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Lust At First Bite

Word Count: 22k (grab some popcorn!)

Tags: vampire!Sylus x virgin!reader, deflowering, rough sex, unprotected sex, biting, injury, blood, blood play, cunnilingus, blowjob, dubcon elements, coercion, vampire transformation, paranormal, body horror, corruption, nicknames like beloved, little lamb, my love

Summary: You are the princess of Carpathia. Groomed for obedience, valued only as a pawn in your kingdom’s political games. Your future is not your own: a marriage arranged, a womb expected to produce heirs, your body treated like currency in the hands of powerful men. Suffocated by your life, you begin slipping away into the night, seeking freedom where no one would search for you.

One evening, in the ruins of an abandoned cathedral, you meet Sylus...a being colder than death, with eyes like burning coals and a past steeped in mystery. What begins as fear becomes fascination, and through him, you discover that those who have no heartbeat love the deepest.

And sometimes, the monsters we fear most prove more human than the ones who surround us.

You felt his breath, cool and uneven, against your skin. His eye gleamed, that crimson light glowing brighter than before. The hunger in him was palpable, pressing into the air between you. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn away. Instead, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded into his silvery hair, anchoring yourself to him. “Sylus…” you whispered, voice trembling with something between courage and surrender. You tilted your head, exposing your neck fully. “It’s alright. Drink.” The words hung heavy between you. An invitation, a vow. Whatever happened next, you were no longer afraid. "I can't do that to you," he muttered, voice hoarse and dark, trembling with restraint. You felt his breath ghost against your skin, cool and sharp like mist off a blade. He pulled back slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. And god, those eyes. There was longing in them. Hunger. And torment so fierce it almost looked like pain. "Once I begin, I can’t stop."He leaned closer again, his lips nearly brushing yours, his voice sinking lower, rougher. "I’ll claim you," he whispered. "Every inch. Every part. Your blood, your soul, your innocence."

AN: Sorry this took awhile! I hope you guys enjoy this one, it was quite fun to write and I missed writing longer fics with worldbuilding honestly. I'll go back to the straight porn ones after this. I hope one day I can become a full fledged romance author. Honestly I've been taking the idea more seriously lately! But for now, enjoy all these ideas I like to throw at you guys. Was gonna post this in two parts but I'm lazy. The sex is quite intense...this is your second warning after the tags. Blood talk (duh) and blood/cum mixing cause uhhh...I just felt a vampire fic should be freaky like that xDD.

Enjoy!

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You sit in the castle’s back field, nestled just beyond the overgrown hedge maze where the gardeners rarely go and the nobles never bother. It’s your quiet place, a patch of solitude surrounded by wildflowers and humming bees, a world apart from the polished stone and suffocating expectations of royal life. The sun warms your cheeks, and the breeze plays with your hair, lifting the strands with gentle fingers as if nature itself were trying to soothe you.

Your limbs are sore from another day packed with obligations. Three hours of dance rehearsals in shoes too tight, another lecture on posture and poise from a governess who never smiled, and a dress fitting where you were poked and pinched until your skin burned. You’d been told again, as always, to smile more. To speak less. To sit like a lady.

You’re tired, so you stretch out in the grass, limbs sprawling, silk skirts rustling like leaves in the breeze. The scent of wild thyme, crushed clover, and distant lilac surrounds you. Somewhere, a lark trills a lazy melody, and for a fleeting moment, you let your eyes drift closed. The earth is cool beneath your back, holding you better than any throne ever could.

Just as your mind begins to slip into the peaceful haze between waking and dreaming, something brushes your nose, soft and feathery.

You open your eyes with a giggle, blinking up at the blue sky. There she is, circling above like a small white cloud with wings, your dove, Celine. She spirals downward, landing beside you with practiced grace, her pearl-white feathers catching the sun’s light like polished opal. Her small head tilts, and she fixes you with an eager, intelligent stare.

"Hello, you clever girl," you say, voice warm with affection. "I saved you something from supper. Almond stuffed dates. Not my favorite, but I knew you'd like them."

Careful not to startle her, you sit up slowly, brushing blades of grass from your sleeves. Reaching beneath the layered hem of your gown, you find the small linen-wrapped parcel tucked securely inside your boot. You smile to yourself, a quiet triumph that no one saw you sneak the treats away from the banquet table.

Celine hops closer, cooing in anticipation as you untie the bundle. Inside are three sticky, honey-dark dates, stuffed with roasted almonds and dusted with crushed anise and rose sugar. An extravagant dessert served only to the nobility. You hold one out in your palm.

She pecks delicately, her tiny beak tapping your skin as she eats. Her wings flutter slightly with pleasure. You chuckle, lightly petting her head with a finger. You’re so grateful to have met her.

You remember the day clearly. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the stones of the castle gate, when she fell from the sky. A flash of white, a sharp cry, and then the soft thud of her broken body hitting the ground. Her wing was twisted, streaked with blood, her feathers limp and stained. Your father had looked at her with disdain, his lip curling in disgust. "Filthy creature," he muttered, turning away. He ordered a servant to take her away and burn her.

You couldn’t bear it.

You’d bribed the servant with a pouch of gold coins—more than enough to buy silence—and convinced him to leave her in a patch of grass at the far end of the field. That night, under cover of darkness, you crept out with a scrap of linen, water, and crumbs from the kitchens. You wrapped her gently, whispering apologies as she trembled in pain.

Each day after that, you returned in secret, always with food and care. You weren’t sure she would survive. Her breathing was shallow. Her wing hung uselessly. But still, she looked at you, and you saw a flicker of will.

When she finally flapped her wings again and took flight to land on your shoulder, you cried. Real, silent tears that soaked into your sleeves. From that day forward, she never left you. No matter how cold the world became, she was your constant warmth, the one joy you could rely on in this wretched, luxurious prison.

You decided then to name her Celine. It meant sky, according to the books you used to sneak from the grand library. It felt right, watching her flutter upward for the first time, her white wings catching the morning light like fragments of a dream. She had fallen from the sky, and now, against all odds, she returned to it.

You weren’t allowed to read or write, not officially. Your father claimed such things were unnecessary for a girl destined to marry. But you had taught yourself, slowly and in secret, slipping worn volumes beneath your mattress, hiding scrolls behind tapestry seams, memorizing letters by moonlight. You devoured stories, histories, languages. The world in those pages was the only one that ever made sense to you—where girls could be clever, brave, wild, and free.

Naming her was your quiet rebellion. A secret shared only between the two of you, carried on the wind and sealed with a coo and a nuzzle. Celine was your sky, your secret, your only friend in the kingdom.

You jump at the sound of Arnette’s frantic, sudden voice calling from behind you, sharp enough to startle a bird. Instinctively, you drop the dates into the tall grass beside you, fingers shaking slightly. Celine flutters into the air in a flurry of white feathers, wings catching the sunlight as she darts up to perch on the crumbling stone wall that borders the field. She tilts her head, watching the scene unfold below.

Arnette, one of the palace servants assigned to you since childhood, is breathless with urgency. Though technically just a handmaid, she’s been your shadow for years. Equal parts caretaker, watchdog, and reluctant confidante.

"My lady! Please do not lay on the grass in your new dress! Your mother will be furious!" Arnette cries, her voice tight with panic, skirts swishing as she rushes toward you with both hands raised like she’s trying to catch a falling vase.

You let out a long, quiet sigh as you rise to your feet, grass clinging to your sleeves and the hem of your gown. The warmth you had felt only moments ago is already slipping away. Your body moves slowly, reluctantly, like your soul is still lying in the field even as your form obeys the world’s demands.

Arnette reaches you in seconds, already kneeling at your side, her hands fluttering like nervous birds as she begins brushing at your dress with swift, practiced motions. Her mouth moves in a steady stream of hushed reprimands—something about embroidery, silk fibers, and your mother’s schedule—but you’ve stopped listening.

Your eyes are fixed on the distant hills, their edges softened by the late afternoon haze. You imagine walking toward them. Walking until the palace disappears and no one calls you back.

Arnette pauses, noticing your silence. Her hands slow, and her voice softens, no longer panicked but weary. "Please, my lady. You mustn’t give them reason to scold you again. Not today."

You nod once, not because you agree, but because it’s easier than speaking. She means well, you know. She bandaged your scraped knees when you were small, brought you sweets from the kitchens when you cried. But she also buttoned you into dresses too tight to breathe and braided your hair so tightly your scalp stung, all in the name of appearances. She is part of this prison, whether she wishes to be or not.

As her fingers resume their careful work, you feel it—the invisible corset of duty, lacing itself up your spine, pulling you back into place. The weight returns, as it always does. And the field, the sky, even Celine, feel just a little farther away.

"Come now. The afternoon isn’t over. We must wash you up for dinner, your father is returning from the neighboring kingdom tonight. He wants you clean and proper. I’m sure you’re very excited," Arnette says, gently taking your elbow and steering you toward the palace.

You force a nod, your body moving on instinct even as your mind drifts elsewhere. "Yes, of course. It’s all anyone can talk about," you reply with a polite smile, your voice practiced. But inside, a sigh curls through you like smoke.

Your father…wasn’t a pleasant man. He wore affection like a ceremonial cloak, pulled out only when it suited his image. In private, he was distant and calculating, speaking to you only when necessary and always in clipped tones. When guests arrived or alliances needed strengthening, you were suddenly paraded about in satin and jewels, introduced with a proud hand on your back and a rehearsed line about your grace or beauty. He smiled through his teeth. You did too.

He rarely listened when you spoke. If you voiced an opinion, he corrected it. If you asked a question, he deflected. And if you stayed silent, he said you were dull. There was no right answer with him.

It was different with your younger twin brothers, Lyric and Kasren. They were golden in his eyes—mirrors of his ambition, reflections of the legacy he imagined leaving behind. They trained daily with the royal guard, their blades custom-forged, their tutors handpicked by himself. At dinners, he asked them questions about military strategy and trade routes. He clapped them on the shoulder. Laughed at their jokes.

With you, he only asked what dress you’d be wearing to the next banquet and whether you'd rehearsed the harp piece for the visiting dignitaries. You were not his heir. You were his ornament.

As you and Arnette walk the narrow garden path back toward the palace, the sunlight stretches long across the stone. You glance back over your shoulder, eyes drifting toward the wild edge of the field where Celine still perches. She watches you, still and silent.

Hopefully you can still find the dates I dropped.

The palace looms ahead, all shadowed stone and quiet judgment, swallowing the last of the golden hour. The closer you get, the heavier the air feels, like the walls themselves are pressing inward, reshaping you into something softer, smaller, more acceptable. Arnette keeps talking but you barely hear her.

All you can think about is how quickly freedom fades.

And how badly you already want the night to come.

Preparation for dinner goes uneventfully, as it always does. The routine is suffocating in its perfection. You sit still while a chorus of hands fusses over you, adjusting, tightening, perfecting. The room smells of rosewater and starch.

Voices hover around you like bees, constantly assessing your posture, your complexion, your worth. It annoys you to no end, a relentless buzz that makes your skin itch, but you know better than to speak. Words only bring trouble. So you keep your mouth shut, your spine straight, and your expression carefully neutral.

Arnette scrubs you clean from head to toe. She hums softly, a melody you don’t recognize, and though she says nothing, you can feel the pride she takes in doing this right. She treats your skin as if it is parchment.

When the bath is done and your hair has been towel-dried and scented, Arnette moves to the wardrobe. Her eyes flick over the options, weighing color, fabric, cut, and impression. Finally, she selects a gown—a pale yellow one, soft as butter and trimmed with delicate gold thread. It smells faintly of cedar and lavender.

"This one," she says with satisfaction, holding it up in both hands. "Simple, but it brings out your eyes. Perfect for a welcome home dinner."

You say nothing as she slips it over your head and fastens the back. Once you’re dressed, Arnette begins brushing your hair into a neat, smooth style. She parts it cleanly, twisting small braids back from your temples, securing them with gold pins shaped like tiny vines. Her hands are gentle now, almost reverent.

"You look beautiful, my lady," she says, stepping back with a soft smile. "I just know you’ll marry just fine."

You smile, but it’s tight. A grimace in disguise. The same practiced curl of lips you’ve used since childhood.

Marriage. The word tastes like rust in your mouth. A gilded prison dressed up in silks and vows. You hate the very thought of it—being shipped off to some distant kingdom to serve as a symbol, not a person. You would exist only to please, to decorate, to birth sons. You would be a gift, passed from one patriarch to another. The thought of it makes your stomach churn.

You imagine it often. Sitting at some foreign table beside a man who doesn’t know your favorite flower or the way your voice sounds when you laugh. Bearing the weight of expectation in a land where no one speaks your language—not just in words, but in spirit. Being praised for your beauty while your thoughts go ignored.

You look at yourself in the mirror. The girl staring back is elegant, poised, and perfectly composed. But she doesn’t look real. She looks like a doll, painted and pinned, created for admiration, not autonomy. You barely recognize her.

Arnette beams behind you, clearly pleased with her work. She smooths a wrinkle from your skirt, unaware of the quiet war happening behind your eyes.

"Remember to smile," Arnette reminds gently, adjusting the fall of your hair one last time. Her voice is soft, but the meaning is clear: smile for them, not for you.

You nod, saying nothing, and step out of the bath chamber, Arnette trailing behind you like a loyal shadow. The warmth of the candlelit hallway greets you, but it feels cold. Your heels clack against the stone floor as you move, each step practiced and careful, the quiet rhythm of a girl trained to take up space without ever seeming to.

The scent of roasted meat, herb-glazed vegetables, and spiced wine drifts down the corridor, growing stronger with every step. The servants have been working since midday. You know this not because you were told, but because you hear them—always moving, always murmuring just out of sight.

The dining hall is a quiet storm of motion when you enter. Servants sweep across the floor like ghosts, adjusting silverware, straightening goblets, and lighting the last of the tall candles that cast flickering light across the polished surface of the long oak table. The flames shimmer like nervous stars.

As you cross the threshold, every servant pauses. They bow their heads. No one meets your eyes. A silence settles in your chest like lead.

You hate it.

You wish they could look at you the way Arnette does—like a person. Not a porcelain thing to be handled and displayed. You wish someone would smile. Crack a joke. Ask how your day was. But instead, they look away, waiting for you to pass, as though your gaze might burn.

