
"You know," Muninn said, settling on the chair's arm, "for someone who was just told his entire future had been decided without his input, you're remarkably calm."
Luciel turned a page. "Your point?"
"My point?" The white raven's head tilted. "My point is that any normal person would have some kind of reaction.
Anger, perhaps. Frustration.
Maybe even a hint of sadness at losing the freedom to choose their own partner."
"I'm not normal people."
"No," Muninn agreed. "You're decidedly abnormal. But that doesn't explain how you can accept a decision about your life so easily. Without even a moment's hesitation."
Luciel's eyes remained fixed on the text. "The Nocthera have a duty to follow the patriarch until an heir proves themselves stronger. Until I can best my father in combat, his decisions are law. This engagement serves the duchy's interests. Therefore, it's the correct choice."
He turned another page.
"For everyone," he added quietly.
Muninn's bright eyes studied the boy's face—searching for cracks in that perfect mask of indifference.
"But what about what you want?" the raven asked. "Doesn't that matter?"
"My wants are irrelevant to my duties."
"Are they?" Muninn hopped closer. "Don't you want to spend your life with someone you love? Someone you choose? Someone who makes you feel—"
"What is love?" Luciel asked ..