Embers in the Snow: A Vampire Fantasy Romance

I could do the unthinkable right now, but I must be patient.

Ansar laughs softly. “My brother. Do you think I don’t know you? You and our father might have wanted to have very little to do with me, but ever since I can remember, I’ve been watching you. Admiring you. Despising you. I know you better than you think, Corvan. You know, I always wondered what it would have been like if I were the Golden Child of House Duthriss. I never understood why our father was so blinded by you. Obsessed with you. So much so that when he got a hint of our plans, he sent that girl to you. That half-dryad.”

“How did you come to know of it?” My voice becomes terribly cold. I can barely contain my rage. How dare he speak of her like that; as if she were a mere inconvenience to be eliminated?

“You’ve been away from the court for too long, brother. It always mystified me that you were so disinterested in the affairs of the other houses. Hubris, perhaps? Did you overlook the fact that Dorava Solisar is my mother’s distant cousin? There are no secrets between them.”

It’s news to me, but I’m hardly surprised. Nobles are always marrying amongst themselves, and a daughter of an offshoot of House Talavarra would have been considered a suitable match for a newly titled baron.

“That’s how we learned of the dryad. When we found out that you and the dryad’s child had indeed met, I knew you would become even more powerful. So we took the mother. It’s so typical of father to keep something so precious locked away and of use to nobody, just so he could keep her. But that doesn’t matter anymore. The old bastard’s dead, after all.”

So he knows.

My thoughts must be a little obvious, because Ansar chuckles softly. “Brother, I can sense it.”

“So you want me gone,” I say quietly, “so you can sit on the emperor’s throne? Then how are you any different from me?”

He extends his arms so his forearms are facing upwards. Then he pushes back the long sleeves of his robes to reveal even more Perigian writing. But these aren’t simply inked into his skin. They’re branded. “Unlike you, who’s been gifted everything, I’ve had to work for my power. You have no idea what I’ve been through—what I’ve sacrificed—just so I can grow strong enough to match you. And still I can’t, because in the end, you mowed down all my undead armies. Do you think you’re bloody Hecoa’s reaper, or something?”

I say nothing. It’s obvious that my little brother harbors more than a few ill-founded misconceptions about me. All lies fed to him by his mother and grandfather, no doubt. They would have fostered and nurtured this enmity; this twisted rivalry.

He’s as much a pawn as I was.

Goddess’s curses. I really should kill him.

But part of me can’t help but feel that there’s a lot more to this than what I see on the surface.

“Rhaegar Talavarra, show yourself,” I growl, staring at the opaque curtains. “There’s no point in trying to hide from me. You as well, Leticia.”

Why do I somehow feel like a schoolmaster, catching the bad behavior of a group of wayward youths?

Ansar lets out a disdainful snort. “I told you he would know you’re here, grandpa. He’s a monster.”

I shoot my half-brother a dark look. Speak for yourself.

The curtain slides back. Rhaegar Talavarra and his eldest daughter, Leticia, appear from the shadows.

The head of the Talavarra family can’t disguise his hatred of me. It’s in his hard gaze. It’s in the tight line of his mouth; in the way his grey-speckled brows draw together. Once a large, formidable man, much of his bulk has given way to loose skin and bones, and his dark hair has turned grey and wispy.

Still, he carries an air of authority about him.

Leticia follows him. She’s inherited her father’s tall stature and dark eyes, but her hair is the color of autumn—deep burgundy.

In contrast with the all ornate trappings of this room, she’s dressed simply—in a flowing cream-hued gown that gives the impression of purity and innocence.

A stark contrast to the vile stench of death that permeates this entire place.

She regards me coldly, her regal features expressionless. Leticia Talavarra is a beauty. The lines of age have barely touched her. There was always a great question mark as to why father never warmed to her in the way that he’d been obsessed with my mother.

Maybe Leticia’s only mistake was being born human. My father wanted a goddess, not a wife.

A dozen questions linger in my mind, but I don’t have the time nor the interest to pursue them.

Nor do I care for introductions, or any more self-indulgent waffling on.

I get straight to the point.

I’m impatient. And the longer I’m away from Finley, the more impatient I get.

“Where’s the dryad?” I lock eyes with Rhaegar.

“She’s in Ansar’s hands,” the old duke says simply, not missing a beat. “As is your betrothed.”

What?

My mind goes blank, my thoughts incinerated by white-hot fire. In less time than it takes for a mortal heart to beat, I’ve drawn my sword and moved to Rhaegar’s side.

My blade is at his neck. I’ve already decided he’s a dead man. “If you don’t explain exactly what you mean by that, I’ll end you right now, Rhaegar. And if anything happens to either of them, I’ll kill your daughter and your grandson and I’ll destroy every last living branch of the Talavarra line.”

“She’s important to him,” Leticia says calmly—too calmly. “Who would have thought? It’s as I told you, father. The firstborn Duthriss has always had this weakness. He’s too soft; too easily swayed by emotion. Nothing like Valdon. If it was Valdon we were dealing with, we wouldn’t even get a word in. For the sake of power, he would have sacrificed me without a second thought. He did it to the vampyr, didn’t he?”

I press the edge of my blade deeper into Rhaegar’s neck, drawing blood. I meet Leticia’s gaze. She’s intentionally trying to goad me.

I force myself to remain still and expressionless. It takes all of my self-control not to kill her father right then and there. “This is your last chance. Explain.”

Rhaegar trembles. A trace of fear leaks from him. Good. “It makes more sense if you just look.”

Ansar holds up his hands. “Look, brother,” he taunts.

And for the first time, I see.

Death Magic.

Necromancy.

In this form, it appears as slender, ephemeral red threads tangled between Ansar’s long, bejewelled fingers. He wears multiple rings—made of gold, silver, and precious gemstones. They must have magical properties, for the crimson threads wind themselves around them, glowing in places.

Ansar lifts up his left hand. “The Dryadae woman’s life-force is contained between my fingers. I could snap it in an instant if I wanted to.”

“You won’t. She’s too valuable to you.” And Finley’s too pure. You can’t touch her. “You can’t control my betrothed.”

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