Chapter 1

Chapter 2 … coming soon

This is a work of fiction. While some characters and settings may be loosely inspired by real figures and places, the events described here are not to be taken as historical fact. I’ve woven bits of history together with imagination, taking creative liberties wherever the story demanded and then some!!!

Your father is Sir Michael Szilágyi de Horogszeg, Count of Beszterce, a Hungarian nobleman, a landholder, and royal advisor to the true King of Hungary, the head of the Szilágyi–Hunyadi league. Your mother descends from the most powerful noble family: The Báthory of the Gutkeled clan, risen to formidable influence, holding high military, administrative, and ecclesiastical positions. And it is whispered, on breaths that the wind carries through the castle's stone corridors, that in her veins runs not only the blue blood of the magnates, but also the ancient, dark essence of a goodness. Or so they say, those who believe in such things.

With this twin parentage of yours—the iron loyalty of a Hungarian wolf and the dark inheritance of a lineage touched by the eternal—one could expect anything from you: an enchantress, or an ordinary girl. There are those who, after meeting your gaze, will whisper that you are both.

But tonight, as you gaze into the silvered mirror and let your fingers trace the crimson velvet of your gown, you would give all that you are, all your legacy of pride and power, to be, just this once, simply irresistible. For the sake of your surviving, you don’t have another choice but to excite the attention of another man who wasn’t Ladislaus Pongrác.

He may not even see you. He—whoever he is. You have no name, no face to fix your hopes upon, only the terrifying knowledge that among the new arrivals, the foreign guests with their strange accents and shadowed pasts, there must be one with power enough to defy a monster. You are a hunter sighting down an arrow into a crowd, with no clear target. You cannot beg. You must intrigue. You must ignite a spark of curiosity in some world-weary eye, inspire a flicker of protective instinct in a stranger for a plight he does not know exists, and etch yourself onto his memory so he cannot simply forget you when the night is over. You must find a man around whom the very air crackles with power, a prince or a Duke and before whom even a man like Pongrác must kneel.

And you are to use this unknown savior as your shield.

The very thought is a cold stone in your stomach. For the man you must escape. A man whose name is a whisper of greed, whose touch is a bruise. A man who had received the King’s own warnings to cease his horrible treatments of the people under his charge and who had been forgiven every time, every single time, simply because he held the lands and resources the Crown desperately needed. You knew, with a certainty that chilled your soul, that if you did nothing tonight, if you failed to secure the attention of some man infinitely more powerful than Pongrác, you would be ruined. You would be at his mercy, and God alone knew what would become of you under his roof, in his power.

The bitterest irony was that you held no allure for him. Ladislaus Pongrác did not desire you; he desired your name and the Transylvanian lands that were your dowry, which he would add to his own swollen holdings as if he were doing your family a favour. In the few unfortunate occasions you were forced to endure his presence, he had the gall to look through you, his eyes sliding away to flirt with other women in the very same room, all while being willing to marry you. You were a transaction. A deed to a property. A key to a door he wished to unlock.

And so you must make yourself a key for another door. You must make some unknown, powerful guest see the transaction. You must make him understand the value of the prize—not the land, but you—and the horror of the alternative. He is a stranger, perhaps an enemy, a son of a land that bred your deepest fears. But you are far beyond loyalty to ancient feuds or family pride. Your loyalty is now to your own survival.

And now you are left a pawn in a game of shifting loyalties, and what security and station you once called your own has been threatened by the ambitions of men, with the tacit approval of a boy-king whose crown is still fresh-forged and ill-fitting. The master of this fragile realm, the great strategist who is known as your own father, Michael Szilágyi, who helped make a king out of his nephew, now only seventeen, and will make a fortress of Hungary against those who still whisper for a true son of the previous line. There are rival nobles in every great house of the kingdom now, and every profitable alliance or title or favour is held in their jealous grasp.

