The temple had stood since before there were kings. Carved into the mountainside, its arches rose like ribs of stone, catching the faintest glimmer of dusk as if even light entered in supplication. The air was cool and dense with incense—resin, myrrh, and iron. Shadows clung to the pillars, and the sound of water echoed faintly from the sanctum below.
The guests stood in silence. There was no music, no murmur of voices, only the soft rustle of silk and the distant rhythm of the heart that sustained the realm—the slow pulse of power that every ancient stone seemed to remember.
Upon the highest tier of the amphitheater, beneath the great arch of obsidian and flame, the King and Queen watched. Their thrones were carved directly into the mountain wall, stone and shadow intertwined.
King Valtherion sat as if the weight of centuries had been forged into his posture—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, his bearing unmistakably echoed in his son. Yet where Lucarion's amethyst eyes gleamed with cold light, the King's were black as jet, circled by faint rings of gold that caught the candleflame like molten glass. That gaze held a gravity that seemed to bend the air around it—measured, fathomless, unyielding.
Beside him, Queen Calantha's presence softened the austerity of the dais. Her black hair fell like liquid shadow over her shoulders, silver glinting faintly at the edges, her beauty serene and deceptive in its stillness. The light that touched her seemed to linger, as if reluctant to leave. Her blue eyes—clear, cutting, and full of knowing—followed Eva's approach with quiet interest, though her expression revealed nothing.
Below them, the court of vampires stood assembled in perfect stillness. Faces she knew—Prince Darian and Princess Selene, the Lord Commander Kael, Lord and Lady Therin, Lord Valen and Lady Isolde—watched in silence, unreadable beneath the flicker of torchlight. No words were spoken, but their gazes carried the weight of judgment, curiosity, and expectation.
Eva walked alone.
Her gown was pale as frost, the fabric whispering like breath against marble. Her hair fell loose down her back, a mortal unmasked before the court of immortals. When she reached the dais, Lucarion was waiting, dressed in black that caught no light, his silver hair the only brightness in the dim.
Their eyes met—one heartbeat, then two—and the silence deepened, the kind that pressed against the chest until it felt like prayer.
Between them, the altar: a low table of black stone, carved with sigils worn smooth by centuries of vows. Upon it lay a single vessel of silver, filled with dark wine, and beside it, a ceremonial dagger—the kind used not for bloodshed, but for promise.
The High Priestess approached, robed in the color of night, her face veiled by thin gauze. Her voice, when she spoke, carried like distant thunder.
"Two stand before the flame," she said. "Two threads bound by choice, not conquest. Let one light pass to the other, and let neither fade."
She lifted the dagger.
Lucarion took it first. Without hesitation, he turned his hand and drew the edge across his palm. The wound welled red against pale skin, gleaming like spilled garnet. When he set the blade down, his eyes met Eva's—unspoken, steady.
Her turn.
The metal was cold when she took it. For a moment, she saw her reflection in its surface—her face, small and still, framed by the vastness of the temple—and then she cut, quick and sure. Her blood fell beside his, mingling on the altar stone, and for a heartbeat, it seemed to pulse as one.
The Priestess dipped her fingers into the joined blood, tracing a single line across each of their wrists. "Bound in vein, bound in vow. May your union hold the balance of night and dawn."
Lucarion reached for her hand. His touch was steady, but she felt the faint tremor beneath—the restraint of something vast and barely held in check. Their palms met, blood to blood. The warmth spread between them, slow, deliberate, sinking past flesh into something deeper.
The flame at the altar flickered blue, then steadied. The silence that followed was not emptiness, but recognition.
Eva drew in a breath that felt heavier than the body could bear. Across from her, Lucarion's expression barely changed, but something in his eyes—an ache, a vow, perhaps even fear—softened and burned all at once.
When the Priestess stepped back, she said only, "It is done."
No applause followed. No music rose. The court bowed, heads low, as the ancient custom dictated. The union was not to be celebrated, only witnessed—a binding older than joy, meant not for spectacle but for balance.
Eva turned slightly toward Lucarion. For the briefest instant, his thumb brushed her wrist—the same one still marked by the mingled blood.
It was not tenderness. It was acknowledgment.
The silence lingered long after the words had fallen away. The High Priestess withdrew her hands, and the incense smoke curled upward in thin, white threads that caught the faint dusk light spilling through the high windows.
Lucarion released her hand last. Their joined blood had dried faintly at the edges, leaving a dark trace that felt almost like a seal. He turned, and the court parted before him in reverent quiet. Eva followed, her steps light but certain, the hem of her gown whispering against the cold marble.
As they passed beneath the temple's arch, the great doors opened onto the mountain terrace beyond. The last rays of day crept over the horizon, gold and pale, catching on the faint sheen of her gown. It was only then she noticed it—tiny drops of crimson, scattered like fallen stars across the fabric where her palm had brushed against it.
The sight stilled her for a heartbeat. The blood did not mar; it marked—proof of what had been given, what could not be taken back.
Lucarion paused at the top of the steps, as though sensing her stillness. His gaze fell to the stains, then lifted to meet her eyes. Something flickered there—pride, perhaps, or sorrow. Then he extended a hand once more.
