Shrugging out of my coat to unclasp the first hook at the front of my bodice, my breasts puffing against my effort, I undo the next and the next until I can breathe and my ribs are free.Thank the gods.I unload my pockets, placing the contents next to the pins, and finally I slip out of my pants.
Naked, I stare at myself and the jarring reminder of my humanity in the mirror.
In the crook of my shoulder, the fang marks that turned me are a cruel deep purple on my fair skin, the last evidence I was ever human. A daily reminder of the choice I never had, a visual of the moment I lost everything.
Damn the gods.
Vampires don’t scar, but the last brand to our skinneverfades.
I slink into my soft bed, body begging for rest with daybreak. My being calms, and I close my eyes into the comfort of darkness and stillness, away from my fears surrounding this mission and pestering thoughts of failure.
Day passes, and I jolt awake, sensing my surroundings in the dim bedroom.
I’m alone.
Just nightmares waking me. Rattling fear filled my dreams instead of slipping away as I’d hoped.
Loneliness chirps incessantly, and I try to brush it aside while dressing. Looping my hair up into a tight bun, I wait for the door to swing open. And it does, right on cue.
“Ready?” Second asks from my doorway, twirling a stake in his hand while I strap on thigh sheaths.
There are no pauses in training, not even during travel, but I enjoy working on my fighting skillset. And Second insists on it. Because, in the end, a queen must defend her own throne.
“You’re not even ready for me today,” I warn. “I’m pent up.”
Second narrows his eyes. “Anything I need to know?”
“Nerves. Fear of failure,” I say.
“Let’s work it out,” he says, turning on his heel, and I chase after him, looking forward to this session.
We wind down the stairwells to the large, padded room we designed for this specific purpose. Second swings the door open, and the wall of weapons greets us—a collection so gloriousmy heart leaps in answer to it. The image captures my breath every time.
“What’ll it be today?” I ask.
Second yanks two broadswords off the wall. “Your weakest weapon.”
I sigh at the ceiling but know it’s for the best. The broadsword is an important weapon for taking the head off a vampire. I prefer my daggers, though.
Second chucks the sword at me, and I catch it with ease. He lunges with no warning, his massive form challenging to avoid.
I skirt around him, dipping and thrusting my sword, evading and attacking with speed.
“Stronger forward stance, Veya,” he corrects and jabs at me.
I push through my foot, bracing with my thigh, and thrust forward.
Vampires are strong; our transformation upon turning creates something unbreakable. But we aren’t made equal, and the physicality of our humanity still plays a role. The older we are, the stronger and faster we become. So an ancient Goreon king, over a thousand years old, would be able to rip my head off, probably more quickly than I care to admit.
But that’s why Emmanuel and Charlotte exist—and Second, of course.
“Good,” Second praises, his bright eyes meeting mine. “Again.”
I swipe at him, my lungs burning alongside my determination.
Envisioning our success, I daydream what King Nerian’s final moments will look like when my blades take off his head. The relief I will feel.
I huff a laugh through my next swing.