One servant, older than the others, quietly steps forward and pulls out a chair for you. You offer him a polite nod and lower yourself onto the cushioned seat. You smooth your skirts and rest your hands in your lap, resisting the urge to slump or sigh. You’ve been taught to sit like a painting.

Dinner drags on for what feels like an eternity. Courses come and go, all of it tasting like ash in your mouth. You chew mechanically, nod when expected, and smile only when it’s necessary. The conversation continues without you. No one asks you anything more. You are decoration.

After your father arrives, he drones on an on about affairs in the neighboring kingdom while your two twin younger brothers, Lyric and Kasren, fight at the table. No one corrects them of course. Not even your mother. They're more interested in telling you that the prince in the next kingdom is of marriage age, and they hope for the two of you to meet soon.

You grimace at the thought.

Eventually, plates are cleared, goblets drained, and the golden light of the dining hall begins to dim. Servants quietly slip in and out, extinguishing candles and clearing away the remnants of a feast that felt more like a performance. The clamor of silver and porcelain fades, and the weight of expectation lifts just enough to breathe.

Arnette appears at your side as if summoned by instinct. She offers you a polite nod and a small, reassuring look before falling into step behind you as you leave the hall. The walk to your chambers is quiet. The corridors stretch long and shadowed, lit by wall sconces flickering with dying flame. The echo of your shoes on the stone floor is the only sound between you, until Arnette finally speaks.

"Try not to take it to heart, my dear," she says gently as she opens your door. "I heard the neighboring kingdom’s son is quite nice." She lingers in the doorway, hopeful. There’s a softness in her eyes that suggests she means it. As if 'nice' could outweigh 'caged.' As if the promise of a gentle master makes the collar more bearable.

You offer her a faint smile, more out of habit than belief. She gives a slight curtsy and quietly pulls the door closed behind her.

You step out of your shoes and cross the room slowly, peeling away the layers of dinner like armor—each ribbon, each pin, each suffocating layer of silk. Your body is sore. Your head aches. But your mind is sharper than ever.

You move to the window, placing your hands on the cool stone sill. The night stretches out beyond the palace walls, black and endless and full of secrets. The stars are faint tonight, dim behind wisps of cloud, but the air is clear.

You smile.

It’s time.

With practiced ease, you kneel beside your bed and pull back the edge of the thick, velvet carpet. Beneath it, nestled in a groove between the ancient stones, lies your escape: a rope made from torn bedsheets, curtain cords, and bits of silken sashes, all braided together with aching fingers. You tug it once—still sturdy. You tie one end around the heavy iron bracket fixed beneath your window, an old support beam long forgotten by the architects of your prison.

You strip off the suffocating layers of royalty—the silk gown, the golden pins that dig like thorns, the polished shoes. In their place, you don your true skin: a simple tunic, dark trousers, and a hooded cloak. You throw a torn bag over your shoulder filled with wheat crackers and your journal.

The night air greets you the moment you crack open the window again. It’s cool, sharp, alive. The breeze slips inside and curls around your ankles like a cat, beckoning you forward. A shiver runs through you.

You swing one leg onto the ledge, feeling the familiar tug of the rope in your hand. The stone beneath your feet is cold and rough. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with the night air. Your other leg lifts—

Then the door creaks open.

"My lady? Apologies for waking you bu—"

Arnette’s voice falters. She freezes in the doorway, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene: you half-out the window, cloaked and ready, looking more like a thief than a princess. You turn, placing a finger gently to your lips. "Please," you whisper. "Don’t say anything. I do this all the time. I’ll be back before sunrise."

Her mouth opens, then closes. Her hand tightens around the candleholder. The flame wavers, casting erratic shadows across the chamber. She takes a step forward, hesitates, then stops herself. You see the fear in her face, and it isn’t the fear of reprimand.

"I—my lady," she stammers, voice small and shaking. "I won’t speak of this. But...you should know there are rumors. Whispers of monster attacks near the eastern wood. People found pale, emptied. Even animals. Even guards. The soldiers won’t speak of it openly, but they’re afraid."

She swallows hard, her eyes darting to the rope, then back to you. Her face is pale in the candlelight. "If anything were to happen to you..." she says, and then her voice breaks.

She looks away, her shoulders trembling. "I couldn’t bear it."

You pause, one hand on the windowsill, the other gripping the rope. Her words strike something inside you. Arnette has been many things: servant, disciplinarian. But beneath it all, she has always cared. Even when she couldn’t say it out loud.

You step down, your boots whispering against the stone floor, and cross the room with silent strides. You take her hand gently, feeling her tremble beneath your touch.

"I'll be alright," you say softly. "Nothing has happened so far."

Her eyes shine in the candlelight, and she nods slowly. "Come back safe," she murmurs. "Please. Just...come back." You release her hand and return to the window. This time, there is no hesitation. You climb onto the ledge, the rope taut beneath your grip, the wind lifting your hood as if to crown you in shadow.

Above you, the stars stretch across the sky like a promise. Below, the field glows silver under the moonlight, waiting. You begin your descent. The rope groans faintly under your weight but holds strong. You scale the wall like ivy. When your feet touch the earth, it feels like coming home. The grass is damp with dew, cool against your skin. The air smells of pine and stone and distant smoke.

You glance back once at the looming silhouette of the palace, its towers stabbing into the sky like the bars of a gilded cage. A chill runs down your spine—not from the cold, but from the memory of what you’re leaving behind. Then you turn away from it all.

This is your world now. The dark. The wild. The places where your name holds no weight, where no one tells you who to be.

You break into a run, cloak snapping behind you, heart pounding in time with the rhythm of your freedom. Your boots make barely a sound against the earth as you cross the field, heading toward the tree line, where the forest looms like an ancient god waiting to swallow you whole.

The world is hushed and alive in its own quiet way. Each step takes you deeper into the night, into the wild that stretches far beyond the boundaries of your gilded prison. You stop at still, moonlit lakes to dip your fingers into the water. The chill soothes your skin. You brush your hands along tall grass and overhanging branches, pause to press your palm against tree bark and trace the soft curves of flowers that bloom only in the dark. Moss glows faintly under your fingertips, and fireflies blink softly overhead like stars that have come down to follow you.

It’s pitch black now, but you're not afraid.

You wish that doves were nocturnal. You would love for Celine to join you, to have her perched on your shoulder as you explored. She’d coo softly in your ear, bob her head in that way she does when curious, maybe even flutter down to peck at a mushroom cap or sip from a puddle. You picture her flying silently beside you, like a spirit guide.

You pull your journal from beneath your cloak—a small, leather-bound book worn soft at the edges from use—and stop to write. You sit on a smooth stone surrounded by ferns and take down notes by the silvery light of the moon. You record the shape of a twisted tree root, the sound of something splashing in the distance, the way your breath clouds just slightly in the cooling air. You sketch a flower you don’t recognize—long petals, bat-shaped, dark as ink.

Tonight, you feel brave. Bolder than usual.

You close the book and slip it back in your bag. Instead of looping back to your usual path—the one that circles the lake and follows the brook back toward the edge of the palace grounds—you veer left, deeper into the undergrowth. The woods here are thicker, the trees closer together. The moonlight is scarce, barely threading through the canopy above. Branches claw gently at your arms and shoulders as you push through, moving leaves aside, careful not to tear your cloak.

The air shifts. Colder. Like something is holding its breath. You pause, straining to listen. Nothing but the distant chirp of insects, the occasional rustle of unseen animals. The sound of a crow can be heard in the distance.

You press forward.

The brambles grow denser, snagging at your boots and pulling at your hem. You push on anyway. Then it happens—a sudden sting. You yelp, more from surprise than pain, as a low-hanging branch slices across your ankle. It cuts just above your boot, a thin line of fire blooming across your skin. You crouch quickly, wincing as you pull the fabric back and examine the scratch in the moonlight. It’s not deep. Not bleeding much.

You let out a long sigh.

You’ll come up with something to tell your mother. Maybe you tripped in the gardens. Maybe you snagged your leg on a splintered step. Something she won’t think twice about. You've learned to become good at lying after all. You brush the dirt from your hands and stand again, rolling your shoulders, shaking off the sting.

When you look up, your jaw drops.

There, rising out of the earth like a forgotten relic of another time, stands a cathedral. It’s tall and silent, veiled in ivy and shadow, like nature is trying to hide it, or protect it. The stone is cracked and moss-covered in places, but the architecture still sings of grandeur—tall, pointed arches, stained-glass windows dulled by years of grime, spires clawing toward the sky as though trying to reach something long gone. The moonlight spills across the facade, catching on the worn carvings and shattered glass, making the cathedral shimmer.

You can barely contain your excitement. With trembling hands, you pull out your journal and sketch the outline of the structure, ink smudging slightly as you jot quick, eager strokes. You record its position in your makeshift map, noting the landmarks: a twisted tree that leans like it’s bowing, the way the clearing opens like a breath in the forest. You even scribble down a few words to capture the feeling.

Then, unable to resist a second longer, you slowly approach the grand doors. They’re tall—easily twice your height—and carved with weather-worn symbols you can’t quite decipher. Some look like feathers. Others like stars. One looks almost like an eye. Dust cakes the edges, and rust gnaws at the iron bands bolting them together. You reach out, pressing your palm against the wood.

You push gently.

Nothing.

You push harder, using your shoulder.

Still nothing. The doors are jammed—maybe sealed shut by age, or warped from time and rain. A crack runs between them, wide enough to see through, but too narrow to squeeze anything larger than a hand through. You squint inside but can only make out darkness and the faint glint of broken glass.

Your excitement twists into frustration. You want—no, need—to get inside. To see what’s hidden within. What echoes live inside the walls. What stories the cathedral still keeps.

You step back and circle around the cathedral, scanning every detail of its exterior for another way in. A broken window. A gap in the stone. A missing brick. Anything. Ivy coils around the sides, thick and tangled, but you pull it aside, checking for hidden openings. You find an old alcove with a collapsed statue and kneel to brush dirt from the base, but it's nothing—just rubble.

Then, a flicker of hope—there, near the eastern wall. One of the stained-glass windows is shattered near the bottom, its edge jagged but low enough to reach. You hurry toward it, ducking under a fallen beam and crunching over broken tile and leaves. The opening is small, and the glass edges sharp, but it might be wide enough to slip through.

You press your hands to the stone and peek inside. It’s dark, of course, but not empty. You see the curve of pews. The glint of something metallic. Dust motes hang in the air, suspended in moonlight like stars trapped in time.

This place is waiting for you. You know it. You feel it in your bones. Now all you have to do is find your way in without slicing yourself open in the process.

You carefully pull yourself through the broken window, heart hammering in your chest, every inch of you tense with the fear of slicing your skin open. The jagged glass edges gleam faintly in the moonlight, catching and bending the light like sharpened teeth. You twist your body in the most awkward, uncomfortable way, trying desperately to avoid them. Your knee brushes a sharp shard and you freeze, breath caught in your throat.

No cut.

Your cloak snags on a protruding edge, and your breath hitches as you gently tug it free with trembling fingers. Every sound feels louder in this stillness—the rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of your boots on the windowsill, the pulse in your ears.

You’re almost through when your foot slips.

In a heartbeat, you tumble forward, your balance gone. Your hands reach out instinctively, but too late. Your elbow scrapes against the rough stone wall, and your shoulder hits the ground with a sharp thud. A startled shriek bursts from your lips, loud and ragged, echoing up into the high ceiling.

For a moment you lie there, stunned. You stare up at the shadowed rafters, vision adjusting slowly. The ceiling soars above you, far too high for this place to feel anything but haunted. Dust swirls in the air, stirred by your fall.

You groan softly as the pain settles in—nothing sharp or broken, just an ache that promises a new set of bruises in the morning. Carefully, you push yourself upright, wincing as you move. Dust and bits of old plaster cling to your hair and cloak. Your hands brush yourself off out of instinct, though you know it won’t make much difference.

The air inside the cathedral is thick. You shuffle forward awkwardly, arms raised slightly, feeling suddenly nervous. Your boots crunch over broken glass, fallen stone, and something brittle that might have once been wood or bone. You bump into a low object—wooden, your fingers tell you, wide and flat. A pew.

You pause beside it, running your hand along the smooth, dust-covered edge. The texture is strange—polished in some places, rough and splintered in others. You can almost imagine the weight of bodies that once sat here, the whispers of old prayers lost in the rafters.

You take another step. Then another.

You move forward cautiously, feeling your way as you go. The shadows press in around you, dense and weighty. Your eyes strain to adjust, and shapes begin to form in the dim. More pews. The curve of an altar at the far end.

You drag your hands along the wall as you move forward, fingers trailing through layers of dust and fine cobwebs. Your breathing is uneven, heavy with exertion and wonder, each inhale filled with the scent of aged stone, mildew, and something unexpectedly piney.

You keep walking, almost hypnotized, when your hand accidentally bumps against something metal.

Click.

A sudden sound, mechanical and strange, breaks the silence like a spark in the dark. You jerk your hand back, startled. Then, without warning, one by one, overhead lanterns begin to flicker to life. They buzz softly, a low hum that builds as each one warms, casting pale gold light in slow, deliberate pulses down the length of the cathedral—as if the building itself is taking a breath.

You stagger back a step, eyes wide. "Oh my...." you whisper aloud, your voice barely more than breath, yet it echoes off the stone in soft reverberations.

Your heart thuds against your ribs, the sound loud in your ears. Your eyes shimmer as you slowly take it in, lips parted in disbelief, in awe. The cathedral, from the outside, had been striking but tragic—cracked stone, ivy choking the architecture, windows shattered and blackened by centuries. But inside?

The transformation is jarring.

The pews, though dusty, are whole, perfectly aligned in symmetrical rows. The stone floor beneath you gleams faintly under its blanket of time, the veins in the marble glistening like captured moonlight. Every step you take leaves a footprint in the dust. The walls are lined with intricate carvings—scenes of angels, beasts, saints, and sinners—so precise they might have been etched yesterday.

Your gaze travels upward. The vaulted ceiling arches far above you, held up by elegant columns that stretch like limbs toward heaven. The chandeliers above, though unlit, dangle with clear, unbroken crystals, swaying slightly as if in a breeze you cannot feel.

And then your eyes land on the altar.

It sits at the far end of the nave, elevated by three shallow steps. The gold trim gleams like polished sunlight. The marble is untouched—no cracks, no decay. A pristine cloth is still draped over it, its embroidery rich with red and silver thread. You pass between the pews, brushing dust from the tops, fingers trembling. Your thoughts race. Who preserved this place? How has it survived untouched? Why does it feel...prepared?