"Come," he said quietly.
She took it. The moment their fingers touched, the world seemed to hush again.
They descended together, the temple rising behind them like a shadowed monument—its bells silent, its vows still echoing in the hollows of stone. Below, the palace awaited.
The path wound through torchlight and mist, lined by silent guards whose armor caught the glint of the sinking sun.
The palace had quieted to a breath. The echo of the ceremony still lingered in the halls—the faint scent of myrrh, candle smoke, and something metallic beneath the sweetness of roses.
When Eva returned to her chamber, the attendants were waiting. They moved like wraiths, silent and precise, unfastening the heavy layers of silk and metal that clung to her. The gown slid away with a whisper, pooling around her feet in a pale shimmer.
They guided her to the marble bath, already drawn and steaming. The water glimmered faintly, laced with crushed petals and amber oil. She sank slowly, letting the warmth close over her like a held breath. For a moment, the world disappeared.
When she emerged, her skin smelled of myrrh and rosewood, her hair damp and heavy down her back. Lira dried and brushed through it with oil-slick fingers, weaving faint gold dust through the bronze strands until they shimmered with every movement.
They dressed her in a robe of pale silk, thin as moonlight. It caught the faint glow of the hearth as she walked, trailing behind her like a second skin. When the attendants left, the room fell silent.
For a while, she did not move. The fire burned low, restless over the walls. Beyond the window, the temple spires were faintly visible against the dark—pale silhouettes crowned by the same stars that had witnessed her binding.
Then came the quiet knock.
"Milady," said the steward outside, muted. "The chamber is prepared."
She followed the steward through the corridor, torches guttering in the draft, her footsteps whispering on the marble. At the far end, two guards opened the great double doors—carved wood, bound in silver—and bowed her through.
The chamber beyond was new to her. Larger than hers, yet colder in its symmetry—stone and shadow balanced with unsettling grace. Candles burned in wall sconces, their flames mirrored in the polished black floor. No hearth fire; only the cool breath of night from the open balcony doors.
The scent here was different: cedar and rain.
She brushed the edge of the long table where a decanter of dark wine waited. Beside it lay a small piece of the rich, dark confection, its glossy surface catching the candlelight—a subtle promise of the ritual to come.
She moved to the window. From here, a different side of the castle stretched before her—the eastern gardens silvered under moonlight, the dark sweep of forest beyond the walls.
For a long time, she stood in silence, one hand lightly resting on the window frame. The robe stirred around her in the breeze. The air tasted faintly of rain.
A rustle at the door drew her attention.
He entered without a word. Moonlight slid across his skin, tracing the sharp planes of his face. His silver hair fell loose, framing his temples; the black silk of his robes hung open at the chest, revealing the faint gleam of skin beneath—the rise of his collarbone, the hollow where shadow gathered. The fabric caught no light; it devoured it, drawing the room tighter around him.
Neither moved.
Their eyes met across the dim chamber, and the space between them felt like a live wire—thin, trembling, waiting to break.
Lucarion advanced, unhurried. There was purpose in every step, a quiet inevitability that stole her breath. The way he looked at her held her, as though his gaze alone had weight; she couldn't even blink. Each step tightened his invisible hold.
When he reached her, he lifted her hand, the gesture both reverent and claiming. His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, slow enough that she felt her pulse rise to meet it.
"Are you ready?" His voice was roughened silk, low and certain.
She met his gaze, steady, blinked once, swallowed. "I am."
A flicker crossed his lips. The air shifted; candle flames bent toward them, their light turning gold against the shadows.
His fingers found her cheek, skimming the line of her jaw. The touch was light, almost cautious, but it burned all the same. She drew a sharp breath; his eyes darkened at the sound.
He guided her toward the table. The decanter of wine and the small piece of confection waited, gleaming like offerings beneath the low light.
With one hand resting at her waist, he poured the wine. The liquid shimmered darkly, molten garnet. He handed her a glass.
They drank. His eyes never leaving hers. Warmth spread through her chest, rich and slow.
When she lowered the glass, he reached for the confection. Between his fingers, it caught the candlelight—glossy, dark, forbidden.
He brought it to her lips.
Eva hesitated only long enough for their eyes to meet—his gaze steady, unblinking, fixed on her mouth. Then she parted her lips and caught the sweet with her tongue. It melted instantly, bittersweet and heavy.
His thumb pressed to her lower lip, holding her still. The air thickened. The world contracted to that single touch—the drag of his skin, her breath against it, the silent pull of his gaze tracing her every flicker.
Then, slow as a drawn breath, he smeared what remained of the melted confection across her lower lip.
He leaned in.
Eyes never leaving hers.
And caught the taste from her lip with his tongue—wet, soft, deliberate.
The heat it left behind coiled low in her belly, sharp and alive.
She watched as the amethyst of his irises gave way to the deep dark of his pupils, swallowing light.
She didn't move. Neither did he.
Only their breathing changed—shallow, uneven, tethered. Her heart stuttered beneath the weight of his gaze, her breath caught between one pulse and the next.
The world hung there, waiting for the collapse.