The Sapphire Garden was the most exclusive tea house in the capital. It was a place where Duchesses came to gossip, arrange political marriages, and complain about their husbands.
Today, however, the gossip had stopped.
Silas Thorne sat at a corner table, sipping a cup of tea that cost more than a peasant's house. He checked his pocket watch.
3:00 PM. The Prime Minister's wife arrives in two minutes.
Silas wasn't here to drink. He was here to fish.
On the table, conspicuous in its stark black leather binding, lay a copy of The Nocturnal Tragedy. It had no gold leaf. No sun sigils. Just the title embossed in silver.
Silas saw Duchess Valerica enter. She was the trendsetter of the Empire. If she wore a hat, everyone wore a hat. If she hated a play, the theater burned down.
Silas stood up, "accidentally" leaving the book on the table, and glided toward the exit.
"Oh, pardon me," Silas murmured as he passed the Duchess. "I seem to have left a... 'sample' of a rejected manuscript. Do not bother with it, Your Grace. It is far too scandalous for a lady of your standing."
He bowed and vanished.
Duchess Valerica paused. She looked at the black book.
"Scandalous?" she whispered.
She picked it up.
The Reading Circle
Ten minutes later, the Sapphire Garden was dead silent.
Duchess Valerica sat at the center of a circle of five high-ranking noblewomen. Her tea had gone cold. Her fan lay forgotten on the floor.
"Read that part again," Lady Clara (the Minister of War's wife) demanded, her eyes wide. "The part about the ship."
Valerica cleared her throat. Her voice, usually so composed, trembled slightly. She flipped to Chapter 5: The Voyage of the Demeter.
"The Captain was tied to the wheel," Valerica read aloud. "Dead. A crucifix in his hands. But the logbook tells the truth. 'He is on the ship. He is not a man. He is the storm itself. The crew is gone. I am alone with the fog... and the eyes that burn like red coals.'"
Valerica looked up. "The ship arrived in the harbor with no living soul on board. Just a massive black wolf leaping from the deck to the shore."
"A wolf," Lady Genevieve fanned herself rapidly. "He commanded the storm? He sailed a ship of the dead just to get to her?"
"My husband," Lady Clara muttered bitterly, "won't even cross the street if it's drizzling. And this Count sailed through a hurricane?"
"It's primal," Valerica whispered. "He isn't a politician. He doesn't care about taxes or the Solar Court. He wants one thing."
"The girl," Genevieve finished. "Read the next scene. The one where she hears him."
The Mental Connection
Valerica turned the page to Chapter 7: The Voice in the Blood.
This was a scene the scribes hadn't discussed. It was the moment the psychological horror turned into psychological romance.
"Mina sat by the window, the moon silvering her skin," Valerica read. "The window was locked. The door was bolted. She was safe. Or so she thought."
The ladies leaned in.
"Then, she heard it. Not in her ears, but in her blood. A voice, deep and ancient as the earth. 'Open, my love. The glass cannot stop me. The distance cannot stop me. I am the shadow in your veins. You belong to the night, and the night is hungry.'"
Lady Clara let out a scandalized squeak. "He's inside her head? Without a scrying spell?"
"He doesn't need spells," Valerica said, clutching the book tighter. "He bypassed her magical wards just by... wanting her enough."
"It's possessive," Genevieve noted, sounding horrified and delighted at the same time. "It's toxic. It's... wonderful."
"The Solar Saints always ask for permission," Valerica noted. "They say, 'May the Light bless you.' It's so polite. It's so... boring."
"Count Dracul doesn't ask," Clara whispered. "He takes."
The women sat in silence. They were powerful aristocrats. They controlled estates, armies, and trade routes. But in their personal lives, they were property. They were married for alliances. They were expected to be virtuous, solar-loving statues.
And here was a character who offered them the one thing they were forbidden: Passion that destroys.
"Turn the page," Genevieve commanded. "I need to know what happens when he enters the room."
Valerica turned the page.
Her face fell.
"It's blank," she whispered.
"What?"
"It says..." Valerica squinted at the bottom of the page. "To be continued in Chapter 8. Available next week via the Golden Scale Subscription Service."
The Outrage
"Next week?!"
Lady Clara stood up, knocking over a vase. "What do you mean next week?! He was at the window! The latch was opening!"
"Who is this author?" Genevieve demanded, grabbing the book. "Truck-kun? Who is this family? I will buy them. I will buy their estate and force them to write the rest tonight!"
"It's Silas Thorne," Valerica said, her eyes narrowing. "That serpent. He said it was a 'rejected manuscript.' He knew. He knew we would get hooked."
"Well, it worked," Clara said, pulling a pouch of gold coins from her belt. "I don't care about the price. I need to know if she opens the window."
"She has to," Genevieve argued. "If she doesn't, she's an idiot. I would open the window. I would take the hinges off."
"Ladies," Valerica said, standing up and smoothing her dress. She regained her composure, the mask of the Duchess sliding back into place. "We must be discreet. If the Church finds out we are reading a book about a 'Shadow Demon' who mocks the Sun, we will be excommunicated."
"I don't care," Clara hissed. "The Sun never looked at me the way that Count looks at Mina."
Valerica nodded. She tucked the black book into her purse.
"We meet here next week," Valerica ordered. "Same time. And someone find out who this 'Truck-kun' is. I want to invite him to dinner. And perhaps... interrogate him."
Meanwhile, in the Astrea Estate
Julian lay on his chaise lounge, staring at a floating illusion of the capital's sales metrics. Silas had sent the report via a magical messenger bird.
Current Status:
• Copies Distributed: 50 (Free "Leaks")
• Pre-Orders for Chapter 8: 4,000.
• Black Market Price for Chapter 1: 50 Gold Coins.
"My Lord," Marcus said, stepping onto the terrace. He looked amused. "There is a rumor in the capital."
"Oh?" Julian clicked his Space Pen. "Do tell."
"The Duchess Valerica has publicly declared that the 'Solar Saints' are—and I quote—'Emotionally stunted lightbulbs' compared to the 'Dark Lord of the North.' The Church is confused."
Julian smirked. "Excellent. The fan war has begun."
"Also," Marcus added, "The Minister of War has requested a private meeting with Silas. Apparently, his wife is refusing to speak to him until he 'grows a personality or a pair of fangs.'"
"Collateral damage," Julian mumbled, closing his eyes. "Tell Silas to double the price for the next batch. We're not selling paper anymore, Marcus. We're selling a cure for boredom."