Your questions are quickly forgotten as a new thought blooms in your mind—this place could be yours.

A hideaway. A secret retreat far from the eyes of your family, the endless expectations, and the suffocating walls of the palace. A place untouched. Here, in this forgotten cathedral, you could finally breathe. You could finally exist without performance. You could be yourself.

You glance around at the rows of dusty pews and adjust your hood. Despite the state of the exterior, the interior is astonishingly intact. It feels like a dream, like something sacred has been preserved just for you. But it still needs care. A little cleaning, some rearranging—it’s nothing you can’t manage. It’s abandoned, clearly.

Perfect.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you move between the pews, your boots stirring up tiny puffs of dust that glitter in the warm light. You press your palms against the back of one pew and push. It groans under the effort but slides slightly, its legs dragging along the stone floor with a low, gritty sound. The resistance only excites you more—it means no one’s touched it. It means you’re the first. This is your discovery. You huff softly, bending your knees to push harder. More dust floats up in a hazy cloud, catching the golden beams filtering from the high stained-glass windows. You cough once but grin through it.

Then, abruptly, the temperature drops.

A sharp, invisible chill brushes across the back of your neck. Goosebumps rise on your arms, prickling through your sleeves. The air had been still moments ago, but now it feels like something has shifted. Like something is watching. You pause and glance over your shoulder—but there’s nothing there. Just pews and dust. You shake your head, brushing the feeling off. Old buildings breathe. They shift. They creak. You’ve read about it. It’s natural. Besides, you have work to do. You turn back to the pew and give it another shove—and your back knocks into something.

A vase.

You gasp, spinning around with a frantic jolt, hands flying out to catch it before it topples. Time seems to lurch, stretching into something slow and syrupy as the vase tips off its pedestal in agonizing motion. Your heart leaps into your throat. Your stomach flips with panic.

You expect a crash and a shatter to fill the empty room. But it doesn’t fall. It hangs in midair, perfectly still.

Suspended, as though the very laws of nature have forgotten themselves. A soft glow blooms around it—a deep, smoldering red mist, dense and luminous. It pulses gently, rhythmically, like the steady throb of a heartbeat echoing through stone.

The mist coils with eerie grace, curling in elegant spirals around the fragile ceramic as though cradling it. You watch as the mist carries the vase back to its pedestal, as if it never had fallen in the first place.

Your breath catches. Your limbs go stiff. You can’t move. Then, from the deepest part of the shadows, a voice. Smooth. Deep as the pull of a current in a black river. There’s a languid confidence in it, like the speaker has all the time in the world. It slithers through the cathedral like smoke through keyholes, impossibly clear and close, though no shape yet forms.

"Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to touch things that don’t belong to you, miss?"

Your body goes frozen in shock. You can’t move as you slowly turn your head to look behind you. In the very edge of your vision, just barely caught in your peripheral, stands a tall, imposing figure. And that alone is enough.

An avalanche of fear drops into your chest, cold and suffocating. It grips your spine like ice water, numbs your fingers, floods your limbs with a frantic energy that has nowhere to go. Panic surges through you and before you can stop yourself, a scream tears from your throat, startled and desperate. You whirl and lunge toward the window you came through, heart hammering, legs already burning with the need to flee.

But you don’t make it.

The world lurches. Something unseen grabs hold of you, and your center of gravity vanishes. Your feet leave the ground as if pulled by an invisible thread, and you're yanked backward with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. You crash into a pew, the solid wood slamming against your back with a sharp, sickening thud. The pain is immediate and blooming, a dull ache that radiates through your ribs and shoulders.

You’re disoriented, stunned—but not alone.

The figure is in front of you now. He doesn’t walk. Doesn’t move like anything human. One moment he’s across the room; the next, he’s there. Like he was always there and you just hadn’t noticed. Tall and unnaturally still, his silhouette is wreathed in shadows that seem to breathe with him, as though the cathedral bends around his form.

You throw your arms up to shield yourself without thinking, body trembling, every instinct screaming to protect what little it can. Your voice wavers, high and shaking as you plead, "Please! I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me! I’m the princess of the Carpathia kingdom! My father—he’ll be very angry!"

The words fall from your mouth in a rush. Your voice trembles, and the space between you pulses with heavy silence.

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as you brace yourself for pain. You clench your eyes shut, heart crashing wildly against your ribs. In your mind, you curse yourself. You were foolish—so foolish to come here, chasing dreams and pretending you were brave. You should’ve listened to Arnette. Should’ve turned back.

But the pain never comes.

Instead, you feel your arms being pulled gently, yet firmly, away from your face. A cold hand wraps around your wrists and lowers them, revealing your tear-streaked cheeks. Another hand, colder still, slides beneath your chin and lifts it.

"Look at me."

The words are not a request. They are a command—low, smooth, and saturated with power. You feel something unnatural sink into your mind, tugging at your will, pulling your eyelids open as if your own muscles are no longer yours to control. You try to resist, but your body obeys.

And when your eyes meet his, your breath hitches.

Red. Deep as fresh blood spilled across white marble. His eyes burn with an intensity that steals the strength from your limbs. His face is strikingly handsome, almost unreal in its perfection—cheekbones carved sharp, lips thin and cruel, greyish-white hair falling in loose, silken waves that frame his skin like shadows framing moonlight. The color is strange, almost ethereal, as if age and beauty had struck a truce in him. His gaze holds you like a vice. Terrifying. Mesmerizing.

You can’t move. You can’t even blink.

He stares at you in silence for a moment, then slowly reaches forward. With practiced ease, he pulls back the hood of your cloak, exposing your hair, your face, and your identity. Recognition flares behind his eyes. His mouth twists into a smirk. You see his fangs peek out from the sides of his mouth, glinting dangerously in the soft light.

"Princess of Carpathia indeed," he murmurs, the amusement in his tone laced with darkness. "I don’t normally get royal whelps breaking in my place of rest."

You remain frozen, tearful and trembling beneath his grip, your heart pounding in terror and something else...something you don’t dare name.

"Let me go!" you scream, voice ragged and sharp, thrashing wildly in his iron grip. Panic claws at your throat as your limbs flail in desperation, but his hand doesn’t budge. It’s like being caught in stone—cold, unyielding, impossible to fight. Your vision blurs with tears, your chest heaving, lungs struggling to keep up with your terror. You twist and jerk, your body moving purely on instinct, but nothing works. His grip remains firm.

His smile fades.

It flickers, a shadow crossing his handsome features. For the briefest moment, you think you see annoyance—or disappointment. But before you can decipher it, a flash of pain erupts through your chest. It's sudden, searing, and impossible to define. You cry out, the sound ripped from your throat in a broken, raw scream. Your whole body stiffens as the red mist coils tighter around you, snaking from his form and wrapping around your limbs like living rope.

The sensation is suffocating. The mist feels sentient—pressing against your ribs, holding your legs still, wrapping around your throat without choking.

"Hush. No need to be so loud," he murmurs. His voice is soft, deceptively gentle, but threaded with steel. He grimaces, lifting one elegant hand to rub at his ear, clearly irritated by your scream. Yet the moment of annoyance passes, and his gaze snaps back to yours, colder now.

"You break into a stranger’s home and then make demands of him? The audacity." He exhales deeply through his nose, shaking his head in disdain. "A sign of the times, I suppose."

You’re trembling all over and your breath comes in short, broken gasps. Tears continue to trail down your cheeks, warm against the chill that surrounds you. The mist tightens again, not painfully, but as if reminding you who’s in control. Your voice shakes as you manage a whisper, barely audible.

"A-are you going to bite me? Drain my blood? T-transform me into one of you?"

He raises an eyebrow, then scoffs. His crimson eyes narrow slightly, and a bitter smirk curls the corner of his mouth. He studies you with a mixture of amusement and pity. "Do you really believe in children’s tales at your age?" he says, his tone dripping with disdain. He tilts his head, and the movement is unnervingly graceful, almost predatory.

"Besides, what makes you think I'd do such a thing, dear? We just met."

Your breath hitches again, but you don’t respond. What could you say? You can't even believe your staring at a true vampire right now. Everything about this moment feels impossible. To your utter shock, his hold loosens.

The red mist peels away like smoke sucked back into a flame. He lets go of your arm, the cold of his touch lingering on your skin like a brand, and steps back, the distance between you widening in a single movement. You shiver slightly, eyes not leaving his for a single second.

"Well. Go forth. Before I change my mind. You’ve already disturbed my rest, and yet I’m being polite," he hisses, the edge in his voice unmistakable. He turns his back to you without another word, his silvery white hair tousling slightly with the movement. The gesture is so final, so dismissive, it stuns you into silence.

You blink, frozen in place. For a moment, you expect a trick but nothing comes. He really means to let you go. The idea settles into your chest slowly, and with it, a strange, unexpected flicker of something bold. He didn’t kill you. He didn’t even try. And that…that gives you courage you didn’t think you had.

You slowly rise to your feet, still shaky, but determined. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off, but defiance begins to warm your blood just enough to let the words form. You take a step forward, lifting your chin despite the tremble still clinging to your voice.

"Those powers...you’re obviously not human. So then, how do you change people if not with a bite?" The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. The question hangs between you like a blade suspended mid-drop.

You see the change instantly. His shoulders go rigid, his posture tightening like a string pulled taut. The temperature around you seems to drop again. You can almost feel it—the shift in the air, the silent thrum of something angry and restrained. The tension spreads like frost through the room.

Then, in an instant, he’s in front of you.

No footsteps or sound was made. One moment the space is empty. The next, he fills it. He’s so close you instinctively suck in a breath. The cold of him wraps around you like fog, creeping under your skin. His eyes burn brighter now, locking onto yours with a heat that contradicts the icy air.

You don’t flinch, but your heart does. Loud and panicked, it hammers in your chest. Whatever small bit of bravery you’d summoned is now trembling beneath his stare.

You feel your face heat up under the pressure of his gaze, your skin prickling as the blood rushes to your cheeks. Your heart races, not just with fear, but with something tangled beneath it—uncertainty, dread, the bewildering realization that his eyes don’t just look at you—they look into you.

"You really want to know, doll?" he murmurs, voice low and rich, the syllables curling around you like smoke. There’s amusement there, yes, but it’s tempered by something sharper. "Are you willing to pay the price to find out?"

You open your mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. It wouldn’t matter anyway—he doesn’t wait for an answer. He moves in, slow and deliberate, like a creature that’s known nothing but control. His face draws closer to your neck, his gaze locked onto you with chilling focus. You recoil, trying to back away, but it’s hopeless. The red mist pulses to life again, coiling around your body with unnatural precision. It grips you in place, binding your arms and waist with a strength that doesn’t bruise but dominates.

The closer he gets, the more you realize something deeply wrong—there is no heat from him. No warmth of breath. No radiating body heat. His nearness is like being held against marble. You shiver uncontrollably as he leans in, close enough that you feel the brush of his hair against your cheek. Then he inhales.

The sound he makes is inhuman. A guttural, hungry breath that vibrates somewhere deep in his chest. His nose brushes against the side of your neck with agonizing slowness, and the simple contact makes you flinch in terror. Still, he holds you firm, forcing you to feel every moment of it. Your pulse pounds beneath your skin, a wild rhythm betraying your fear.

"I knew I smelled something divine tonight," he murmurs, voice dipped in reverence and cruelty all at once. "A scent sweeter and more potent than a little lamb’s blood...something that sings to instincts I’d long buried."

His words hang in the air like a spell, and before you can make sense of them, he leans even closer. His nose grazes your neck again, slow and indulgent, as if savoring a glass of fine wine. You go completely rigid. Your entire body locks up, frozen by fear that is primal and paralyzing.

Then, barely a whisper, almost tender in tone: "A true sign of a virgin."

You gasp, shocked and offended and terrified all at once. Your body jerks in the mist’s grip, trying once again to pull away. "E-excuse me...?" The words are hoarse, caught between disbelief and your face heating up in embarrassment. The "man" chuckles, moving briskly away from your neck as if pleased to have mustered such a flustered reaction. The mist disperses once more, slipping off your body like evaporating fog, its cold touch fading slowly from your skin.

You stagger back a step, hand flying to your chest, your breath coming fast and uneven. Your heart hammers inside you like a trapped bird. A thousand thoughts race through your mind—what he is, what he wants, what could have just happened—but one emotion cuts through all of it: rage. Fury surges up through the humiliation like a rising tide.

You glare at him, your hands balling into fists, shoulders drawn back despite your trembling. Your voice comes out louder than you expect, full of heat and venom. "You think that’s amusing? You hold me here, treat me like a toy to be played with and mention my virginity like a pig?"

You step forward, your chin raised. "You’re no different from humans. Just another brute who masks cruelty with charm. I may be young, but I’m not some soft little doll for you to leer at and humiliate. I'm not afraid of you anymore."

He sighs, the sound long and deliberate, drawn out like a teacher tired of correcting the same mistake. It carries a note of theatrical patience—like he's pretending to indulge you, just for fun. Then, predictably, another smirk carves across his face. "Ah yes, I'm a cruel monster who loves to prey on the weak," he drawls, every word soaked in mockery. "Especially sweet little virgins such as yourself."

The way he says it is vulgar without needing to be explicit, designed to provoke. He watches your reaction with open amusement, like he's flipping through a book he's already read and waiting for his favorite line to come up again.

He lifts his hand with an exaggerated laziness, and you instinctively tense. Behind you, the pew groans—ancient wood dragging across stone—as the red mist coils around it like a serpent. It lifts the heavy bench off the ground and shifts it back into its original place, neat and quiet, as if the chaos that brought it out of place had never happened.

"And yet...you're still standing here," he continues, his tone softening, but only on the surface. There’s mockery just beneath it, gleaming sharp. He takes a single step forward, slow and unhurried, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours. "I ponder why."

Your face burns hotter than before, the flush of fury creeping all the way to your ears. Every nerve feels raw under his gaze. You cross your arms tightly, not out of modesty but restraint. If you don’t hold yourself together, you might shake apart.

"Hush with your disgusting implications," you snap, voice rising. "I was on my way out. Appreciate you for keeping my blood in my body...quite the vampire you are."

The words are laced with sarcasm. You throw the title back at him like it’s a curse, not sure whether you want to wound his pride or draw it out further. His reaction is maddening. He chuckles again, richer this time, more entertained than before. He doesn’t look offended in the slightest.

