The night air over Frizington was thick with frost and unspoken fear. The kingdom's castle—once a sanctuary of light—now stood beneath a bruised sky, its towers shadowed like waiting sentinels. News had traveled fast: a royal carriage from Blueshire, the vampire dominion beyond the silver woods, was approaching the gate. Inside it rode Prince Alaric Vauclair, first son of the Vampire King, Lord Lucian Aldrich Vauclair.
The court of Frizington gathered in the Great Hall, eager and trembling. Rumor had whispered for weeks of a marriage alliance—a truce sealed not with bloodshed but with a bridal veil. The young Princess Eleanor Rhodes, known for her pure heart and rare beauty, was to be wed to a noble of Blueshire to end decades of quiet hostility between vampires, humans, and witches. None had expected the emissary to arrive so soon carrying dark chill air with them as they passed the front gate.
When the great doors opened, the feel of darkness rolled through the hall like smoke. Prince Alaric stepped into the torched lit hall—tall, pale, and carved from old myths. His eyes, silver and sharp as moonlight on steel, met no one's gaze directly. Around his shoulders hung a cloak of pristine red fur, glistening faintly with the evening frost. Every movement of his body was silent, calculated, almost too graceful for something mortal.
"Welcome to Frizington, Prince Alaric" said King Eldritch Rhodes, his voice steady though his knuckles whitened against the throne. His queen, Tianaa, sat beside him—poised, radiant, her dark eyes hiding storms. "You bear tidings from your father?"
Alaric bowed. "I do, Your Majesty." He unfurled a scroll bound with red wax, the seal of a serpent swallowing its tail—the mark of Blueshire's royal bloodline. His voice was low, melodic, yet carried through the hall like the toll of a bell.
'By decree of King Lucian Aldrich Vauclair, ruler of Blueshire and keeper of the Night's Covenant, the peace between our lands shall be bound through marriage. The Princess Eleanor Rhodes of Frizington shall be joined in sacred union to the King himself.'
A hush fell.
The courtiers shifted uneasily. At first, there were murmurs of misunderstanding—surely the parchment meant Prince Alaric, the heir apparent. But as Alaric's eyes lifted, unflinching, the truth settled like a curse over them all. Their beautiful young Princess to be married to the Vampire King
King Eldritch's jaw clenched. "Your father… seeks my daughter's hand for himself?"
"He does," said Alaric, his tone unreadable.
"His wish is to end the blood feud and ensure everlasting peace. Only through his union with your daughter, Your Majesty, can that be achieved."
Queen Tianaa's voice was sharp as glass. "Your father is a creature thrice her age, and six wives already sleep in his dark shadowed halls. What use has he for another bride?"
Alaric's gaze flickered, briefly, to her. "Peace, my lady, is a greedy thing. It demands much from those who crave it."
The King rose from his throne, the sigil of Frizington—the Phoenix—catching the torchlight across his chest. "Peace bought with the innocence of my daughter is no peace at all."
But even as he spoke, he knew the weight of his words could not change what necessity would dictate. Frizington's defenses were stretched thin— Vampires, bloodhounds and shapshifters against witches and humans?. Its coven of witches were no match. And Laura Tamra of Argadun, the white-haired wizard who guarded the kingdom's magical boundary, was bound by blood to her husband, Commander Tony Tamra of Frizington, and by oath to the crown. Even she could not defy the ancient laws alone.
Beyond the walls of Frizington, in the iron-spired citadel of Blueshire, King Lucian Vauclair brooded upon his own shadows. Six wives had borne him sons, but none caused him greater unease than the seventh—Prince Karter Vauclair, the child of a demon he had once bound in chains and tortured for years. Karter was cursed at birth by the white haired wizard before Laura Tamra of Argadun: his strengths sealed away at birth so that he might never rise against his father. Yet lately, whispers reached Lucian's ears that the seal was fading. Should the curse break, Karter's rage would be unbridled, his power unmatched. The King's thirst for a new human bride was not borne of desire alone—it was borne of fear. A royal union with Frizington's sacred blood might strengthen his rule and give him an advantage in war against his demon son
Silence returned. The hall seemed to be waiting for an answer, anything....
Queen Tianaa leaned forward, whispering, "If we refuse, he will unleash his sons upon us. Eleven princes, each thirsting for dominion, blood and chaos. They're Vampires afterall, blood sucking leaches "
Eldritch's shoulders sank. "And if we accept, I offer our precious daughter to darkness forever."
Tianaa's smile was cold. "Better one life bound in shadow than thousands lost to it. Look at your people My Lord"
At last, the king turned to Alaric with pale face. "Tell your father… Frizington accepts."
Alaric bowed again, though there was a flicker—something like guilt, or pity—beneath the calm facade. "I shall relay your grace's answer before moonrise. Preparations must begin at once. The marriage will take place in Blueshire under the blood red moon, seven days hence."
As the court began to murmur again, Alaric's eyes caught movement at the edge of the hall.
Ronita Tamra, the princess's right-hand maid, was standing behind a column, her brown curls falling in disarray, her hands clutching a silver tray forgotten in shock.
She had served the royal family since childhood and knew Eleanor as one might know a sister. Her heart hammered in disbelief—her gentle princess, promised to a creature of legend.
When Alaric turned toward her, she froze. The prince's gaze, cold and unreadable, found hers across the distance. For a moment the noise of the hall dulled, and Ronita felt as though the world had paused between two breaths. There was no kindness in those silver eyes—only curiosity, faintly tinged with sorrow.
Later that night, while the castle slept beneath the weight of its decision, Ronita moved through the guest chambers with a lantern in hand. Her task was to prepare quarters for the visiting prince before his departure. The halls of Frizington were old, their stones whispering with spells of protection and forgotten prayers.
She entered the room reserved for Alaric—the Moon Chamber, so named for the high arched window that captured the pale light of the crescent moon. The scent of dust and old roses lingered in the air. Ronita adjusted the bed's velvet drapes.
A sound—a door creaking. She turned.
Alaric stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room like a cold draft. Without his cloak, he seemed more human—though the faint shimmer of veins beneath his skin betrayed what he was.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said softly—a bit hungry.
Ronita bowed, clutching her lantern. "I was told to prepare your chamber, my lord."
He stepped closer, each movement deliberate. "You fear me."
Her throat tightened. "Shouldn't I?"
He stopped within a breath of her, studying her face—the flicker of candlelight reflected in her ocean blue eyes. "Fear keeps mortals alive," he murmured. "But curiosity… that's what kills them."
Her heart skipped. "Then perhaps I am both," she whispered, surprising herself.
A faint smile touched his lips—brief, dangerous. "A wise answer."
Somewhere outside, a wolf howled across the frozen hills.
Finally, Alaric turned away, breaking whatever spell had bound the air. "You serve the princess well," he said quietly. "Pray that she never learns what this peace will cost her."
Ronita watched him leave, her breath catching as the door closed behind him. In the lantern light, she noticed something dark staining the edge of the pillow—a single drop of crimson, glimmering faintly before it vanished into the fabric.
And far beyond the castle walls, in the forests between Frizington and Blueshire, something stirred—bat wings whispering through the branches, heralding the night to come.