The sun was only beginning to peel away the silver of dawn when Ronita's carriage rolled out of Frizington's gates. The mist of the early morning clung to the cobblestone path like a ghost reluctant to leave the earth. Inside the carriage, Ronita sat silently beside Jerome, Prince Alaric's most trusted guard, her hands folded neatly over her lap though her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She could still feel the echo of Alaric's lips on hers — that soft, uncertain kiss that had stolen her breath and branded itself deep into her soul.
As the walls of her home faded into the horizon, Ronita pressed her forehead to the cool glass window and whispered a prayer — for the Princess, for her parents, and for herself. She was leaving everything she knew for a world she had only heard about in whispers and nightmares — Blueshire, the land of blood and eternity.
Their journey stretched into the afternoon, and by the time the carriage crossed into Lezpole, the air had changed. The wind here smelled of wild mint and iron, and the sky was a strange violet hue that danced with thin, golden clouds. The horses slowed as they entered the city gates, and Ronita peeked out to see a sight unlike any she'd ever imagined.
Lezpole was alive — breathtakingly so. Creatures of every kind walked the streets without fear. A werewolf with a human child riding his shoulders laughed beside a vampire woman haggling over red fruit at a market stall. A pair of witches floated above a fountain, their magic ribbons twirling into the air like threads of light. The people were loud, free, unashamed. It was chaos, but a beautiful one — a kind that made Ronita's chest ache.
"This… is harmony," she whispered to herself, awe softening her voice.
Jerome gave a small nod beside her. "A rare thing," he said, his tone guarded. "Don't let it fool you, Lady Ronita. Peace here is as fragile as glass."
Still, as they stepped out into the city square, she couldn't help but smile. For once, she wasn't a maid or a shadow living under someone's destiny. For once, she felt like she was part of something wondrous — something greater than her fears.
They stopped at a modest inn called The Silver Fang, a place known for its warmth and neutrality. The innkeeper, a plump woman with small horns curling from her temples, greeted them with a toothy grin. "A witch from Frizington," she mused, looking at the faint glow in Ronita's eyes. "It's been ages since we've had one here. You'll like it, girl — our moon never sleeps."
Ronita smiled politely and followed Jerome inside. The walls of the inn were covered with murals — half human, half beast — each telling a story of survival, love, and betrayal. She traced her fingers along one painting of a vampire holding a human woman as flames licked around them. Her heart fluttered again, and for a moment, she thought of Alaric.
That night, she could not sleep. She sat by the window, the silver light bathing her skin, and her thoughts drifted to the prince. His eyes — deep, haunted, beautiful — had burned into her memory. She could still hear his voice when he told her she was brave, when he whispered her name like a promise he wasn't allowed to make.
Back in Frizington, Prince Alaric stood on the balcony of his chambers, holding something small and delicate — a white ribbon that had fallen from Ronita's hair when she left. It was faintly perfumed with rosewater and lavender. He turned it over in his hands, brushing it against his lips, and exhaled slowly. It wasn't the ribbon he longed for — it was her. Her laugh. Her scent.
He closed his eyes and allowed the memory of her presence to fill him. It was dangerous, this longing. It was forbidden. Yet, every heartbeat whispered her name louder, and he began to wonder if fate had marked them both from the start.
In Lezpole, the night had deepened. The streets glowed with lanterns burning blue fire, and the hum of life never ceased. Ronita ventured out quietly, her curiosity pulling her toward the sound of a lute and the scent of roasted herbs. A small crowd had gathered near the central plaza where a werewolf minstrel played a mournful tune. She stopped to listen, swaying slightly to the rhythm.
"First time here, aren't you?" a voice asked from behind her.
Ronita turned and found herself face-to-face with a hybrid woman — part human, part vampire — with warm brown eyes and a sharp smile. "Yes," Ronita admitted. "It's… magical."
The woman chuckled. "Magic and danger are cousins here. Don't forget that."
Ronita smiled faintly, thanked her, and turned her gaze back to the minstrel. The song spoke of love between enemies and the pain of unfulfilled vows — it stirred something deep within her, a feeling she couldn't name.
Far from Lezpole, across the forests and rivers, in the dark halls of Blueshire, another kind of night was unfolding.
Prince Karter Vauclair, the cursed son, lay on the floor covered in his own blood, his skin pale and bruised as moonlight and his breath shallow. His brothers surrounded him — six strong, proud vampires, each eager to mock the weakness that plagued him since birth.
"Still trembling, little ghost?" sneered the third prince Belry, shoving Karter's shoulder. "Careful, you might break your bones before dawn."
Karter didn't flinch. He looked up, his eyes the color of storm clouds, cold and knowing. "One day," he said softly, "you'll kneel."
They laughed, cruel and careless. "Kneel? Before a broken child?" the fifth, Prince Lanry jeered.
Karter's lips twitched — not a smile, but something darker. "Before a king."
The second Prince, Prince Alistair, gripped Karter by the collar and yanked him up. "You forget yourself," he hissed. "You'll never be king. You're cursed to be nothing."
Karter didn't answer. He simply stared back, and for a fleeting second, Alistair saw something in his brother's eyes — something ancient and terrifying. It was gone as quickly as it came, and Alistair dropped him, stepping back as if burned.
From the far corner of the room, King Lucian Vauclair watched in silence. His wives sat beside him, their jeweled hands clasped, their faces painted in delicate indifference. But behind the king's dark gaze was satisfaction. Every bruise, every humiliation his son suffered, reassured him that the curse was still intact — that Karter would never rise against him.
"Let them play," Lucian murmured, his voice like velvet soaked in blood. "It keeps them hungry."
A woman with emerald eyes — his youngest wife Toria — leaned toward him. "You fear him," she said softly. "Even broken, you fear what he could become."
Lucian smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. "Fear and a king can never exist together."
In Lezpole, the moon climbed high, and Ronita finally returned to her room. She placed her hand over her heart and whispered, "Prince Alaric… I hope you're safe."
Somewhere far away, standing alone under the same moon, Alaric whispered her name in return.
And in Blueshire, the cursed prince dreamed of fire, blood, and revenge