Instead, he tilts his head, eyeing you like a curious animal. You get the sense he’s cataloging your every twitch, every word.

Still, he doesn’t seem keen on holding you hostage. There’s no trap, no sudden mist to reel you back in, no final threat whispered to you. That silence, though eerie and unnerving, is the only permission you need. You take that as your sign to leave.

With your head held high and your fists clenched at your sides, you turn and begin to march toward the window you climbed in from—your only known exit, the same way you came in hours ago, when this cathedral was just another forgotten ruin to you. Now, it feels alive. Haunted. You’ll never see it the same way again.

"Ah ah, little lamb," he calls after you, voice light, teasing, but with something darker curling beneath the tone. "Leaving through the window? A bit undignified for a princess, don’t you think?"

You stop in your tracks, spine straightening. You turn your head just enough to glare at him from the corner of your eye. Your mouth is already half-open, about to snap back that the doors were locked. But before you can fire your retort, he lifts a hand casually, like he’s brushing away a fly.

The red mist responds instantly. It rises from his form like smoke summoned by thought alone, tendrils winding out along the floor, sleek and purposeful. They snake toward the massive cathedral doors at the front of the sanctuary. With a slow, deliberate groan, the doors begin to open on their own, ancient hinges creaking under the weight of centuries.

Cold air rushes in, sharp with the scent of pine and earth and the faintest trace of wildflowers carried on the wind. Moonlight spills across the marble floor in long streaks, illuminating the dust in the air like falling stars.

You stare for a beat longer than intended. The display is dramatic—but undeniably impressive. You huff under your breath, more annoyed than grateful, and start walking again—this time toward the grand, open doorway. Each step echoes too loudly on the stone, but you force yourself not to quicken your pace.

As you pass him, you refuse to meet his gaze, though you feel the heat of it trailing you, heavy and deliberate.

"Oh," he says smoothly, just as your foot crosses into the doorway. "And if you’re about to send your dear old father to dispatch a legion of guards to kill me in his righteous fury...do tell him my name when he puts up the reward for my head."

You pause, just briefly, your pulse skipping. He waits, letting the silence draw out like thread stretched taut. "The name’s Sylus," he finishes, a quiet smile in his voice. "Pleasure to meet you tonight, your highness."

You don’t answer. You grip the edge of your cloak tighter, knuckles white, and step out into the night air without another word. You don’t run, but every muscle in your body is coiled tight with the urge to flee. You walk with purpose, the cold wind biting at your skin, the trees rustling like whispering ghosts as you disappear into the darkness. You don’t look back.

But the name stays with you.

Sylus.

You went back to the palace after that, shaken, silent, and utterly drained. Your limbs felt heavy as lead, your thoughts even heavier. You sat on your bed for what felt like hours, still in your cloak, still catching your breath, trying to understand what had just happened. What was that? Who was he?

When you finally drifted into sleep, it came in broken fragments. And when you awoke the next morning, the sunlight filtering weakly through your curtains, you tried desperately to convince yourself it had all been a dream. A strange, vivid nightmare conjured up from your exhaustion and your longing for escape.

But you were much too perceptive for such easy comfort. You knew better. You remembered the texture of the cathedral stone under your fingers. The smell of dust and pine and blood. The sound of his voice, deep and velvety. The cold grip of that red mist, the unnatural stillness in his skin. Dreams didn’t leave behind details like that.

You half-considered telling Arnette. But even as you rehearsed the idea in your head, you knew you wouldn’t go through with it. Not just because you'd be in trouble for sneaking out. No. It was more than that. If you told her, others would find out. Your father. The guards. The Court. And they’d kill Sylus. Without question. A creature like that would be hunted, cornered, burned to ash.

Your fists tightened at the thought.

And he hadn’t...technically done anything. He hadn’t kept you. He hadn’t bitten you. He’d teased and frightened you, yes but in the end, he’d let you go. That simple fact twisted uncomfortably in your chest. You felt conflicted and you hated it. Hated the way his name lingered in your mind.

Sylus.

As you attend your daily lessons, your mind drifts far from the words and motions expected of you. Your body is present, but your thoughts are miles away. Entangled in memory, in moonlight, in a pair of crimson eyes. You barely register your instructor’s voice during your embroidery lesson, your stitches uneven and your thread tangled more than once as your hands move on autopilot.

By the time your dance lesson begins, your distraction becomes too obvious to ignore. You stumble during a turn, your slipper catching awkwardly on the polished floor. A sharp gasp escapes you as you trip over your own feet and nearly fall. When you glance up, you find your mother peering into the room from behind the open door, her expression tight with disapproval.

Your dance teacher clicks her tongue sharply. "Focus, young lady," she scolds, her tone clipped. "Grace and awareness are essential for your presentation." You bow your head, murmuring an apology with as much humility as you can muster. "Yes, of course. I apologize."

But no matter how hard you try to center yourself, the thoughts return. At lunch, when you're offered a bland, minimal plate—having had no breakfast, of course, because young noblewomen are expected to maintain their figures—you pick at your food and stare into the distance. You barely hear the light chatter of your brothers or the gossip of the servants. All you can think about is him.

Sylus.

It haunts you in flashes—his voice, his smirk, the towering way he stood before you like a shadow draped in flesh. He had been so tall, so utterly imposing, that it made your breath catch without meaning to. And yet, despite it all, you hadn’t felt pure terror. Just…a strange sense of being seen.

Later, during your evening bath, Arnette finally says something. She's gently scrubbing your legs, her sleeves rolled up, her hands methodical. But when she notices the thin scratch along your ankle, her fingers pause.

"What’s this, my lady?" she asks, her tone filled with concern as she leans in for a better look. "It looks fresh. You didn’t hurt yourself last night did you?"

You freeze, unsure of how to respond. The memory of the tree branch, the stumble in the woods, comes rushing back with vivid clarity. You open your mouth, caught between honesty and silence, but only manage a quiet, "It's nothing. Im fine, its just a scratch. Please don't mention it."

Arnette isn’t convinced, but she doesn’t push—only sighs softly and begins applying ointment with care. "You’ve been so distracted today," she murmurs. "Is something on your mind? You seem…far away."

You don’t answer. You just sink a little deeper into the bathwater and close your eyes, trying not to think of cold hands and red mist and a name you can’t seem to forget.

Arnette takes the hint and doesn’t bring it up again. She finishes your bath in silence, humming softly under her breath as if to soothe the tension she can’t name. You’re grateful for it. The quiet is easier than trying to explain something you barely understand yourself.

By the time dinner arrives, your thoughts are no clearer. In fact, they’ve only grown more restless. The questions, the confusion, the lingering curiosity—they coil tighter in your chest with every passing hour. Finally, you can’t take it anymore.

You have to go back.

Both out of recklessness and to confirm you're not losing your mind. To see him again. To prove to yourself that it wasn’t some fever dream born from a nightmare. You feign illness at the dinner table, your voice soft and your hand resting lightly on your forehead. "I'm not feeling well," you murmur. "Perhaps I should lie down."

Nobody objects. Your mother barely lifts her eyes from her plate. Your father doesn’t speak at all. And of course, they’d rather you skip a meal than risk adding any softness to your frame. You excuse yourself, walk calmly to your chambers, and shut the door behind you with practiced grace. The moment you're alone, your hands are already in motion, pulling back the edge of the rug to reveal the rope you’ve prepared. Arnette peeks in one last time, her expression tight with concern. "Goodnight, my lady. Be careful," she says softly.

You nod, your heart already racing. "I will."

And then you're slipping out the window again, the cool night air hitting your face like a welcome slap. The stars are out, brighter than before, and the moon sits full and low in the sky. You clutch your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you begin your quiet escape through the garden and toward the edge of the woods.

You hadn’t seen Celine at all today. Not in the morning, not outside your window, not even during your lessons. The absence gnaws at you, small but persistent. You can only hope she’s alright. But right now, there's something else—someone else—pulling at your thoughts like a thread you can’t stop tugging.

You follow your hand-drawn map carefully, your eyes darting from shadow to shadow as the trees loom around you. Each turn feels like a gamble, each path more unfamiliar than the last. A nervous voice in your mind whispers that you may have imagined it all—that the cathedral was nothing more than a trick of your mind.

But then, like a mirage made real, the spires emerge from the treeline. The structure stands tall and silent, wrapped in darkness and ivy, just as imposing as you remember. Relief floods through your chest, your breath catching. You weren’t imagining things. It’s real.

This time, you don’t climb through a broken window. You don’t sneak. Instead, you stand in front of the massive cathedral doors, their ironwork twisted with age and weight. You raise your hand and knock—soft at first, then a little louder, your knuckles echoing against the wood.

For a moment, nothing happens. You start to wonder if it was foolish to come back after all. But then the heavy doors begin to groan, slowly creaking open. You take a cautious step back, heart pounding.

No one stands behind them. The interior is dark—then, one by one, the lanterns flicker on in long overhead rows, bathing the space in that same eerie, golden glow from before. You take it as a good sign. With hesitant steps, you walk inside, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sudden brightness. And as the doors shut quietly behind you, the outside world disappears once more.

The sounds of an organ soon fill the cathedral, low and echoing. The melody is haunting—sorrowful yet strangely soothing. It wraps around your senses, and compels you forward. Your feet move without conscious thought, each step guided by the pull of that mournful tune.

At the far end of the sanctuary, seated at the grand organ with his back straight and his fingers flowing over the keys like water, sits Sylus. He plays with the kind of focus born from centuries of repetition—his eyes closed, face unreadable, and not a single note missed. He looks like a statue carved into life, ageless and unreal, framed by the swirling tendrils of red mist that rise around him like incense smoke.

You approach quietly, drawn in by the solemn beauty of it all. You pause at the base of the steps leading to the altar, your eyes fixed on him in silent awe. The last note lingers longer than the others, hanging in the air like a farewell kiss before finally dissolving into the high rafters.

"Sylus...?" you call out softly, your voice nearly drowned by the echoing silence that follows.

He turns slowly on the bench, his red eyes opening to meet yours. There’s a spark of amusement there, as if he’d been expecting you all along. "I'm quite surprised you've returned," he says, standing to his full, imposing height. "Aren’t I supposed to be some heartless monster?"

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, the memory of your last encounter still sharp in your chest. There’s no anger in his tone, but something about the way he says it stings, as though he’s poking at your guilt just to watch you squirm. You glance down, searching for words that don't make you sound foolish.

"I enjoyed the song," you say finally, looking up again, trying to steady your voice. "That was...Toccata and Fugue, wasn’t it? It’s very lovely. My servant used to hum it all the time."

He raises a single brow at you, a flicker of surprise mingling with the faintest trace of curiosity. "Lovely," he repeats at last, as if testing the word, tasting it with mild distaste or perhaps disbelief. His voice lowers slightly. "Not the word most would use to describe it."

"Well, yes...the beginning is quite intense. But the rest is quite soothing in my opinion," you say, your voice a touch unsteady. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, unsure why you feel the need to defend your opinion so carefully, especially to him. There’s something disarming about the way he looks at you—like he’s always two steps ahead.

He walks forward until he’s standing directly in front of you. The light flickers across his features—sharp cheekbones, eyes that still glow faintly red, and silver-white hair that falls effortlessly into place. He’s striking in a way that unsettles you, beautiful in the same way a predator is.

"Well," he says coolly, tilting his head just slightly as he peers down at you. "What’s your purpose for being here? Surely you haven’t come to ask me to turn you?"

His voice is smooth and mocking, the words laced with sarcasm. His lips curl into a faint sneer, like he’s daring you to say something naive. You scoff, though it’s more for your own benefit than his. You’re trying to keep your composure, even as a flush rises to your cheeks. You force yourself to meet his gaze, refusing to shrink under the weight of his presence. "No. Of course not," you snap, voice firming. "I wanted to ask why you just let me go yesterday."

The question falls into the space between you, heavier than you expected. It’s been gnawing at you since the moment you left the cathedral—the moment the doors had shut behind you and the wind had swallowed up his name. You'd replayed it over and over again: how he could’ve harmed you, how he should have, if the stories were true. But he hadn’t.

You study his face now, watching closely. Looking for a flicker of truth, of hesitation, anything that might reveal what kind of creature you're dealing with. But his expression is unreadable.

"It wasn't out of the kindness of my heart, if that's what you're pondering," he says with a low chuckle, the sound echoing faintly through the vast, hollow cathedral. He rubs his fingers together, almost as if he's measuring something intangible between them. His eyes catch the flicker of light, glinting like embers. "I just think the death of a virgin is quite tragic."

Your face flushes so hot, it feels like your skin might catch fire. Your breath catches in your throat, and you glance away sharply, your jaw tightening. It shouldn’t sting the way it does—but it does. Of course that would be his answer. Why would he treat you with sincerity when he's a monster? You clench your hands into fists at your sides.

"Thought so," you snap back, your tone sharp and cold, laced with an edge you didn’t quite mean to let show. But the ache that follows isn’t anger. Its an invisible bruise blooming in your chest. "Quite expected from someone with no beating heart."

Sylus studies you silently, his smirk fading into something unreadable. "So you really came all the way here just to confirm my inhumanity? Didn’t you already figure this out yesterday?"

You open your mouth, but the words trip and stumble on your tongue. Your confidence, already fraying, finally gives. "I—I..."

You release a breath, long and quiet, and your shoulders drop slightly. You don't try to hide your weariness this time. "When I found this place, I thought it could be the greatest hideaway I’d ever discovered," you admit. Your voice comes out softer, as if you’re afraid speaking too loudly will break something fragile in you.

"I’ve spent so long trying to find somewhere that felt like it belonged to me. Somewhere untouched by everything I’m expected to be."

Your eyes trail up the columns of the cathedral, the golden light spilling down the stone walls, casting long shadows on the ground.

"This place...it felt real. More real than anything I’ve known behind the palace walls," you continue. "And for a moment, I thought maybe I could be real here too. Not just someone's future bride or mother. Just...a person."

You finally meet his eyes again, your voice barely above a whisper now. "I naively came back because I needed to know whether or not that small dream was foolish. And you..."

You hesitate, swallowing hard. "You reminded me that I don’t belong anywhere. So forgive me for coming back so recklessly. I'm just a royal whelp after all."

