I know that you will find this arrangement to be an imposition and an inconvenience. Knowing you, you will more than likely try to resist. This long-suffering fool has tolerated you rejecting suitor after suitor, even before you became one of Hecoa’s Chosen.
Therefore, it is important for you to know that this union is now enshrined in Imperial Law, by my decree. It has been recorded in the Imperial Chronicles as an Official Engagement.
Any attempt by you to annul this union will result in the invalidation of all of your Lands and Titles.
Yours with the utmost love,
Father
P.S. You may be interested to read this passage I came across in my readings. It is from Arcanea Magikora; Chapter Seven, Page 305:
For a newly fledged Vampyr, there is nothing more invigorating than the blood of a young man or woman in their prime, for the essence of a Son or Daughter of Eresus is the embodiment of the antithesis.
Thus, he or she becomes the symbiosis.
In particular, blood from a woman in her oestrus will be most potent when consumed by a male Vampyr, for she carries Eresus’s grace. Thus the cycle of death and rebirth continues. Hecoa’s Chosen will become immeasurably stronger.
A puff of disbelief escapes my lips as I set the cursed parchment down on the table. I’m half-tempted to tear the damn thing to shreds and throw it in the bin.
That’s my old man through and through. He sends a letter professing regret and conveniently binds me up in an arrangement not of my own choosing, then offers vague hints of some esoteric nonsense, leaving me to figure out the rest for myself.
The threat is clear.
Marry this woman, or lose all of my lands and titles.
I would gladly choose the latter, but there are too many here that depend on me. My soldiers. My loyal servants. The people of Tyron, who were living in abject poverty until I corrected the previous duke’s mismanagement.
This duchy was in shambles when I arrived. Nobody else can manage it. If father ever tried to come for my lands; for my people… I’d fight him.
Tyron is mine now, and I will defend it at all costs.
So I’ll go ahead with this marriage, because I’m sick and tired of bloodshed, and I have no appetite for civil war.
I curse my father for his cunning. He knows me all too well. And maybe that was part of his stratagem. He sent her here without warning because he knows something I don’t. He knew that when I first encountered her, I would…
I sigh, closing my eyes and cursing the infernal magic that’s left me like this.
Lying in the snow, pain racking my body, I stare up at the perfect winter sky. The sky is achingly blue. The sun’s so bright it burns my eyes, almost blinding me. How it burns.
An eagle circles above, drifting on the currents.
I fought. My sword-hilt is still clenched tightly in one hand, sticky with drying blood—the blood of a dragon.
Why am I like this, all of a sudden?
Why am I like this, and not dead?
And if I saw her again… could I even control myself?
13
FINLEY
I wake in a four-poster bed, wrapped in a cocoon of soft, clean blankets and sumptuous furs. The fire in the hearth has burned down to glowing embers.
The sun isn’t yet up, but I know it’s morning, because I can hear the birds.
This castle… somehow, it’s peaceful.
Maybe it’s the walls. The sheer amount of stone that must have been used to construct this place just boggles my mind. The walls are at least an entire arm-span thick, and they feel like they’ve been here for an eternity.
I feel like I’m ensconced in the depths of the Earth itself.
Roughly hewn blue-grey stone surrounds me from ceiling to floor. It doesn’t quite feel homely—the walls could easily be softened with a few tapestries or a painting here or there—but the room is certainly comfortable.
The bed is the best I’ve ever slept in. The blankets and furs are of the highest quality. Throughout the night, I was perfectly warm.
I close my eyes and stretch, wondering if I’m stuck in a dream.
At least Aderick has woken, much to my relief. The physician allowed us to see him on the second day of his recovery, when he was sitting up in bed with a tray in front of him, loaded with a bowl of steaming beef rib stew and fresh crusty bread.
But it’s been three days since we arrived here, and still, there’s no sign of that damnable archduke. I haven’t seen that white-haired demon, either.
That bastard. He drank from me like he was some sort of wild beast. The more I think about it, the more restless I become.
What kind of depraved pervert feasts on a woman’s blood like that? In that manner? And enjoys it? And then has the gall to act like nothing untoward happened at all?
When I see him again, I’ll…
What?
What can I do against a creature like that; a demon who possesses the speed and strength of a god?
What would you do if you saw him again?
Aside from the part where he forcibly restrained me, he was actually quite gentle with me.
A tiny knot of heat tightens in my chest.
In frustration, I kick off the covers and slide out of bed, my bare feet crushing the silken pile of the rug. I pull the folds of my nightgown tighter, re-tying the fabric belt around my waist.
Faint voices reach my ears.
I walk across to the window and peer through the frosted glass.
There’s movement below. I see men, cloaked and hooded against the winter cold.
I see horses.
Some are being ridden. One, riderless, is being led by the reins. I recognize that horse; that deep brown coat and undernourished frame. It’s the quarter horse… the one I escaped on. Poor thing, he was spooked.
I don’t blame him. I would have run away too.
The horse’s hooves clop loudly on the frosted grey cobblestones. He’s trembling all over. He weaves from side to side, much to the annoyance of the man holding the reins.
He’s afraid.
They disappear around the corner.
My heart clenches. I feel bad for the horse. Have they only just found him now? After three days? He’s probably starving.
He would have been terrified out there in the cold and darkness, in unfamiliar territory, with the scent of blood and predators in his nostrils.
I want to go to him. I know my presence would do him good.
I cross the room. There’s a large polished wood console against the far wall. It’s laden with various items for my comfort; a carafe of water and a pair of etched crystal glasses, a delicate glass bottle containing some sort of fragranced pink oil, a bowl filled with summer fruits—grapes, apricots, and cherries.
How is it possible that they have fresh summer fruit in Tyron?
At the end of the table, resting on a delicately embroidered blue velvet square, is a silver call-bell.
I haven’t used it yet. I never had a call-bell in Ruen Castle. Only Lady Dorava and father ever used bells to summon the servants.
Gingerly, I take the damn thing between my fingers and ring it.
Ding. Ding.
I hear footsteps on stone, echoing through the thick wooden door. Moments later, it opens.
A man appears, wearing the Archduke’s livery—a fine black coat embroidered with red and gold; well-tailored trousers tucked into a pair of supple black boots.