The chill didn't come from the stone walls of Fortress Sol, it was in the marrow of Isolde's bones. She stood by the arched window, looking out over the last sunrise she would ever see as a free woman of Aldoria. The sun, weak and pale as winter honey, did nothing to warm the fear that had been her constant companion for the last week.
Today, she became the King's sacrifice. Today, she was chattel to be delivered into the endless, suffocating night of the Ebon Citadel of Noctis.
Her maid, Elia, wept silently as she fastened the last of the clasps on the traveling cloak. It wasn't a wedding gown, but a heavy, dark-grey garment, the color of granite and resignation, meant to withstand the cold journey through the shadow lands that separated the human realm from the Vampire's fortress. Isolde kept her spine straight, refusing to look at Elia's tear-stained face. Tears were for the weak, and if she was to survive marriage to Prince Damon, she couldn't afford weakness.
"Elia," Isolde said, her voice sounding unnaturally brittle. "Did they remember the books? The old texts, not the recent, sanitized histories."
"Yes, Princess. They're packed with your mother's locket. And the ivory box you asked for."
The ivory box. Isolde's fingers twitched with the urge to touch the small, unassuming object that held her secret. Her mother had been dead for ten years, yet the subtle, unpredictable magic of her Witch blood still lingered in the air around the princess. Isolde carried the box to remind herself that she was not just human fodder, she had a dormant power, a potential she hadn't dared explore since that awful night a decade ago when a Rogue vampire had taken her aunt in the Sunken Fields. She despised them all, the arrogant predators who treated humans as walking meals. Now, she was to marry their future King.
A sharp rap on the door announced her father, King Theron. Elia quickly curtsied and fled.
King Theron was a man built of stone and pragmatism, his face a roadmap of every political choice he'd ever made. He didn't wear the crown today, only the heavy signet ring of Aldoria on his finger.
"You are prepared, Isolde." It wasn't a question.
"I am prepared to fulfill my duty, Father," she corrected him, her stormy blue eyes holding his.
He sighed, running a thick hand across his close-cropped gray hair. "Don't look at me as if I've delivered you to the gallows. This is the greatest diplomatic triumph Aldoria has achieved in three centuries. The Ebon Citadel will recognize our sovereignty. The feeding quotas will be stable. We survive."
"We survive by trading the only thing of value we have left, your only child."
"Sentiment is a luxury we cannot afford," the King stated, walking toward her. He spoke quietly, but his words hit her with the force of a hammer. "You are marrying Damon. He is prideful, demanding, and utterly predictable in his desire for power. That makes him manageable. Your job is simple, give him an heir quickly, and do not provoke the Iron Peaks."
The Dragon Kingdom. The source of all the current tension. Prince Damon needed a secure alliance with Aldoria to balance the increasing threat posed by the hot-tempered Fire Dragons of Draconus.
"I understand the map, Father. I merely question the sacrifice."
"A marriage is not a sacrifice, Isolde. It's a transaction. You will live in unimaginable splendor. You will lack nothing but sunlight. And freedom, I suppose. But freedom is overrated when starvation is at the gates." He stopped, his expression softening slightly, a flicker of the man who used to read her tales before bed. "Do not fail, daughter. Their stability is our shield."
"And what happens when he inevitably tires of me?" Isolde challenged, knowing the stories of human consorts discarded or worse.
"Then you must ensure that never happens." The King's face hardened, the brief moment of paternal warmth gone. "You are resourceful. You are the daughter of a King. Use your mind, use your duty, and if necessary, use your defiance. Just ensure that when you fight Damon, you do it behind closed doors and win."
The King then did something he hadn't done in years, he took her hand, squeezed it once, a firm, almost painful reassurance, and then released her. His eyes held a mix of pride and regret. "Go now. They await."
Outside, the courtyard of Fortress Sol was a scene of controlled chaos. Aldorian guards, mounted and heavily armored, lined the path, their expressions grim. But Isolde's eyes immediately went to the escort from Noctis.
It was a nightmare in black. Three midnight-black, windowless carriages sat waiting, flanked by ten figures who moved with a silent, unnatural grace. They were Vampires, of course. Tall, cloaked, their faces veiled by fine, dark gauze. A concession to the fading morning light. They moved like smoke, their very stillness unsettling. Isolde felt the familiar revulsion crawl up her throat. She could smell them even from this distance, a metallic, rich, ancient scent, like dust mixed with expensive wine. They were alien, beautiful demons.
As she stepped from the shadows of the castle's archway, her human escorts moved to form a tight, protective cordon around her. Isolde lifted her chin, taking one last, deep breath of the damp, cold Aldorian air. The air in Noctis would be stale, heavy, and thick with the perfume of blood and death.
A single figure detached itself from the Noctis group and approached. He was not veiled, but stood in the thin morning light, untouched by its weakness. It was Lord Cassian, a high-ranking Pureblood advisor to Damon, famed for his lethal wit and cold precision. He was breathtakingly elegant, dressed in silver-threaded black leather, his pale skin contrasting sharply with his dark hair.
"Princess Isolde," Cassian murmured, bowing with a mocking, almost insulting casualness. "The Prince sends his regards and impatience. Your carriage awaits."
Isolde met his eyes. They were the color of cold mercury, lacking any human warmth. "My journey ends where my freedom dies, Lord Cassian. I am in no rush."
A thin, cruel smile touched his lips. "Freedom is an illusion, Your Highness. Your reality begins when you enter the Ebon Citadel." He gestured to the largest carriage. "Shall we?"
She didn't wait for her father's nod. Isolde walked straight toward the carriage, the heavy material of her cloak dragging against the dusty cobblestones. Each step was a commitment, a betrayal of the girl she used to be. She climbed the steps and entered the interior, which was impossibly plush thick, black velvet upholstery, polished obsidian fittings, and a scent of frankincense and something darkly floral. It was beautiful, opulent, and utterly without soul.
The door shut with a heavy, final thud. The world outside disappeared.
She sat alone, clutching the ivory box inside her cloak. Her wedding gift to herself, the forbidden, silent promise of her own power.
The carriage began to move, the low rumble of the wheels carrying her away from light, away from safety, and into the dark, tangled web of the Night.