You don’t know why you’re telling him all this. Why your heart is cracking open in front of someone who barely qualifies as human. Not that it matters. You doubt he genuinely cares. He’s probably already forgotten half of what you said, filing it away as meaningless noise.

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just hums low in his throat—an acknowledgment, perhaps, or maybe just a placeholder to fill the air between you. His eyes flicker toward you briefly, and then he moves past you without another word. You turn slightly to follow him with your eyes as he descends the stone steps from the altar, his every movement smooth and fluid, eerily graceful.

"I never said you had to leave," he says over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly in the vast, empty space. "Or that you couldn’t stay."

The words catch you off guard. They hit softly but land deep, filling your heart with hope you had long lost. He stops halfway down the steps, resting a hand lazily on the edge of a pew. The silence that follows seems to invite you in—invite you to believe him.

"Honestly," he adds, exhaling in mock disappointment, "I assumed you came back to allow your fellow guards to ambush me. Thought I’d get a bit of excitement tonight. Would’ve made quite the dramatic evening. And a nice meal, but alas."

He smiles to himself, amused by the thought, and turns just enough to glance back at you from over his shoulder. You blink, trying to keep up with the shift in tone. Your mind spins, trying to decode his meaning, his sarcasm, the real intent beneath his words. "I can…be here at night then?" you ask, hesitantly, the words escaping before you can stop them.

He walks to a forgotten vase sitting on the far side of the room, lifts it with one hand, and examines the dead flowers inside. "Don’t attempt to move anything else," he says, brushing dust from the rim with a flick of his thumb, his tone casual but firm. "Otherwise, I don’t care where you go or what you do here. Just be gone by sunrise."

The vase clinks softly as he sets it back down, and he doesn’t even look at you as he finishes the sentence. You stand there for a moment longer, uncertain whether what you feel is relief, humiliation, or something far stranger.

"I—thank you. Sylus," you say timidly, the words barely above a whisper. It feels strange to speak his name aloud, like invoking something ancient and powerful. He meets your gaze for the briefest moment, nods once, and then vanishes in a swirl of mist that snaps upward and dissipates into the rafters.

Strangely, it doesn’t shock you nearly as much as it should. You simply stare at the empty space where he stood, your heartbeat steady, the weight of the moment oddly grounding.

Left alone in the silence, you decide to make use of the time. You explore the cathedral more freely now, your fingertips brushing over the surface of the organ he’d played earlier. The keys are smooth beneath your hand, cold to the touch. You press a few softly, the notes echoing faintly like ghost voices. You open creaking doors, peek behind aged tapestries, and wander deeper into the long-forgotten halls. Dust covers much of what you find, but the space holds a strange kind of peace—a hush that feels like sanctuary.

Then you see it.

A narrow window gives way to the soft glow of candlelight, and when you peek through it, your breath catches. An entire room filled with books—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, piled on tables, even scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Your heart leaps.

You push the door open slowly, reverently, and step inside. The air smells of old parchment and ink, a scent you’ve always loved. You run your fingers along the spines, marveling at the strange titles, the languages you don’t recognize, and the sheer number of volumes.

You lose yourself in the pages for hours. History, mythology, anatomy, forbidden magic—things you’d never be allowed to touch back at the palace. You devour them hungrily, your mind alight with wonder. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel alive.

So engrossed are you in the world of ink and words that you don’t even notice the first sliver of sunlight creeping across the stone floor. It isn’t until a warm golden beam hits your arm that you gasp, looking up in horror. The sun is rising.

You slam the book shut, nearly knocking over a stack beside you, and scramble to your feet. You rush out of the library, down the long hall, and out the cathedral doors, your breath catching in your throat as you break into a sprint. At the edge of the clearing, you pause and glance back one last time. The cathedral looms behind you, still and silent, as if it had been sleeping the whole time.

You wonder, not for the first time, where Sylus sleeps.

The first few nights you return, you’re too wary to approach him. You don’t know what to say—or whether he even wants your presence there. Most evenings, you only catch glimpses of him: walking through the nave like a ghost. You learn quickly that some nights he hunts, disappearing into the woods and returning with a faint, coppery scent clinging to him. You don't ask questions.

Other times, the two of you simply coexist, sharing the same space but barely exchanging words. He sits beneath the high arch of a stained glass window; you curl up in the library with a stack of books, losing yourself in forbidden knowledge and forgotten languages. It becomes routine—familiar, even. Comfortable in its silence.

You think he doesn’t notice your nightly visits to the library. You never announce yourself, and he never comments. Until one night, you step inside and find something waiting for you.

Lying on the corner of the library table, set delicately atop one of your half-finished books, is a bookmark. But not just any bookmark—it’s gold-embossed, thin, with delicate etchings that catch the light like lace. A feather engraved in the metal shimmers faintly in the candlelight.

You stare at it for a long moment before picking it up gently, running your thumb over the texture. It’s beautiful. You don’t see him that night, but when you leave, you find him sitting silently on the steps of the altar, as if he’s been there all along.

"Thank you," you say, pausing in the aisle.

He glances up briefly, his expression unreadable. Then he nods—just once. That’s all. But it’s enough to make your heart feel inexplicably full as you step into the cool night air.

It warms your heart to think that someone thought of you. The gesture, simple as it was, lingers in your mind far longer than it should. For several nights after, you turn the golden bookmark over in your hands like a cherished trinket, studying the etched rose with quiet reverence. You run your fingers along its edges, press it between pages, and smile every time you find it waiting in your book again.

But you can't visit him.

Security at the palace tightens unexpectedly. Word spreads of unrest between kingdoms—tensions rising, alliances fraying, and whispers of a looming war echoing through court corridors. Everyone is on edge. Guards now patrol the grounds late into the night, and new curfews are enforced under strict penalty.

Even Celine seems distressed. Your poor dove, usually so calm and affectionate, flutters nervously at your window each afternoon, chirping as though sensing your growing restlessness. You cradle her gently, whispering comfort into her soft feathers while your mind turns over plan after plan.

You miss him. You miss the silence, the cathedral, the way being there felt like slipping into another life entirely—one where you weren't a doll to be displayed or a burden to be shaped.

Eventually, the ache of absence becomes unbearable.

One afternoon, after days of waiting and pacing and failed attempts to sneak out, you manage to dig a narrow tunnel beneath the outer garden wall. It's a slow, dirty process that leaves your hands blistered and raw, but it works. As soon as the sun dips low, you crawl through the cramped passage, heart pounding with hope and fear in equal measure.

And when the cathedral’s spires rise through the trees, silhouetted against the twilight sky, a wave of aching relief washes over you.

"Sylus! I wasn't able to leave until now. I apologize for keeping your bookm—" you stop mid-sentence, the words dying in your throat as your eyes widen.

Sylus stands at the far end of the nave, framed by the pale light slanting in through the stained glass windows. He calmly dabs at the corner of his mouth with a bloodied handkerchief, the deep crimson stark against the whiteness of the cloth. A faint smear remains at the edge of his lip, glinting wet in the fading light. He doesn’t flinch or hide it—instead, he merely blinks in what might be surprise at your sudden appearance. But it passes quickly, and his posture eases, his features smoothing into a relaxed, neutral expression.

"So I've heard," he says, folding the cloth with a strange sort of elegance and tucking it away into his coat. "The kingdom is quite restless these days."

He starts walking toward you, his shoes making no sound on the stone floor. There’s something both beautiful and unnerving about the way he moves—as if he’s always aware of every breath you take.

You hesitate, still trying to steady your breath after your frantic journey. The moment feels heavy, like you’ve interrupted something not meant to be seen. "You go into the village?" you ask quietly, voice a touch incredulous. "I thought sunlight hurts you?"

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, reverberating through the cold air and off the high vaulted walls. It echoes too long to be natural. "Children’s books aren’t good references for learning, little lamb."

He closes the distance between you, reaching out before you can react. His hand ruffles your hair gently, playfully, like one might greet a pet or a younger sibling. The gesture is unexpected, intimate in its own way, and your body stiffens in surprise. You jump slightly at the contact, heat rushing to your cheeks.

"I can be in the sun," he continues, drawing his hand back and tucking it into his coat pocket. "It just isn't pleasant on the skin and eyes. Like standing too close to a fire. Irritating, not deadly."

He glances up toward the stained glass, where moonlight seeps in through panes of red and violet, casting soft, eerie shadows across the floor. "Pain and death are not always synonymous. I am nocturnal because I choose to be."

You're in awe and realize something you hadn’t dared to admit before: you want to know more about him. About his kind. About the centuries he’s seen, the truths buried behind his past. The words rise in your throat slowly, but you finally find the courage to ask.

"Sylus...will you tell me about yourself?"

At first, he seems hesitant. You think for a moment he’ll mock you or refuse. But instead, after a long pause, he sighs quietly and gestures for you to sit. You both settle across from each other—on opposite ends of a long, worn bench near the altar. The cathedral is quiet around you, its silence almost reverent, like it too is holding its breath.

He begins slowly.

His voice is almost detached as he tells his story. How he wasn’t born this way. How he was just a boy—no older than your youngest brothers—when he was turned. Not by choice. Just wrong place, wrong time. He speaks of his village, tucked deep in the mountains, how they didn’t understand. How they feared him once the signs began to show. The way his appetite changed. The way he no longer craved real food. How the dogs barked at him in the night.

And then—how they came for him.

He tried to hide, but they found him anyway. They killed his parents first, thinking they were protecting others. And when they turned on him, he ran. He ran for years. Through forests and villages, watching generations live and die. Watching languages shift. Cultures collapse. Watching the world forget the boy he used to be.

Eventually, he tells you, he stopped running. Settled here, out of the way. A place with livestock, where no one asked too many questions about the dead things in the woods. When he finishes, the silence between you is suffocating. Your hands tremble in your lap, and your eyes are wet. You hadn’t realized you were crying until you feel a tear slip down your cheek. He watches you with a somber and curious expression.

"That’s...my history," he says finally. "Not quite a child's tale, is it?"

You don’t know what possesses you, but you move before you can think—crossing the space between you and Sylus, wrapping your arms around him in a tight, sudden hug. The contact is brief at first, hesitant, as if you're afraid he might vanish. But then your fingers tighten slightly into the fabric of his coat. Emotion swells in your chest, uncontainable, messy. It surges like a dam breaking.

"I’m...sorry," you murmur into the thick material. His body is cold and unnaturally still. "Humans are awful. I’m well aware of that fact too. And for the record, I like children's tales."

The moment stretches too long, a beat too intimate, and panic grips you. You pull back quickly, as if burned, your eyes wide and breath shallow. Realization crashes in like cold water. "S-sorry! I just... I thought maybe it had been a while since you were hugged...?"

He stares at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. But then his eyes soften slightly, the usual sharpness in them dulled by something gentler. "It’s quite alright," he says quietly, and there's the faintest hint of surprise in his voice. "It felt...lovely."

You feel your face burn. Your cheeks grow hot, and the heat spreads down your neck, into your chest. His words play on repeat in your head, looping with dizzying intensity. "Yes?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you even want the answer or just needed to hear him say it again.

"Yes," he confirms, more firmly this time. His voice drops an octave, warm and rich. His eyes lock with yours, and there’s a gleam behind them, something impossible to escape.

"You're quite warm."

You feel frozen in place, unable to look away. It wasn't exactly a secret, not even from the start. You always knew he was beautiful in a haunting, inhuman way. But now, with him this close, with that look in his eyes—a gaze that seems to read every thought you've ever had—you can’t pretend anymore.

He’s handsome. Strikingly so. And worse yet, you’re starting to feel it. To want more.

The room feels warmer, though the air remains cool. Your heart hammers in your chest, your palms damp. Your head spins like the very cathedral itself is swaying around you, its old stone bones echoing the sudden rush of blood in your ears.

"I need to leave early tonight," you say suddenly, cutting through the heavy tension lingering in the air. You gather your cloak with a touch more urgency than necessary, avoiding his eyes. "I’m going to the village tomorrow with my mother. I’ll need all my energy for it."

For a second, something flickers across Sylus's face. Disappointment? You can’t be sure. It’s gone too quickly, replaced by his usual calm, aloof expression. He nods once and turns his attention to a nearby book, the golden lamplight catching on the sharp line of his jaw.

"Farewell, for now then. Tell me of your travels tomorrow." he says, voice quiet.

You mumble your goodbye and rush out of the room, cloak fluttering behind you as your footsteps echo off the stone. You don't dare look back, not wanting him to see the furious blush blooming across your cheeks or the frantic thoughts spinning through your mind.

All the next day, you can’t stop thinking about him.

Every moment of silence stretches too long. Every flicker of red you see in a tapestry or thread reminds you of his eyes. You find yourself absentmindedly touching the place where his fingers had ruffled your hair. The memory sends a jolt through your chest, warming and unsettling all at once.

Even during the carriage ride to the village, your thoughts are tangled in last night’s conversation—his voice, his stare, his expression just before you left. You wonder if he’s thinking of you too, or if you were just another passing visitor in a lifetime of centuries.

The village is bustling with morning energy, carts rolling by and children darting between vendors. Your mother walks ahead with a dignified pace, stopping to greet nobles and merchants alike. You try to stay focused, to mimic her composure, but your gaze keeps drifting.

It happens when you least expect it.

Your mother is speaking to a merchant, inquiring about fabrics, when your eyes catch on a poster nailed to a wooden post just beyond the stall. You step closer, curious, and then the words on the parchment leaps out at you like a bolt of lightning.

Wanted.

You freeze, eyes locked on the aged parchment. You read the words aloud under your breath before you can stop yourself. "Crimson-eyed fugitive...seen near the eastern woodlands..."

Your voice is soft, but your mother hears it anyway. She turns sharply, brow furrowed in suspicion. "How in the world did you manage to read that dear?"

Panic surges in your chest, cold and instant. Your mind races for an excuse, a deflection. But then, right on cue, your brothers start shouting over each other, arguing about who gets to pick the next sweet from the vendor's tray. The noise erupts loud and chaotic, drawing your mother’s attention away from you.

She turns to scold them, distracted. Her voice rises in reprimand, hands on her hips, her moment of suspicion forgotten—or at least delayed. You exhale shakily and take a slow step back from the poster, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears. You can still see the drawing of his face, a stylized depiction with piercing red eyes. You wonder if anyone else has recognized him. If anyone else knows where he is.

You should ask him about this. Definitely warn him. Surely he hasn't murdered anyone? Not the Sylus that you had come to know.

