The Kingdom of Noctheryn had long forgotten the color gold. For seventeen years, its sky had hung like a curtain of black velvet never drawn aside. The stars stood as silent witnesses, the moon the only celestial lantern permitted to burn, and the night—the night was law.
Castle towers clawed at the heavens like broken teeth. Stone walls sweated beneath an eternal mist. Cobblestone streets lay drowned in shadows that seemed older than the people who walked them. The common folk called it a curse. The nobles called it protection. The Church called it divine punishment. High above them all, upon the tallest balcony of the Palace of D'Ardenne, a young man stood without a cloak, allowing the cold wind to brush against his pale face.
Vincent Aurelius D'Ardenne. Crown Prince of the Kingdom Without Sun. His hair was dark as wet ink, neatly kept yet untamed at the edges. His eyes—dim crimson that nearly passed for brown in the dark—reflected the moonlight with a composure no nineteen-year-old should rightfully possess. When the palace bells tolled three times, he did not blink. The hour when creatures of the night grew restless.
"Your Highness should not remain beneath the open sky for so long." The voice emerged from the shadow of a stone pillar. A tall man stepped forward, clad in black uniform bearing a silver thorned rose upon his chest. His hair was silver, his face smooth and untouched by age.
Sir Alaric.Royal knight. Pureblood vampire.
Vincent did not turn.
"The sky has not changed in seventeen years, Alaric," he said quietly. "I only wish to be certain it still remembers how to be night." Alaric inclined his head. "The night does not forget, Your Highness. It is humanity that is fragile."
A faint smile touched Vincent's lips. "And yet it is humanity that builds churches to hunt us."
The air seemed to sharpen. From beyond the kingdom's walls came a howl—not wolf, not beast, but something older.
Alaric stepped closer. "Our scouts report movement in the Northern Forest. They are drawing nearer."
"Monsters?"
"Not the usual kind."
Vincent finally turned. There was no fear in his gaze—only curiosity. "The older ones?"
Alaric did not answer with words. He simply bowed deeper. That was enough.
Within the Black Hall, the nobles gathered like carrion birds draped in silk.
Rows of black candles burned steadily, their flames dancing over velvet robes and bloodstone rings gleaming upon pale fingers. At the far end of the chamber stood a high throne carved with winged dragons beneath the royal sigil: a closed eye pierced by a silver blade.
King Cassian D'Ardenne sat upon it.
Vincent's father.
His beauty was inhuman—sharp jaw, eyes dark crimson like aged wine. His long black hair was bound at the nape with a golden ribbon. He looked less like a man than a portrait immune to time.
When Vincent entered, the murmurs ceased. Not from respect. From caution.
Half-blood.Ritual child.Sin-born heir.
Vincent crossed the deep red carpet slowly, aware of every stare against his back. The pureblood nobles despised him in silence—because he was not wholly one of them, yet possessed something none of them did. The ability to stand beneath the dawn.
King Cassian regarded him with an expression carved from stone. "You are late," he said, his voice smooth as silk drawn over a blade.
Vincent stopped at the center of the hall. "I was unaware the night kept hours, Father."
Several nobles stiffened. Cassian's eyes narrowed, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly. "We will discuss the reports from the Northern Forest."
Vincent inclined his head. "The creatures beyond the walls are moving."
"Yes."
"The seal is weakening?"
Silence fell—heavy as falling stone. Cassian rose slowly. "Choose your words with care, Vincent."
Vincent met his father's gaze without flinching. "I merely wish to know why they grow bolder."
An elderly noble rose from his seat. Lord Mavros. "You know the answer, Your Majesty," he growled. "The dawn has begun to appear." Whispers spread like fire across dry cloth. Dawn. A word nearly forbidden.
Something shifted inside Vincent's chest—not fear, not anger. Something deeper. A pull.
Cassian descended the steps of the throne. "The dawn is an illusion," he said coldly. "Three minutes of light do not threaten the night."
Lord Mavros bowed. "Yet the Crown Prince does not burn."
All eyes turned to Vincent. He could hear the heartbeats of the human guards beyond the hall. Could smell their blood through the stone. Yet he stood motionless as marble.
Cassian stopped one step away. "You stood beneath the dawn this morning."
Not a question. Vincent did not deny it. "Yes."
"And?"
A slight lift of his shoulder. "I remain."
A soft hiss rippled through the nobles. Cassian stared at his son for a long moment before lowering his voice so only Vincent could hear. "How much was taken this time?"
Vincent fell silent. He glanced at the floor. "I can no longer remember Mother's voice."
The air stopped. Cassian froze— only for a second. But Vincent saw it. And that was enough.
The following night, the church bells rang louder than ever before. Sanctum Luminare rose in the eastern quarter of the city—white stone in defiance of the black palace. At its peak, a sun emblem was carved in grand defiance of a sky that had not borne its light in nearly two decades. Inside, the High Pontiff stood before the altar. His robes were white, immaculate. His face kind, almost grandfatherly. No one knew his heart had ceased beating three centuries ago. "The child of night will fall," he told the kneeling priests. "The Lord has sent a sign."
A young priest lifted his head. "The dawn, Your Holiness?"
The Pontiff smiled. "Yes. The light will return." He turned toward the stained glass window. For a fleeting moment— his reflection did not appear. Dawn arrived without sound. The black sky fractured with a thin seam of pale gray. Vincent stood in the inner courtyard of the palace. The human guards had been ordered away.
Only Alaric remained several paces behind him, tense as a drawn bow. "You need not do this, Your Highness."
Vincent did not answer. The light came like a first breath after drowning.
Thin.Fragile.Beautiful.
Golden rays touched the ends of his hair. Alaric hissed as his skin smoked from mere reflection. But Vincent— Nothing. He raised his hand slowly, letting the light fall across his skin. Warm. Not pain. Warm.
Then—
A shadow appeared upon the wall. Not his own. A tall figure with broken wings stood behind him. Vincent stilled.
"Your Highness, step back!" Alaric shouted.
The light intensified. And something inside Vincent shattered.
Flashes—
His mother screaming. Blood across stone floors. His father standing within a circle of sigils. And something far older, darker than night itself whispering:
The seal is weakening.
The light vanished. The sky collapsed back into black. Vincent staggered to his knees. Alaric caught him. "What did you see?!"
Vincent drew a slow breath. When he lifted his face, calm was no longer the only thing in his eyes. There was fear. "I remember."
"Remember what?"
Vincent looked toward the kingdom walls. Toward the forest. Toward something moving in the dark. "We are not the ones protecting the people." A howl tore through the air—closer now. Vincent rose slowly. "The night is not a curse." He turned toward the distant tower where his father watched. "The night is a cage."
And for the first time in seventeen years, the clouds shifted.
As though something in the heavens were trying to open its eyes.