Page 7 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

I slow as I pass it.

The faint golden glow spilling from a half-open door further down the corridor catches the painting, revealing the royal castle, Wintermaw Keep, its sturdy towers rising against a snow-filled sky.

Anger and grief flare in my chest at the sight of our ancestral home. Wolves built those walls and ruled from them for centuries, only for it to be stolen and filled with vampires.

I’m already stepping past when something catches my eye: the castle banners in the painting. Even faded, their colours are distinct. Not Henrikk’s red flag with its two twisting black serpents, but the forest-green and gold wolf head of King Bakker’s reign.

A small, dangerous flicker of hope stirs in my chest. Perhaps the witch wants this kingdom to return to how it was. Perhaps she will be eager to join our cause. Why else would she have such a rare painting—one that should have been burnt with the others?

I move quietly to the doorway, my steps muffled by a carpet runner. I peer inside.

A small woman sits hunched at a cluttered workbench piled with fabric, a glowing lantern floating above her. Her back is to me, absorbed in her work. A nightcap slips sideways over one ear, silver-streaked sandy hair poking out in messy tufts while her knitting needles click steadily in the quiet room.

She is humming as she works, a pleasant sound full of contentment.

The smells are stronger here—food, candle wax, wool and furs. Beneath it all, another scent lingers. A strange one I can’t quite place. It reminds me of winter, frosted and clean, like meltwater running off ice.

A quick scan of the room reveals a bed with frilly pillows and an elegant but faded bedspread standing against one wall, and a tall wardrobe against the other. A woven rug softens the floorboards, and a bedside table holds a tray piled high with food—a small feast.

More candles burn along the shelves above the bed, their thin flames shivering despite the still air.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. I have the unsettling sensation that I’m being watched.

I glance back towards the corridor I just came through. No one is there.

I exhale a slow breath. There are too many scents, and the clicking of the knitting needles is equally distracting.

Pushing the door open, I step into the room, preparing to announce my presence—but that thin, icy note is still threading beneath the smells, foreign yet…familiar somehow.

I tense as I finally recognise the source.

Vampire.

But where?

My pulse spikes, thoughts scattering.

Is the witch in danger?

Or is she a prisoner?

Get in. Get out.

I take another step forward, my daggers still sheathed, palms open.

“Hello?” My voice is soft, barely more than a breath. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a friend.”

The old woman sets down her knitting and turns. Her eyes find mine at once, full of apprehension rather than surprise, as though expecting me. Which I realise she must be, if her magic alerted her.

She is small, her face kind and deeply lined, but the air around her feels anything but frail. It presses against my skin—old, powerful, and ancient enough to make the blood in my veins seem young.

“You’re really her,” I whisper. “The last witch.”

She studies me, sorrow pulling at her features. “Oh, you poor thing.”

I frown. Pity is not the response I expected. “I came to ask for your help.”

Behind me, the door swings shut with an ominous click.