You’re almost nervous to bring it up. Something about Sylus tonight feels off. He doesn’t greet you with his usual dry amusement or smug commentary. Instead, he seems distracted—irritated, even. His posture is tense, his eyes sharper than normal, flickering toward the shadows as if expecting something. Maybe he's tired? Maybe something happened? Whatever it is, he’s not his usual, composed self, and it unsettles you more than you care to admit.

Still, you gather your courage and press forward.

"I saw wanted posters in the village," you say cautiously, trying to keep your tone neutral. "They had your face on them. Your description. Sylus...did you do something?" His jaw tightens, his eyes growing darker, unreadable. He turns away slightly, as if the question itself leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The silence stretches long and taut, and your stomach knots with unease. Then, finally, he speaks.

"Animal's blood doesn’t always satisfy me," he says, voice low and cold. Its all he has to say before he goes silent again, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

Your heart slams against your ribs. So it was true? He was the one killing and draining the blood of those people? "Sylus...that’s...you shouldn’t..." you stammer, stumbling backward slightly, your voice faltering. The idea of him feeding on humans sends a chill through you. His head turns slowly, and his gaze meets yours. There’s a gleam in his crimson eyes—mocking, wild,...a kind of simmering hunger you hadn’t seen in him before.

"Hm? What? Are you suddenly afraid?" he murmurs, the question a quiet threat, soaked in something feral.

He rises from his seat in a single, smooth movement, his presence growing with every step. His coat shifts behind him like a trailing shadow. In an instant, he’s closer—too close. You instinctively retreat, but the cold air around him seems to press in on all sides, suffocating and sharp.

You search his face, desperate to find some trace of the man you’ve grown used to. But tonight, his mask is slipping. There’s something primal bleeding through the cracks. "You think I live on pretty speeches and nostalgia? That centuries of restraint are always enough?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with a rough, aching edge. You can barely breathe. He’s standing so close now that the candlelight catches the faint shimmer of dried blood still clinging to the edge of his mouth. The sight makes your stomach twist.

He’s not acting like himself tonight.

“Sylus…?” you whimper, voice trembling as you flinch away from his touch. But it’s too late. He grabs you. The pain shoots through your arms as his grip tightens, far stronger than it needs to be—far stronger than anything human. You cry out, the sound echoing through the empty cathedral, swallowed quickly by the shadows.

His face is far too close now. His breath brushes your skin, cold as ice. One of his eyes—his right—seems to glow more brightly than the other, a pulsing crimson that feels like a warning.

“My restraint only exceeds so far,” he growls, voice low and strained. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me since we met? I dream of just one taste of your sweet blood…to ravish and rob you of your virgin innocence.”

Your gasp is sharp, horrified. You struggle against him, but his hold doesn’t budge. Tears blur your vision and streak down your cheeks, the betrayal cutting deeper than his fingers ever could.

“Please…,” you sob, chest heaving. “I thought you liked me…”

He doesn’t answer. His mouth parts slightly, and before you can brace for it, his tongue brushes your throat. You scream. It’s not just a cry—it’s a raw, guttural wail of terror, piercing the still cathedral like shattered glass. The sound jolts through the space, echoing through vaulted ceilings. Sylus stumbles back like he’s been struck. His eye pulses, then fades. His whole body shudders. He clutches his ear with one hand, turning from you, his chest rising and falling like he’s winded.

You hit the ground with a jarring thud, sobbing openly now, curling in on yourself. Every muscle trembles, your breath broken and shallow. You can barely register the world around you beyond the pounding in your ears.

"I...," Sylus says, voice hoarse. It's the first time you’ve ever heard him sound unsure. "I didn’t...it wasn’t—"

He cuts himself off, the weight of his own words too much. Then he exhales, low and heavy, and lowers his hand. When he looks back at you, something in his expression has changed. The menace is gone. What’s left behind is obvious shame.

"You should leave," he says softly. "It’s not safe for you here right now. I haven't hunted in a few days."

You hesitate, flinching when he extends a hand. The gesture is small, but so jarring in its gentleness that it disarms you. The danger feels like it’s passed though. Shaking, you reach out and take his hand. He helps you up with care, no trace of the violence from moments ago. The silence between you is unbearable. You turn, cloak fluttering behind you, eyes downcast. You don’t dare speak. Your throat is still raw, and you feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back as the doors close.

You knew you shouldn't go back. Every voice of reason in your head screams for you to stay away. Dealing with a being like him—one who could lose control so easily—was clearly putting your life in danger. What he had done, what he had nearly done...it should've been enough to keep you away forever. The sensible part of your mind still echoes with fear, still flinches at the memory of his hands and his hunger, of how close you came to losing yourself to him entirely.

But it wasn’t enough.

The irrational part of you—the part that longed for escape, for something more than gilded cages and hollow smiles—dragged you back. You couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to see him. You needed to feel something. And here, in this forgotten place, surrounded by stone and secrets, you felt more alive than anywhere else. Here, you weren’t the perfectly postured daughter of a noble house. You were something else. Someone real.

There’s no hesitation in your steps tonight. You don’t even knock. You walk straight through the heavy cathedral doors, the scent of cold stone and faint incense wrapping around you like a shroud. Your boots echo across the ancient floor as you make your way down the center aisle.

He’s there, as if he never moved. Seated alone in one of the pews near the front, posture composed, hands folded loosely in his lap. A black crow settles beside him, its beady eyes radiating intelligence. It tilts its head when it sees you, but doesn't make a sound. His expression is unreadable at first but when his gaze lifts and locks with yours, something in his eyes softens. The corners of his mouth twitch, as if a smile almost dares to form.

You're about to ask about the bird, when he suddenly gets up. He raises his hand and beckons you to follow.

You hesitate for only a heartbeat before moving to him. He leads you down the familiar corridor, deeper into the cathedral’s belly, your footsteps trailing behind his silent stride. The air grows warmer the farther you go. The heavy wooden door to the library creaks open, and you step into the quiet sanctuary of books.

He gestures toward a spot on the thick rug near a low table. A few cushions are strewn about haphazardly, and the soft golden glow of a nearby lantern pools over several open volumes. You sit beside him, close enough to feel the chill that still clings faintly to his presence, but far enough to keep the space between you safe.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he picks up a thin, worn book from the stack and opens it. The binding creaks softly.

When he speaks, his voice is low and slow. He reads the way one might recite an old poem. The story is a simple one, a child's tale of a brave princess and a clumsy dragon who become unlikely friends. His deep timbre wraps around the words and fills the quiet room, his cadence soothing.

You lean in slightly without meaning to, caught in the rhythm of his storytelling. Your eyes scan the illustrations, old ink sketches that seem oddly charming despite the age of the book. Your shoulders begin to loosen, the tension easing from your body. He keeps reading. Another story, and another.

And then you realize—he remembered.

He remembered the way your face lit up when you found this room, how you’d talked, with unexpected enthusiasm, about the books you used to sneak from the palace library. Books filled with fairy tales and fantasy, stories that always meant more to you than etiquette manuals or courtship guides ever could.

This was his apology. His way of attempting to comfort you. He likely could not bring himself to say the words, or likely wasn't sure how. But it was there in the gentle way he turned each page, in how he chose stories with happy endings and characters who overcame loneliness. It was in how he let you sit close without teasing you for it.

It warms something deep inside your chest. Makes your throat tighten with emotion. You glance at him, watching the way the candlelight dances across his skin, the curve of his mouth as he reads. He looks calm tonight. But there's a fragility to it—as if he’s rebuilding something inside himself, brick by careful brick.

You don't even realize you had leaned on his shoulder until the gentle shift of movement stirs you awake. Your cheek brushes against something solid yet cool and you blink in drowsy confusion. The first light of dawn is spilling lazily through the cathedral’s tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the dusty floor and your skin.

Your body aches slightly from the awkward position, but it’s the warmth of the moment that makes your heart ache more. Slowly, you lift your head from Sylus’s shoulder, eyes still bleary with sleep.

"You sat there all night?" you murmur, your voice raspy, still wrapped in the haze of slumber. You blink a few more times, rubbing your eyes as the soft morning glow sharpens the outline of his face.

Sylus turns to look at you, his features blank for a moment. But then he nods, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "You fell asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you."

His voice is low, smooth, but lacks the usual edge. There’s only sincerity there. You search his face for mockery and find none. You sit up straighter now, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, still trying to make sense of what just happened. That he let you sleep against him—that he stayed still for hours, keeping watch. A vampire, a predator, waiting in silence while you rested...it was quite unbelievable.

He rises to his feet, movements fluid but a bit slower than usual. His gaze drifts toward the fractured golden light stretching across the stone floor. "Run along now, before the sun’s fully up," he murmurs, turning his head just enough to glance at you. "The daylight’s not kind to me, I'd like to rest."

You hesitate, not wanting to leave. But you both know that you must. You gather your things slowly, reluctant to break the moment. You glance back one last time as you reach the library door. He hasn’t moved. He sits next to the tiny light like a statue from another time, avoiding warmth he can’t fully feel except for except painfully, surrounded by shelves.

Things were never quite the same after that.

With growing rumors of war and a kingdom growing more restless by the day, you found yourself more desperate than ever to escape—to return to the cathedral, to him. Each night became a sanctuary. Each stolen moment between you and Sylus carved itself into your bones like a secret prayer.

You eventually learn more about the crow you saw that night. His name is Mephisto. Sylus uses him as sort of a messenger bird, similar to pigeons, and Mephisto started routinely dropping you little presents at your palace window at night. Various pebbles, jewelry, plants. He even seemed please to learn about Celine, your own pet bird, and you promised to attempt to find her nest and bring her along one night.

You two would talk for hours in the flickering light of candles or under the cool blue wash of moonlight through the stained-glass windows. He humored your endless questions about vampire lore with the faintest of smiles playing on his lips, patient as ever.

"Do you really need permission to enter someone’s home?"

"No," he replied smoothly, leaning back against a pew. "But I'd like to think I'm quite polite."

"Does garlic hurt you?"

"I do miss the taste at times. But no."

Sometimes, he'd follow your questions with stories—wry, quiet tales from distant centuries that made you laugh or ache or stare at him in wonder. Time had weathered him, but not worn him down. If anything, it gave him a charm you could lean into.

He began teaching you how to play the cathedral’s grand organ. His cool hands would gently adjust your fingers on the keys, and he’d praise you for every note, no matter how small the progress.

One night, after particularly long practice, he finally showed you where he slept.

The cathedral basement was a dark, quiet hollow of stone and cold air. No coffin, much to your amusement—just a thick velvet blanket laid across the stone floor and a shelf of worn books nearby. You teased him gently, and he chuckled, unbothered.

"A coffin would be quite theatrical," he said simply, and you laughed.

The nights turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And slowly, almost without realizing, he began filling the little holes in your heart, patching the frayed edges of your loneliness with his presence, his attention, his strange, unwavering respect for you. He never pushed. Never demanded. Just...existed beside you, like a shadow.

And each time you returned to the palace, you felt the growing emptiness of the life you’d once accepted with dread. Because compared to the quiet joy you found in that cathedral, everything else felt hollow.

Everything else felt like pretending.

Until finally, something between you both snapped.

You were in the cathedral library once more, the massive shelves looming like sentinels in the low light. Sylus had noticed you shivering during your nightly visits, and without a word, took it upon himself to restore the old stone fireplace. Tonight, a warm fire crackled softly nearby, its golden glow spilling across the room and licking at the floorboards. You watched the flames with awe, letting the rare warmth envelope your body like a second skin. Sylus, ever cautious of fire, approached warily but still chose to sit beside you. Even seated, his large frame dwarfed yours, a cool presence against the heat of the fire.

You hesitated only a moment before letting your impulse take over. Carefully, boldly, you crawled into his lap, your limbs curling into him like you belonged there.

"This is unbecoming of royalty," he murmured, a teasing glint in his eyes.

But he made no move to stop you.

His arms rested loosely around you as you nestled against his chest, feeling the weight of his attention settle fully on you. You stayed like that for a while, lulled by the fire and his steady, unblinking presence. Then, slowly, nervously, you tilted your head up to meet his gaze.

He was already looking at you.

The air grew heavy, charged with something neither of you dared name. You stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the firelight dancing in his crimson eyes. Then, heart pounding, you leaned up and kissed him. He was cold—shockingly cold, like marble soaked in ice water. It startled you, but not enough to stop. There was no heat in his skin, but the emotion behind his kiss burned all the same. He didn’t hesitate. His mouth claimed yours with quiet, deliberate urgency. His lips parted against yours, and his tongue brushed over yours in a movement so intimate it stole your breath.

He was careful—achingly so. Not once did you feel the razor edge of his fangs, though you knew they hovered there, barely restrained. He moved like a man afraid to break something delicate.

It was wild.

And it was more alive than anything you’d ever known.

His hands ghosted over your body, tentative yet reverent, as if memorizing you through touch alone. One moment, you were curled in his lap—then the next, the two of you were on the floor. The fire crackled in the background, its warmth flickering across the stone, casting shadows that seemed to dance along with your heartbeat. Sylus loomed above you, his body a wall of stillness, cold and commanding. You lay beneath him, trembling—not from fear, but the overwhelming arousal bursting in your body.

Your breath came in shallow waves, and he seemed to notice. His movements slowed. He dipped his head, lips brushing against your throat, and paused there. You felt his breath, cool and uneven, against your skin. His eye gleamed, that crimson light glowing brighter than before. The hunger in him was palpable, pressing into the air between you.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn away. Instead, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded into his silvery hair, anchoring yourself to him.

“Sylus…” you whispered, voice trembling with something between courage and surrender. You tilted your head, exposing your neck fully. “It’s alright. Drink.”

The words hung heavy between you. An invitation, a vow. Whatever happened next, you were no longer afraid.

He paused, his breath catching as his nose hovered just above your neck, and a low growl reverberated deep in his chest. His hands, once exploring with reverent curiosity, now gripped the floor beside your head like he was anchoring himself—like letting go might ruin you both.

"I can't do that to you," he muttered, voice hoarse and dark, trembling with restraint. You felt his breath ghost against your skin, cool and sharp like mist off a blade. He pulled back slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. And god, those eyes. There was longing in them. Hunger. And torment so fierce it almost looked like pain.

"Once I begin, I can’t stop."

