Straightening my posture, I adjust my gloves and tuck the letter away. One last glance at my reflection confirms I’m ready. With a quick inhale, I push open the door and step into the corridor, where the faint hum of activity echoes from the distant halls.
At the far end of the corridor, I spot Sera, her hair a shimmering halo under the soft glow of the torches, like strands of sunlight spun into silk. Her bright blue eyes gleam with barely contained excitement, and her strides are purposeful, almost impatient.
Alarm bells go off instantly. That look? That combination of urgency and mischief? It never means anything good.
She reaches me in seconds, throwing her arms around me in an exaggerated hug that’s more dramatic than heartfelt.
“Did you hear?” she breathes, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
I arch an eyebrow.
“How bad is it? Should I start running, or are you here just to savor the chaos?”
Her lips twist into a grin, the kind that usually precedes trouble. “Both,” she says cryptically, grabbing my wrist before I can protest. Without another word, she drags me back into my room, shutting the door with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Sera, what the hell?—”
“Shh!” she hisses, pulling me into the bathing chamber. She twists the faucet on, the rush of water masking our conversation. Hereyes seem to shine brighter, a perfect mirror of her excitement, as she leans closer.
“Jason Striden is here. In the palace.”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. I freeze, my heart pounding faster than I’d like. Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. Jason Striden. The name is a storm, sweeping through my mind and dredging up memories I thought I’d buried. His boyish grin, the warm brown eyes that seemed to understand too much, the hours we spent together in the library when we were barely sixteen years of age—it all comes rushing back.
But so does the ache.
He was ripped away from me just as quickly as he had become mine, sent back to his father’s lands the moment duty called him home. As Lord Striden’s son, a human heir, he had no place lingering within the vampire court.
And yet, somehow, he’s here.
“I need to talk to my father,” I blurt, spinning toward the door.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Sera grabs my arm and yanks me back, stronger than she looks. “You’re really going to march into his office looking likethat?”
I glance at the mirror, taking in the sleek black dress and gloves. “What’s wrong with this?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Everything,” she deadpans, dragging me toward the bed. “Your hair is blood red, your eyes are practically glowing, and you’re swathed in black like you’ve been cast as the villain in some tragedy. You know how predictable that is?”
“Black is classic,” I counter, rolling my eyes as I let myself fall back onto the pillows. “It works.”
“Black is boring,” she fires back, rummaging through the dresser like she’s hunting for treasure. “You should wear something that actually makes your eyes pop. You look like you’re about to assassinate someone—again.”
“That’s the idea,” I say, smirking. “It’s hard to catch people off guard if I show up looking like a princess.”
She spins around, hands on her hips, glaring at me with mock exasperation. “Lailah, you’re the most beautiful woman in this castle. Stop pretending you don’t know it.”
Her words hang in the air as I glance at my gloves. Slowly, I peel them off, one finger at a time, and toss them aside. My eyes drop to the scars curling around my fingers and wrists. The darkness hasn’t loosened its grip—it never does. Under King Clyde’s watch, it has only grown stronger.
How my father came to understand such magic—so ancient, so potent—I still don’t know. But he taught me to wield mine with precision, to transform chaos into control. When he found me, I was a child buried beneath whispers of tragedy and ruin. Tales of the dark magic that wiped out the human royal family had spread far and wide, though no one ever suspected the source—a frightened infant who didn’t understand the power she wielded.
My stepmother, who wasn’t related to me by blood, had taken me in out of duty, not love. She kept me alive, but that was all. To her, I was a secret to be hidden, a burden to be endured with bitter resentment. To the villagers, I was a ghost, a warning passed along in hushed tones.
“She’s diseased,”my stepmother would tell them, and they believed her.
The scars were enough to convince them. The boldest children steered clear of me, and even the most hardened adults avoided our small home, fearful of whatever curse they thought I carried.
I still wear gloves because of her. She insisted on it—not just to hide the marks, but to shield herself from the shame of my existence. To her, I was a problem to be contained, a shadow to be ignored. She went to great lengths to erase me from the world, whispering lies to anyone who dared approach. The isolation became my prison, and she was its warden.
Her gaze was always cold, her every word laced with irritation, as though my very existence inconvenienced her. I learned early on not to hope for kindness or affection—only survival.
