I’ve never met another of my kind. Thanks to my father’s suppression of all things magical, vampire lore isn’t well known in Rahava. The most valuable information I’ve received has come from the people of the mountain tribes.
Astoundingly, after their surrender, the Khaturians—the ones Rahavans call barbarians, even though they’re anything but—decided that they would worship me as some kind of a god.
I’m not entirely comfortable with it, but it’s necessary for peace. We have a pact. In exchange, they provide me with blood-offerings on a regular basis.
“Please. Sit.” I beckon toward the simple upholstered chair in front of my desk.
“Y-your Highness, my thanks.” Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Captain Kyron Kinnivar takes a seat.
I close the book and set it aside. “Report, Captain.” There’s nothing different about the way I address him. Nothing untoward about my attire.
Really, there isn’t much that’s different about me. It’s just that my skin is pale and my hair has turned from black to white; my eyes from brown to red. I drink blood rather than consume animal flesh. That’s all. I’m no threat to any of my people.
So why is Kyron still looking at me as if he’s seen a ghost? He is trying to hide it behind a veneer of professionalism, though.
I appreciate that.
“The survivors arrived safely, Your Highness.” Kyron avoids my gaze. “It appears they’re from Ruen. The injured one is the eldest son of Baron Solisar. The brother is here too, along with a young squire called Garan. The woman is Lady Finley Solisar, his daughter. Er, you might already be aware, but she claims that they were traveling to Tyron because she’s your betrothed.”
“I see.” I rise to my feet and walk across to a small cabinet and select an aged Druthingan port. I pour some into a crystal glass and offer it to Kyron, placing it on the desk in front of him.
“Y-your Highness, I can’t possibly…”
A soft sigh escapes me. “Kyron, we’ve shared a drink on many occasions in the past. What’s changed now? Besides, it’s bloody Seinmas.”
For the first time, Kyron meets my eyes. Along with the unease, there’s a trace of guilt. “Thanks.” He takes a sip. Then he sets down the glass and reaches into his jacket. “We found the rest of their party further down the road. All dead. Devoured by lycan. Not too far away, there was a band of brigands, also dead. Looks like the lads from Ruen put up a good fight. I’ve sent out a scouting team to track down any outlaws that might have gotten away.”
I lean against the desk and cross my arms, frowning. “A mess.” They shouldn’t have come here. “Make sure you clean it up without leaving a trace. Summon a priest. The dead are to be given their last rites and cremated. I don’t want news of this to leave the castle.”
What a mess, indeed.
And yet, for a moment, I tasted pure ecstasy in the form of a woman called Finley.
Who is now residing in my castle.
Who has been sent here by a minor lord called Baron Solisar.
To marry me, apparently.
What kind of idiocy is this?
“Kinnivar, send a message to our people in the capital. I want to know who is responsible for this ridiculous situation.”
Kyron clears his throat. “Um, about that…”
“What is it?”
“We found a message scroll on one of the brigands.” He reaches into his coat and produces a small leather-bound cylinder. “I apologize. I had to cast my eyes upon it, to determine whether it was important or not. I haven’t looked at the innermost contents, but I’m guessing it’s probably connected to all this. I’ll make contact with one of our city informants; see if there’s anything major brewing in the capital.”
I take the cylinder. It’s carved from light wood and finished in a thin layer of grained blue leather. At each end is a severed leather tie. It would have been attached to a messenger hawk at some point.
I glance at Kyron. “You think they could have shot down the messenger bird? By chance, or intention?”
“The dead men bear no insignia, but they look like seasoned operators. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came into Tyron under the orders of someone influential.”
“Then the Ruen lads did very well to take them out.”
“Desperation is a powerful thing, Your Highness.”
“Indeed.” A shard of cold anger enters my heart. There were intruders on my land. If her brothers had been just a moment too late, those brigands could have intercepted Finley.
Someone orchestrated her journey here.
Someone else wanted to intercept it.
This could have all turned out a lot worse.
“Thank you for your endeavors, Kyron. Let’s hope this is the last of the unexpected disturbances for today. Try and enjoy the rest of your Seinmas.”
The captain downs the remainder of his drink in a single gulp, before rising to his feet. He bows. “Appreciate it, Your Highness. I’ll take my leave, then.”
“There’s a banquet in the mess hall. Small thanks for those who went out today.”
A quick smile appears, giving me a glimpse of the old Kyron. “You always fucking spoil us, Your Highness.”
“Not nearly enough.”
Suddenly, I’m alone again, the echoes of Kyron’s footsteps ringing in my ears along with a thousand other sounds.
It’s taken me a long time to learn to shut out all the noise.
I open the cylinder. There’s a rolled-up parchment inside, bound by a simple wax seal. My name is written on the outside.
Corvan.
Only a handful of souls in the empire can address me by my first name.
I slip my fingernail under the seal, breaking it. The wax falls away easily thanks to the sharp edge of my nail, which has become hard and crystalline.
I unroll the parchment to reveal my father’s elegant script. But my father’s writing is perhaps a little smaller; a little less assured than I remember.
This is a personal letter, devoid of any official imperial insignia.
Father and I haven’t spoken in two years.
Something must be happening, because the emperor doesn’t do anything without reason.
My dearest Corvan.
Not a day goes past when I am not filled with regret. Rahava is at peace and the empire is prosperous once again. And yet, you, my eldest son, are not by my side.
This rift is of my own making, so let me be the one to extend the first overture. I trust you are well, my son. I continue to receive heartening news about the fortunes of Tyron. The fact that you have managed to turn a once-barren province into one of the most prosperous regions of the empire is nothing short of remarkable, but then again, you are my son, so it doesn’t surprise me at all.
Now more than ever, I am convinced that your condition, whilst perturbing, does not justify such reticence.
So allow me to come straight to the point.
In the coming days, you will receive a guest. Her name is Finley Araluen Solisar. She is the daughter of Baron Lucar Solisar.
I have accepted her father’s proposal for a betrothal.
She, Finley Araluen Solisar, and you, Corvan Ithar Taelinor Duthriss, will be married.