He leaned closer again, his lips nearly brushing yours, his voice sinking lower, rougher. "I’ll claim you," he whispered. "Every inch. Every part. Your blood, your soul, your innocence."

Each word struck like a spark in your chest.

His jaw was tight now, his entire body coiled like a beast barely contained. You could feel the tension vibrating off of him. He wanted you—yes—but not as a fleeting indulgence. As something far more complete. Consuming. "We’ll become one," he breathed, and his words came out slow, like he needed you to understand this wasn't something casual for him. "And you will no longer be human."

The firelight behind him cast flickering shadows across his face, giving his sharp features a sculpted, ancient kind of beauty—dangerous and otherworldly. You saw centuries of loneliness and loss in his eyes. And now...hope, tangled in with desire. His crimson gaze bore into you, unmoving, unblinking. The weight of what he offered—and what he threatened—pressed down on you until it felt like you couldn't breathe. Your pulse roared in your ears, louder than the fire.

You think of your life back at the palace. Every movement measured, every word rehearsed. A future already carved out for you, not with care, but with cold, calculated duty. You were raised like a doll: beautiful, polished, and hollow. Trained for nothing more than decoration and obedience.

A thing to be admired, not heard. A symbol of grace to be shown off and traded like a piece on a board. You’ve spent your entire life counting down the days until you’d be handed over and gifted to some man as a wife, a vessel for heirs, a crown to sit prettily beside another. And now those days are almost over.

The weight of it all crashes down at once. Tears spring to your eyes before you can stop them. Your throat tightens as your breath becomes a series of ragged, shallow gasps. Your shoulders quake. Every attempt to steady yourself fails. "Sylus...I can't do this anymore," you choke out, your voice fractured, the confession pouring from you like blood from a wound.

"My father...he’s sold me."

Sylus freezes. The look on his face shifts—his eyes widening with disbelief before darkening with something far fiercer. Anger, perhaps. You continue, the words spilling past the lump in your throat. "The war is coming. The neighboring king was killed just last week, assassinated, they say. His son has been crowned the new king...and he needs a wife to rule beside him. So my father—"

You can’t finish. The words catch and die in your throat. Your vision blurs with tears. Your hands curl into fists, trembling. You glance at Sylus through your lashes, but he's just staring down at you like he wants to tear the world in half.

"He told me last night," you whisper, voice barely audible, "that I have one week left in the palace. One week before I’m shipped off to be a wife and bare heirs to the throne." Your arms wrap around your waist as if to hold yourself together. But there’s no stopping the tremble in your chest, the ache in your ribs.

"I can't, Sylus. I can't do it. I don’t want to go!"

Your voice fractures, breaking entirely as you pull him closer from your position on the floor, burying your face into his chest. The scent of him grounds you. His body is cold, but his embrace is steady. At first, he doesn’t move. But then, slowly, his arms wind around you. Tighter than ever before.

“So please. I don’t care anymore. Take me. Turn me. I want to be here with you. Or wherever you go. I want to finally live. Even if I'm not truly alive anymore.”

The words spilled out of you like a dam breaking, soaked in every ounce of yearning and fear you’d buried for far too long. You reached up blindly, cradling his face between your trembling hands and pressing your noses together. His skin was cold, impossibly cold, but to you it was the most grounding thing in the room right now. Your tears smeared across your cheeks and onto his, but you didn’t let go.

Sylus watched you in stunned silence, as though you’d just rewritten the ending to a story he thought had already been carved in stone. His eyes searched yours. He slowly closed his eyes, the lines of his face hardening for a moment.

"This is what you want? To give yourself to me? Truly?" he whispered. His voice was tight, cracking under the weight of the moment. His hands hovered at your waist, like he didn’t trust himself to hold you. You answered him the only way you could, with a kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and aching, your lips crashing into his with all the hunger you’d tried to deny. Your hands gripped at his collar, clinging to him like a lifeline, as though if you didn’t anchor yourself to him now, you’d be swept away by the world waiting to devour you.

"That’s my answer, Sylus," you breathed, forehead pressed to his, your lips trembling.

For a heartbeat, he did nothing. Then he moved.

His grip tightened around you, this time with intention—possessive, electric. He didn't say anything, but you felt the change in the air, the pull between your bodies like gravity shifting. He leaned over you, hair falling like silver smoke around his face. You could barely breathe. He didn’t kiss you this time. His lips trailed down your jawline, lingering over the pulse hammering at your throat. When he paused there, you could feel the tension rippling through his body. His breath hitched against your skin.

"This will hurt," he warned, his voice a ragged whisper, the sound of it almost mournful—like he was apologizing for what he was about to do. His breath trembled where it brushed your throat, and his hands finally settled at your waist, no longer trembling, but firm.

Your heart thundered against your ribcage, each beat louder than the last. Your hands, which had been on his face, now moved gently, wrapping against the back of his neck. You ran your thumbs slowly over his skin. “I-I'm aware,” you said softly, your voice shaking with anticipation.

And then—he sank his fangs into your skin.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, like lightning igniting your blood. It wasn’t just sharp—it was devouring, like being set ablaze from the inside out. Your body jerked beneath him, mouth parting in a cry you couldn’t hold back. But he held you tighter, one arm circling your back, the other pressing gently against your side as if to say: I have you. Stay with me.

You felt the pull, his mouth drinking, your life ebbing. It felt like unraveling, piece by piece. Every fear, every burden, every bitter memory—he took them. Drained them. Consumed them with your blood. You gasped as your body began to tremble, and your grip on his shoulders became a lifeline.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling hot down your cheeks. Pain lanced through your neck like lightning, white-hot and merciless. You cried out, body arching under him as every nerve screamed in shock.

He got greedier and greedier, his strength seemingly doubling with each passing second as your own began to slip away. What began as a painful but bearable sensation turned into a slow drowning—your limbs growing heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. You could feel the beat of your heart grow sluggish in your chest, as if your body was beginning to forget how to stay alive.

You whimpered softly, the firelight warping above you like a distant dream, and for one terrifying moment, you thought he would drink you to death. But then, at the very edge of your consciousness, he stopped. With a sharp breath, he pulled back from your neck, his chest heaving, his lips stained with red.

Your blood glistened as it trickled down his chin. He licked it away slowly, savoring it like rare wine. You weakly reached for him, fingertips brushing the fabric at his chest.

"You taste divine, my love," he growled, his voice thick with need as he seized your mouth in a hungry, possessive kiss. It was wild and consuming, your blood still fresh on his lips. "I will yearn this taste when you are turned."

When he finally pulled away, you blinked up at him, breath shaky. "I don't feel any different..." you murmured, voice slurred with exhaustion. There was no surge of power, no sharp clarity or transformation. Just a dizzying coldness creeping through your body. He shook his head slowly, a faint smirk ghosting across his face as he reached out to brush hair from your damp forehead. "That’s not what turns you," he said quietly. His crimson eyes shimmered in the firelight, filled with lust and longing.

You blink up at Sylus, your vision blurry and weak, as confusion clouds your mind. The implications of his words are slow to register, but as he moves, your eyes widen in disbelief. Sylus's hands move deliberately to the buttons on his pants, his fingers deftly working each one open. The sound of fabric parting is sharp in the quiet, drawing your gaze downward.

As the pants fall away, you see it—the unmistakable, hard outline of his large throbbing cock. It stands defiantly, which should have been impossible given the lack of blood in his own body. But instead, he seemed to have been drawing strength from you, siphoning your own vitality to fuel his body. His cock pulses visibly, a living, throbbing entity that demands attention. The sight is both mesmerizing and horrifying, a stark contrast to the drained, weakened state you find yourself in.

Your terror shifts, morphing into a new, raw fear that grips your heart. The thought of sex, something you'd never even considered unless married, now looms before you like a dark shadow. Your neck throbs with a relentless, white-hot pain, the bites a constant reminder of the violence inflicted upon you. The very idea of penetration now seems like a new form of agony, one you're not sure you can endure.

As Sylus removes his cock from his pants, the sight of it, hard and ready, sends a shiver of dread down your spine. He begins to stroke it slowly, his movements deliberate and intent. His eyes, filled with a tense, lustful expression, bore into you, and you can't help but feel like a trapped animal. His words, meant to soothe, only heighten your anxiety. "Don't be afraid. The worst part is over, little lamb," he whispers, his voice a low, seductive murmur.

You whimper weakly, the sound barely audible, as his hands slide under your dress. The touch of his skin against yours is electric, sending jolts of fear and pain through your body. You moan into his mouth as he leans over you and captures you into another kiss, the sound more of agony than pleasure.

Sylus's voice is a low, husky whisper, his words dripping with a hunger that sends a shiver down your spine. "You don't know how long I've been yearning for this. For you," he murmurs, his fingers finding their way to your pussy, rubbing over the thin fabric of your briefs. The sensation is unexpected, a strange, hot ache that blooms in your core, making you squirm beneath his touch. Your body betrays you, a moan escaping your lips as you arch into him, seeking more of this unfamiliar pleasure.

Emboldened by your response, Sylus's movements become more assertive. He roughly grabs your briefs, tugging them down with a swift, decisive motion. The cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, a mix of anticipation and fear coursing through your veins. "W-wait-," you start to protest, but your words are cut off as Sylus pushes his head under your dress, his long, deft tongue finding your clit. He rubs circles around your clit, his movements sure and skillful.

The sensation is overwhelming, a shockwave of pleasure that makes you cry out, "Ah!" The heat and wetness of his tongue are surprisingly intense, and your virgin body can't keep up. Your mind reels, the pain in your neck momentarily forgotten as you succumb to the new, all-consuming sensation. Your body responds against your will, arching and writhing beneath him, betraying your desire for more.

As your face heats up, the weight of your family's judgment crushes down on you. You imagine their shocked expressions, the whispers of disapproval, and the harsh words they would utter if they knew you were soiling yourself despite being promised to another. The thought of their reaction fills you with a profound sense of shame, and tears well up in your eyes, blurring your vision. The mix of fear, confusion, and embarrassment is overwhelming, making it hard to breathe.

You tug at Sylus's hair weakly, a desperate attempt to stop him, but your actions are weak and uncoordinated. A shaky moan escapes your lips as you whisper his name, "S-sylus...," your voice trembling with fear and shame.

Sylus, however, is lost in his own world of desire, driven by a thirst that seems to have no end. He tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging into your flesh, as he greedily laps at your cunt. The taste of your blood and the scent of your arousal seem to have intoxicating effects on him, making him relentless in his pursuit of satisfaction.

He is too far gone, too consumed by his own lust to even consider letting you go now. Your pleas and protests fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the sound of his own ragged breathing and the wet, slurping noises he makes as he devours you.

Your body convulses as Sylus's tongue penetrates you, stretching your tight, untouched walls. The sensation is blinding, the pleasure and pain making you nearly scream, "Ah...ahh...ah!" Each thrust of his tongue sends shockwaves through your core, preparing you for what's to come. The intensity of it all is too much, and your body starts to shake violently, your muscles tensing and releasing in a rhythm that matches his movements.

His tongue, long and deft, plunges deeper and deeper inside you, molding your walls, shaping them to his will. You can feel every ridge, every curve of his tongue as it explores your depths, claiming you in a way that leaves you breathless. Your hands are tangled in his hair, gripping his scalp with a force that would draw blood if he were capable of bleeding. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching to meet his tongue.

Suddenly, the pleasure reaches a peak, a crescendo that explodes through your body. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking as waves of ecstasy wash over you. Your inner muscles contract rhythmically, gripping Sylus's tongue with an intensity that makes him groan against you. Your back arches off the floor beneath you, your hands clawing at his scalp as you ride out your very first orgasm.

You cry out his name, your voice a broken, desperate plea, "Sylus!" Your body is slick with sweat, your skin flushed and sensitive. Every nerve ending is alive, every sensation amplified. The orgasm seems to go on forever, your body milking every last drop of pleasure from Sylus's tongue. As it finally begins to subside, you are left breathless and trembling, your body sated but your mind reeling from the intensity of it all.

As Sylus finally removes his head from under your dress, his eyes are wild and dilated, the remnants of your pleasure streaked down his chin. "Second best taste after your blood," he grins, his voice low and husky. He gently strokes the tears from your face, his touch surprisingly tender, contrasting with the intensity he had just moments prior.

Before you can even form words, Sylus is already moving, his hands firm and decisive as he throws your legs over his shoulders. He primes you, his movements quick and efficient, positioning you for penetration. The sudden shift in dynamics leaves you shaking, your mind racing to keep up with the rapid pace of events.

Your hand instinctively moves to your neck, where you can still feel the warmth of blood seeping from the wounds. As you rub the area, you are nearly overcome with panic at the sight of the crimson liquid on your fingers. The reality of your situation, the pain, and the fear, all converge in a moment of raw, visceral terror.

"I-im doing to die..."

Sylus notices your distress, his gaze sharpening as he takes in the sight of your bloodied fingers. "Its quite alright, you'll be just fine love."

With a gentle but firm grip, he takes your hand, pulling your fingers into his mouth. The sensation of his tongue, hot and wet, cleaning the blood from your skin, sends a shiver down your spine. You watch, mesmerized, as he sucks each finger clean, his eyes locked onto yours.

Your face heats up, wondering why something so obscene, so primal, can make you feel so lustful. The contradiction of emotions leaves you reeling. Sylus, seemingly satisfied with his task, leans in, his breath hot against your neck as he cleans the wounds, his tongue tracing the edges with a gentle, almost reverent touch. The dual sensations of pain and pleasure leave you trembling, your body betraying you once more as he cleans and soothes you all at once.

Sylus cradles your face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the wild, lustful look in his eyes. He coos softly, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he tries to comfort your scared shivers. "Shh, it's alright, beloved." he whispers, his thumbs brushing away the tears that continue to stream down your cheeks.

You find the courage to ask, your voice barely a whisper, "How bad does it hurt?" Sylus hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching yours before he responds, "It's not something you'll remember well. It's swift, and then you'll be with me for eternity." His words are meant to reassure, but they only serve to heighten your anxiety.

You swallow hard, the reality of what you're about to do settling over you like a heavy shroud. Sylus seems to sense your hesitation, his grip tightening as he begins to pin you underneath him. "You've come this far," he murmurs, his voice a low, insistent growl. His eyes seem desperate. "You must press on. You said yourself there's nothing good waiting for you if you leave tonight."

