The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers when Ronita Tamra woke to the faint hum of chanting. For a heartbeat, she thought it was part of her dream — the kind where she and the Princess still ran through the Yellow Forest, laughing under glowing trees.
But then her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she saw her mother sitting beside her bed — motionless, her pale hands clasped tightly in her lap. The room smelled of earthy mist and melted wax.
"Mother?" Ronita's voice cracked like dry parchment.
Laura lifted her gaze. The candlelight painted soft gold over her silvery hair, though her face was drawn, her eyes hollowed with sleeplessness. She looked as if she'd aged a decade overnight.
"You're awake," she murmured. Her tone was steady, but her voice carried the weight of a truth she did not want to speak.
Ronita pushed herself upright, the blanket pooling around her waist. "Where's Father? Why are you here—like this?"
Laura's lips parted, then closed again. She turned to the window, where the gray light of pre-dawn lingered like a ghost. "He's gone to the council chambers," she said softly. "He needed time to think."
Ronita frowned, unease settling over her like a heavy cloak. "Think about what mother?"
Her mother hesitated. The silence between them stretched thin, sharp as glass. When she finally spoke, her words were quiet but final.
"By the crack of dawn tomorrow," she said, "you will leave Frizington."
Ronita blinked, confused. "Leave? For where?"
Laura's voice faltered. "For Blueshire."
The world seemed to tilt. Ronita's pulse quickened. "Blueshire? The vampire city? Why would I—"
She stopped, the realization sinking in like ice water. Her throat tightened. "No," she whispered. "No, Mother. Tell me that isn't what I think it is."
Laura turned to face her fully now, and the faint shimmer of tears caught in her lashes. "You are to go in Princess Eleanor's place. You will represent her in the marriage ceremony until she recovers."
Ronita stared at her, heart thundering. "That's madness! I can't— I'm not royalty!"
"The King has already decided," Laura said. "And I… have given my word."
It felt as though something broke inside Ronita. She slid from the bed, her bare feet cold against the stone. "You agreed?" she demanded. "You of all people? You promised I'd never be used as a pawn!"
Laura flinched at her daughter's accussation, but she didn't turn away. "Sometimes," she said softly, "a promise must bend for duty to stand."
Ronita's eyes burned. "Duty? To whom, Mother? To the King who sends girls like cattle to a vampire court? Or to your council that hides behind oaths while people suffer?"
Laura's composure wavered, her voice trembling like a candle's flame. "To the people, Ronita. If we refuse, it could spark a war neither Frizington nor Blueshire can survive."
Ronita's jaw clenched. "So my life is the cost of peace?"
Laura crossed the room, her silver robes whispering against the floor. She reached out and cupped Ronita's cheek. Her hands were warm — not from magic, but from grief. "You are stronger than you think," she said. "You carry both your father's courage and my blood of Argadun. That power will protect you."
Ronita tried to pull away, but her mother's touch anchored her. "Magic won't save me from a kingdom of predators," she whispered.
Laura smiled faintly, sorrow flickering behind her calm. "You'll find that monsters aren't always born with fangs."
The air thickened, heavy with everything left unsaid. Outside, thunder rumbled faintly — a storm gathering beyond the hills.
Laura pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Rest now. Tomorrow you begin a journey greater than you know."
Ronita turned away, her eyes brimming. "If I sleep, I'll dream of home. And then I'll have to wake and lose it again."
Her mother paused at the door, her hand resting on the frame. "Then don't sleep," she said quietly. "But remember, my love — you walk in the shadow of Argadun, and its light will not abandon you."
When the door closed, Ronita sat in silence, the fire dying to gray ash. Outside, the first whisper of dawn crept over the land, and for the first time, she wished the sun would never rise.
Blueshire, the Vampire Court
Far to the north, where mist clung to the black peaks and rivers gleamed like molten silver, the kingdom of Blueshire stirred.
Its towers were carved from marble and bone, its streets lit by lanterns filled with captured fireflies. The air smelled faintly of iron and roses.
But peace was a mask — and masks, in Blueshire, never stayed on for long.
In the throne room, King Lucian Vauclair sat motionless upon his onyx seat, his jeweled crown askew, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion. The firelight made his pale skin glow like polished stone.
He had not slept in three nights.
Every time he closed his eyes, the same nightmare came:
A forest bathed in yellow light.
A girl's laughter twisting into a scream.
And a dark spider sinking its fangs into her flesh as blood blossomed like ink.
When he woke, his chamber reeked of sweat and smoke, and his hands trembled.
"My lord," one of his councilors said now, bowing low, "perhaps your dreams are omens — or perhaps the burden of the crown weighs too heavily."
Lucian's lips curled. "You think me weak, Garron?"
The man paled. "Never, my King. I merely suggest that fear breeds doubt. Perhaps a celebration might cleanse the air. A feast — to honor your new bride's soon arrival."
Another voice chimed in eagerly. "Yes, a grand festival. Let the people see their King triumphant, not haunted."
Lucian's eyes glimmered red under the torchlight. "A feast," he said slowly. "Yes. Let them celebrate what they do not understand."
The council bowed and scattered, their whispers fading into the marble corridors.
When the hall emptied, Lucian leaned back against his throne, the weight of his years pressing down. His reflection glimmered faintly in the polished floor — a man once feared, now only fighting the shadow of his own own twenty nine year old son.
Prince Karter Vauclair.
Born of a demon's blood. Cursed to weakness, damned to be useless forever. But for how long.
The King's jaw tightened. "You will not take my crown," he muttered to the empty air.
Outside, the great bells of Blueshire rang — low, resonant, hungry.
That night, the grand hall filled with light and laughter. Chandeliers blazed with blue flame, and music drifted from a dozen silver instruments.
Vampire nobles in velvet and silk swayed to the rhythm, their eyes gleaming like rubies. Servants — pale, trembling, mortal — moved among them carrying golden trays. Some bore goblets of wine. Others, bowls of blood.
The air shimmered with decadence and dread.
"Drink!" cried one of the nobles, raising his glass. "To peace between Blueshire and Frizington
To peace!" the court echoed — though the word rolled off their tongues like poison.
King Lucian smiled faintly from his throne, his expression unreadable. His eyes drifted to the dais where the musicians played, to the shadow that lingered behind the curtains.
There, in the darkness, something moved. A figure, unseen but watching — its eyes glowing faintly crimson.
No one noticed.
Not the courtiers, drunk on luxury. Not the servants, too frightened to breathe.
Only the King felt it — that faint, familiar chill running down his spine.
The same feeling that haunted his dreams.
He lifted his goblet, his lips curving into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Let the games begin," he murmured.
And somewhere beyond the castle walls, far across the misted lands, Ronita Tamra woke to the sound of the first bell — the call that would soon lead her into the Devil's Playground– Blueshire.