Princess Veyla Aurelion learned very early that silence could be louder than screams.
The ritual chamber was silent now—not the calm silence of peace, but the kind that pressed against the ears until every breath felt like a violation. Stone pillars carved with ancient sigils loomed overhead, their surfaces darkened by centuries of blood offerings and broken oaths. The air was thick with incense meant to sanctify unions between realms that had spent generations sharpening blades against one another.
Peace, they called this.
Veyla stood at the center of it, barefoot, her toes numb against the cold floor. The ceremonial gown she wore was white by tradition, but no longer pristine. Blood—hers—had already begun to bloom across the fabric, dark and inevitable. It dripped slowly from her palm, where the High Priest had sliced deep enough to satisfy the bond ritual.
She had not flinched.
Aurelion princesses were not raised to flinch.
They were raised to endure.
When the blade had cut her skin, she had kept her spine straight, her chin level, her expression serene. She had smiled when the nobles watched. She had smiled when the emissaries from the Northern Clans murmured approval.
Only now, with the ritual in ruins and the chamber frozen in disbelief, did the weight of what had happened begin to settle.
This was wrong.
The bond ritual was absolute.
Every child learned that before they learned their letters. A mate-offering—especially one sanctified by royal blood—did not fail. It did not fracture. It did not recoil.
And yet—
Veyla lifted her gaze slowly.
Alpha Khorg Ironmaw stood several paces away from the ritual circle, his massive frame rigid as if carved from stone. His chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven breaths, each one dragged through clenched teeth. The veins along his neck stood out starkly beneath scarred skin, pulsing violently.
His claws were out.
Not extended in threat.
But trembling.
Khorg had not looked away from her since the moment he inhaled.
She could feel it—the invisible line between them, taut and vibrating with something raw and unfinished. The bond had sparked. She knew it. She had felt the sudden, wrenching pull in her chest, the way her heartbeat had stuttered as if something ancient had reached for her and recoiled at the same time.
It hurt.
Not physically.
But somewhere deeper.
Khorg took another breath.
A mistake.
A low sound tore from his throat, half-growl, half-gasp, and he staggered back a step as if struck. Stone scraped under his boots. His head dipped briefly, shoulders heaving, golden eyes squeezed shut in visible agony.
The Northern emissaries erupted into chaos.
"This is impossible—"
"The ritual—check the runes—"
"Is she poisoned?"
Veyla did not move.
She did not dare.
Every instinct screamed that the slightest shift would snap something already strained to breaking.
Across the chamber, the Vampire King moved at last.
Vinculus Noctaryn had been still as death throughout the preparations, a pale, elegant presence cloaked in aristocratic indifference. His silver hair fell neatly over dark ceremonial robes embroidered with sigils older than human kingdoms. Immortal composure had been his armor.
Until now.
He stepped forward once.
Then stopped.
His crimson eyes narrowed, pupils contracting sharply. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, knuckles whitening. For a fraction of a second—so brief it might have been imagined—his control slipped.
Blood welled at the corner of his mouth.
A gasp rippled through the chamber.
Vinculus turned his head away with precise restraint, pressing two fingers to his lips. When he drew them back, they were stained red.
Vampires did not bleed without cause.
Veyla's stomach twisted.
She had known this would not be easy. She had expected fear, hostility, even hatred. But this—
This was something else.
She lowered her gaze to her hands.
They were shaking now.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
Something inside her had reacted to the bond.
Something old.
Something sealed.
Her scent.
She had always known it was… different.
Midwives had whispered when she was born. Tutors had spoken in careful euphemisms as she grew older. No matter how many oils or baths or alchemical remedies were used, there was always an undertone that lingered—sharp, fermented, impossible to fully mask.
They called it an affliction.
A weakness.
A curse of the flesh.
She had learned to live with it. To ignore the subtle flinches of courtiers, the way animals avoided her, the way some people breathed more shallowly in her presence.
But she had never seen this.
Never seen an Alpha of legend nearly brought to his knees by a single breath.
Never seen an immortal king lose blood to mere proximity.
"This offering is invalid," a voice declared sharply.
Veyla recognized the tone before she recognized the man. Lord Hadrien, envoy of the Southern Coalition, stepped forward with thinly veiled satisfaction. "The bond has failed. By ancient law, the sacrifice must be terminated to prevent contamination."
Terminate.
Kill her.
The word hung in the air, heavy and final.
Several guards shifted. Steel whispered from sheaths.
Veyla lifted her head.
She had been prepared to die for peace. She had accepted that long before she ever entered this chamber. But not like this.
Not as a mistake.
Khorg's head snapped up.
"No."
The sound was raw, ripped from his chest. His eyes blazed now, torn between agony and something far more dangerous. His body leaned forward instinctively, one step closer to the ritual circle—then stopped, as if an invisible wall had slammed into him.
Pain contorted his features.
His bond howled.
Vinculus turned back to them slowly, wiping the blood from his mouth with controlled precision. His gaze locked onto Veyla, sharp and assessing, stripping her down to bone and marrow.
"She is not terminated," he said coldly.
Lord Hadrien scoffed. "The ritual—"
"—is incomplete," Vinculus interrupted. "Not void."
Silence followed.
Veyla's heart pounded painfully in her ears.
Incomplete.
Not rejected.
Not released.
That was worse.
Khorg exhaled shakily. "I can feel it," he admitted hoarsely. "The bond. It's there. Twisted. Wrong. But alive."
Alive.
Veyla swallowed.
That explained the ache in her chest, the strange pull that made her hyper-aware of every movement Khorg made, every breath Vinculus took. It explained the way distance already felt like a loss even as closeness promised suffering.
"What is she?" someone whispered.
Veyla clenched her fists.
She was right here.
She was not a thing to be dissected.
Before she could speak, a slow clap echoed from above.
Once.
Twice.
Every head snapped upward.
Perched casually on a high wooden beam near the ceiling, one leg dangling freely, sat a woman dressed in dark, mismatched fabrics. Her hair—streaked with unnatural hues—was pulled back loosely, revealing sharp eyes that missed nothing.
Madame Zora.
The Witch of Seals.
Veyla had seen her only once before, long ago, in a memory blurred by fever and pain. She looked exactly the same.
Unchanged.
Amused.
"Well," Zora drawled, tilting her head as she surveyed the chaos below. "That escalated beautifully."
"Witch," Lord Hadrien snarled. "This is sacred ground."
"And yet," Zora replied mildly, "here you all are, breaking ancient laws without even understanding them."
Her gaze slid to Veyla.
For a moment—just a moment—the amusement faded.
Something like regret flickered there.
"The girl stays," Zora said.
Khorg stiffened. Vinculus's eyes narrowed.
"And if we refuse?" Vinculus asked softly.
Zora smiled again, all teeth and shadows. "Then whatever is sealed inside her will wake up. And trust me—peace will be the least of your problems."
The chamber went very, very still.
Veyla's breath caught.
Sealed.
Inside her.
The witch's gaze met hers, sharp and knowing.
I'm sorry, child, Zora seemed to say without words.
But survival was never meant to be kind.