He lines his hardened cock against your virgin pussy, the sensation of his length pressing against you making you cling to him, your nails digging into his back. He seems to want to leave you no time to change your mind. As he begins to push inside, you scream in agony, the pain of your first penetration tearing through you like a knife. Sylus holds you tightly, his arms a steel band around your body, his voice a low, steady promise in your ear. "It's alright, beloved. It will feel better, I promise. Just endure. Just a little more."

"It hurts! It hurts Sylus!"

Your body tenses, every muscle coiled tight as you try to bear the pain. Sylus's movements are slow and deliberate, giving you time to adjust, but the sensation of being stretched, of being filled, is overwhelming. You cry out, your voice a broken, desperate plea, but Sylus only holds you tighter, his lips pressed against your ear as he whispers words of encouragement and promise. "Almost there, love. Almost there."

Sylus's fangs sink into your neck once more, and you open your mouth to scream, but the pain is replaced by a strange, numbing sensation. Your body goes limp, the agony of your previous moments fading into a distant memory. Whatever he's doing with his bite, it's like a switch has been flipped, altering your perception of pain and pleasure.

As the pain diminishes, you become acutely aware of Sylus's erection, growing warmer and stronger inside you. "Mgh...mghn..." you moan, the sound a mix of confusion and burgeoning desire. Sylus takes your hand in his, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pushes deeper inside.

Your vision blurs, then sharpens, the world around you taking on a new, heightened clarity. It feels as if you're leaving your body, floating above the scene, watching as Sylus claims you. Fear grips you, but you're unable to move, unable to do anything but endure, just as Sylus instructed.

You hear his grunt in your ear, a low, primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. Your body tightens around him, the sensation of his cock filling you, stretching you, becoming almost pleasurable. Sylus moans, the sound a mix of satisfaction and growing lust as he sheathes himself further into your tight, virgin walls. With each push, you can feel his body growing stronger, more powerful.

Your own body responds, throbbing around him, the burning pain lulled into a nice, pounding ache. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced. Your mind reels, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions and sensations, but all you can do is feel, endure, and surrender.

You trust him. So you endure. Sylus's grunts fill your ear as he begins to thrust back and forth, his movements gaining speed and intensity. "It's been centuries since I've felt such warmth," he pants, his voice a low, ragged growl. The wet, sucking sounds of your bodies moving together echo through the empty library, a primal symphony that heightens your senses.

Your face burns brighter, a flush spreading across your skin as you moan, the sound a mix of surprise and burgeoning pleasure. The electric, aching sensation that began in your core starts to tingle and spread. Your skin tightens, a strange, pulling sensation that makes you gasp. Your mouth begins to hurt, a sharp, piercing pain that feels like it's ripping you apart from the inside out. It's as if your soul is being sucked from your body, drawn out by Sylus's relentless, claiming movements.

You hold onto him, your fingers digging into his back, your legs wrapping around his waist as he fully becomes one with you. The fear that once gripped you transforms in an instant, morphing into a soul-sucking pleasure that leaves you breathless and wanting more. Sylus's movements are fierce, his cock driving into your body with a passion and intensity that leaves you reeling. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every curve, as he claims you completely, his own strength and power coursing through you.

Your vision suddenly blurs once more, your teeth beginning to shift as Sylus begins to thrust into your aching cunt much faster, you both clinging onto each other so hard that you've began to bruise. It starts as a burn, low and sharp at the base of your spine. It coils through your body like smoke turning to flame—cold, somehow, but searing in its intensity. The bite on your neck throbs violently, each pulse louder than your heartbeat, dragging every thought into a fog of pain and sensation.

Your skin crawls. Your limbs tremble. It feels like your veins are being hollowed out and replaced with something darker,—something alive in a way you’ve never been before. You try to breathe, but air doesn’t feel like enough. Everything feels wrong.

The firelight by the hearth glares into your eyes, and you flinch from its warmth. Every sound pierces your ears: the crack of the fire, the settling of stone, even the faint brush of Sylus's breath as he watches you, pounding into your aching cunt with a relentless rhythm.

You cry out in agony, your body trembling as pain, pleasure, and agony swirl through you in a chaotic, overwhelming dance.

Sylus's voice reaches your ears, but his words are muffled, indistinct, lost in the maelstrom of sensation that consumes you. You can feel his body tensing, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. His cock throbs inside you, the sensation of his length filling you, stretching you, becoming almost unbearable.

Suddenly, your second orgasm hits you, your body convulsing and shaking. Your inner muscles contract rhythmically, gripping Sylus's cock with an intensity that makes him groan, his body tensing as he he finally cums. His seed spills into you in hot, pulsating jets, filling your womb, completing you.

And then the world goes dark.

You don’t fall unconscious so much as you fall inward. Into yourself. Into Sylus. It’s like your soul tears in half, and while one piece remains trembling within your skin, the other reaches out and fuses with something vast and unknowable—his presence, his essence. The sensation is like drowning and ascending at once, like being unmade and remade in the same breath.

And then, you return.

Your eyes burst open, and the world slams into you. Everything is too much. Every color slices into your retinas like sharpened glass, every sound— a nearby animals heartbeat, the wind outside the cathedral, the faint hiss of fire—roars like a storm in your ears. You suck in air with a ragged gasp, your chest heaving as though it hadn’t moved in hours. Your body is on fire.

But it’s not pain—it’s hunger. Deep, cavernous, insatiable hunger that spreads from your stomach to your limbs, curling like a thousand claws under your skin. Your mouth aches—no, your fangs ache. You open your lips slightly and can feel the change there, the unnatural weight of them. You raise shaking fingers to your mouth, but stop halfway. Because it’s not your mouth that needs attention.

It’s the smell.

A thick, metallic sweetness coils through the air. Your eyes dart downward and freeze. Blood. A dark, shining pool of it on the stone floor. Yours. Not yet cold. Still fresh. Still alive in its way. The scent is intoxicating—richer than wine, more tempting than any delicacy. It fills your lungs, clings to your skin. It calls to you. And your body answers before your mind does.

You lurch forward, hands scraping against the floor, nails digging into the floor. But just before your lips touch it, you reel back, horrified. You slam a hand over your mouth and shake your head violently. No. You can’t. You can’t. That was your blood. That came from you. The thought nearly breaks you. Sylus is there in an instant, kneeling beside you. His hands wrap around your shoulders, attempting to comfort you. You feel his strength, steady and cold, as his voice comes close to your ear.

“You need your strength, or you’ll die,” he says. “Drink, love. Please.”

You shake in his arms, every muscle pulling in opposite directions—your humanity clawing against your rebirth. Your chest rises and falls in erratic waves, and your throat tightens around a sob that doesn’t come out. You press your face into his shoulder, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t this new, terrifying you. But the scent drags you back. The blood sings. You turn your head. Your eyes lock on the glistening pool, and this time, your body wins.

And so, slowly, trembling, you reach for it.

You lower your mouth to the floor, trembling, and begin to drink. The blood hits your tongue with a sickly, metallic sweetness—thicker than wine, richer than anything you’ve ever tasted. Your throat moves on instinct, desperate for more, and as the warmth slides down your throat, your strength returns like a storm breaking through a drought. The cold in your limbs recedes. The world sharpens. Your heart—dead moments ago—feels powerful again, even if it doesn’t beat.

You drink, and drink, until there’s nothing left.

The ache in your body begins to quiet, but not all of it. A different kind of hunger still smolders low in your belly. You feel the sticky mess between your legs, the blood from your lost virginity. Sylus's seed mixing with it. You shudder, closing your eyes, trying to push away the heat pulsing between your thighs. It's overwhelming, electric, unfamiliar.

As you turn, your vision sharpens, the world taking on a new, heightened clarity. Sylus is attempting to wipe off his still-stiffened cock, the glistening remnants of your blood coating his length. Your eyes, now pinpricks of intense focus, zero in on the sight, and a primal thirst surges through you. You grab his arm, your grip surprisingly strong, your body shaking with a hunger that is both terrifying and exhilarating.

You lean in, your tongue darting out to lap at the blood on his cock. The taste is metallic, sweet, and strangely intoxicating. Sylus stiffens immediately, his body tensing at the unexpected sensation. But he doesn't stop you; instead, he rubs your back gently, his touch a mix of encouragement and restraint. You suck and lick, your movements desperate and fervent, determined to consume every last drop of the life-giving liquid.

Your body responds to the taste of blood and semen, a low, guttural moan escaping your lips as you take more of him into your mouth. Sylus's breath hitches, his hips twitching slightly as he tries his hardest to stay still, the sensations of your wet tongue overwhelming him. You can feel his cock throbbing, growing harder with each pass of your tongue, the veins pulsing with a life that seems to call to you.

Eventually, you take all of him in your mouth, your lips stretching to accommodate his length. Sylus moans, a deep, guttural sound that resonates through his chest. "Darling..." he groans, his voice strained a bit. But you don't stop, your head bobbing up and down as you suck and lick, your tongue swirling around his shaft.

Sylus's body tenses, his muscles coiling tight as he reaches the edge of his second release. You can feel it, the way his cock throbs, the way his hips jerk, and you redouble your efforts, your suction increasing, your movements more insistent. With a final, shuddering groan, Sylus cums again, his seed spilling into your mouth in hot, pulsating waves.

You swallow, the taste of him filling you, completing you in a way that is both profound and unsettling. You lick your lips, savoring the last drops, a contented sigh escaping your lips. Sylus looks down at you, his eyes wild and intense, certainly satisfied with his beloved's newfound depravity.

Your transformation is complete, your body and soul intertwined with Sylus's in a way that is both permanent and encompassing.

You sit up slowly, panting, your breath ragged and shallow as the last of your humanity slips away. Your mouth is sticky with the taste of your own blood, and with trembling fingers you drag the edge of your cloak across your lips, wiping the red smear from your skin. The chill in your hands becomes suddenly unbearable—you watch as the warmth drains from your fingers, your skin paling. Your fingertips are cold, but your core burns.

"Feel better, my love?" Sylus murmurs, his voice low and velvet-smooth. He sits nearby, adjusting his clothes, fastening the buttons of his pants with calm precision before he steps toward you again.

You nod, though your body aches in unfamiliar places. You wince slightly, shifting forward, moving closer to him. With practiced instinct, you climb into his lap and straddle him, your legs folding around his waist as if drawn there by gravity. His arms envelop you at once, secure and unyielding, the only solid thing in a world that now feels strange and unmoored.

You settle against his chest, your face against the curve of his neck. There’s no heartbeat beneath his skin—but you can feel something there. Echoing. Your own dead heart seems to mirror his in this strange, supernatural stillness. It’s not life, but it is connection. One that feels impossible to undo.

You breathe in, slow and shaky. Everything smells different now. Sharper. Richer. His scent, his skin—it drowns you in comfort. “I love you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you as if you screamed it. "Thank you."

You lift your face to look up at him, your eyes locking onto his. His crimson gaze softens, glowing with warmth despite the cold that clings to him. You wonder if yours now match his—those beautiful, red, inhuman eyes. A slow smile spreads across his lips.

“So do I. I have for quite awhile,” he replies. You embrace him, and you two collapse upon each other in front of the stoked out fire.

Weeks pass, and the kingdoms ripple with rumor, unrest, and tangled speculation. What began as whispers has grown into full-blown legend.

The Princess of Carpathia has vanished—disappeared without a trace. No guards saw her leave, no servants saw her fall ill, and no clues were left behind. Market stalls buzz with stories, travelers carry embellished tales from region to region. In some, she is a runaway bride escaping a cursed union. One popular belief is that she faked her own death to be free. Another claims she was assassinated by political rivals. And through it all, no ransom. Just absence.

Back in the castle, her chambers remain untouched, a mausoleum of silk and perfume. Arnette, her loyal servant, sits at the edge of the bed each morning, tears streaking down her cheeks as she clutches an old embroidered shawl the princess used to wear. To her, it’s not a mystery—it’s a mourning. She lights candles at dawn and dusk, whispering prayers meant only for gods who have long since stopped listening. Her heart breaks with each passing day, not just from the loss, but from the knowledge that no one else grieves like she does.

The twin princes, loud and unruly, seem unaffected. They fill the palace with their shrieks and squabbles, their young minds too distracted by tutors and wooden swords to notice the missing space at the table. Their sister’s name is mentioned less and less, buried beneath their noise and the growing silence from the throne.

The Queen, once composed and exacting, unravels in quiet waves. Her cries echo softly through the halls at night. Servants speak in hushed tones of bottles of tonic found hidden in her quarters, and the growing desperation in her eyes. Without her daughter, she holds no voice in the court. She is a pawn without a piece to play. And now, pressure mounts for her to bear another child—another daughter—to fill the void before she is too old. She returns to herbs and old wives’ remedies, enduring rituals and consultations from midwives with cold hands and empty eyes. Her grief isn’t for her daughter but rather for her diminished worth.

The King, however, does not grieve. He rages. With the princess gone, so too is his one true bargaining chip. The crown prince of a neighboring kingdom had just inherited his father’s throne, and an alliance through marriage was nearly secured. Without the girl, the deal crumbles, and Carpathia’s future trembles with instability. The King lashes out, striking down messengers and servants alike with his tongue—and occasionally worse. He demands scouts, sends troops into nearby villages, interrogates everyone from traveling merchants to stable boys. His fury is a wildfire, and no one is safe from its heat.

Tension festers. Whispers of rebellion grow. The court tiptoes around the edges of a monarchy coming undone. And while the world speculates and spirals, far beyond its reach, two cold figures walk hand in hand beneath a moonless sky. Cloaked in shadows, they travel through forests and over glens, far from politics and palaces. The girl once known as the princess no longer flinches at the sound of her old name. Her red eyes scan the path ahead with quiet certainty. Her skin is dead, her soul reformed, her heart no longer hers alone.

Beside her, Sylus walks in step, his expression unreadable save for the quiet contentment in the curve of his mouth when she leans into him. Their hands stay locked—intertwined with the promise of something indivisible. Above them, a black crow glides in slow circles, shadowing them like a silent sentinel. A white dove flutters just beneath it, wings catching the glint of starlight. Two creatures never meant to fly together, now bound by the same wind.

They do not look back. They do not speak of what they left behind. That world, with its broken crowns and cold stone floors, is lost to them now. But ahead, there is still the night. Still the freedom of eternity. Still the possibility of building something new.

And so they walk forward, side by side, hand in hand, into a world that has not yet dreamed them into legend.

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