Your cousin, the boy-king Matthias, is on the throne, and his precarious supporters form this new, glittering court. You, the daughter of his most powerful pillar, are both a jewel and a hostage in your own castle, your true king a memory, your regent father a pragmatic statesman plotting with old enemies to secure a future. You have to navigate the court of the victor, while praying that God does not desert him and your family’s fortunes are not swept away by the next tide of rebellion. In the meantime, like many a woman with a name too great and a future too uncertain, you have to stitch your safety together like a patchwork of whispers and glances. You have to secure your freedom somehow, though it seems that neither your father’s influence nor your mother’s name can shield you from this one, vile fate. You are known as a Szilágyi—a kingmaker’s daughter. You are respected but not safe. You are all but powerless in the one thing that matters most.

This feast, this celebration of a birth and a reign, is but a mummer’s show. Its true purpose is to take the measure of friend and foe, to see which foreign lords and internal rivals will bend the knee to Matthias, and what dark interests stir beneath the surface of the wine and the music.

You take a final, steadying breath, the scent of beeswax and cold stone filling your lungs. The girl in the mirror is no longer just a girl. She is a weapon, finely wrought and aimed into the dark.

The door to your chamber whispers open, and in the silvered glass, you see your mother’s reflection appear behind your own. Her eyes, the same shade as yours, meet yours in the polished surface, and for a moment, the two of you are a portrait: the young huntress and the seasoned 'queen', bound by blood and circumstance.

“The moon pales tonight beside you, drága gyermekem,” she says, her voice a low, melodic hum that seems to quiet the frantic beating of your own heart. Her hands, cool and steady, come to rest on your bare shoulders. You feel the slight tremor in your own frame still beneath her touch. She sees everything. “The air around you crackles like a summer storm. You are afraid.”

You cannot lie to her. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to a mother,” she murmurs, her fingers gently sweeping a stray curl from your neck. “And to anyone who knows what it is to have the world rest on a single glance.” She picks up the silver comb from your vanity, its teeth catching the candlelight. With a ritualistic slowness, she begins to draw it through your hair, each stroke a calming, measured rhythm. “You think you must conquer the entire hall tonight. You think you must be a hurricane. But a hurricane destroys. You must be the still, deep lake that a man cannot help but drown in.”

You watch her in the mirror, her own legendary beauty a tempered version of yours, hardened by years of courtly intrigue. “I feel I am aiming an arrow in utter darkness.”

“Then you must become the arrow and the light,” she says, her voice firm yet gentle. She sets the comb down and from a hidden fold in her deep blue sleeve, she produces a small velvet pouch, midnight black and tied with a silken cord. She places it in your palm. It is surprisingly cool and heavy for its size.

You look down at it, then up at her reflection, a question in your eyes. “What is this?”

“A tool,” she says, her hands closing over yours, forcing your fingers to curl around the pouch. You feel the distinct, smooth shape of a stone within. “A focus. It will help you see what others wish to hide. It will… clarify intentions.”

You turn the pouch over in your hand. It feels ancient, thrumming with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. “Magic?” you whisper, the word tasting both forbidden and familiar on your tongue. Your father’s house, for all its power, pays lip service to the Church’s laws. But your mother’s line… the Báthorys… they have always traded in older currencies.

She does not flinch. “A different kind of sight. A way to listen to the silence between a man’s words. To feel the truth of his power.” Her gaze is unwavering in the glass. “I know what you intend tonight. I know the wolf you must avoid. A mother does not send her daughter into a den of beasts without giving her a weapon.”

Your throat tightens. “What great beast do you hope this will help me catch?”

Her smile is a sad, beautiful thing. She cups your cheek, her thumb stroking your skin. “Your heart’s desire. Or at the very least, your salvation. I did not raise you to be a transaction on Pongrác’s ledger. I did not pour the ancient essence of our blood into your veins for you to wither under the touch of a greedy man.”

“What did you raise me for, then?” you ask, the weight of the stone in your hand feeling like the weight of her expectations, of your entire legacy. “In this world where we are both respected and vulnerable, where our king is a boy and our safety is a wager?”

She leans forward, her lips brushing your ear, her whisper a secret for you alone. “I raised you to be the best that you could be. Not just tonight. Always. Now, keep it close. Let it guide you. And remember,” she adds, stepping back, her regal composure returning, “the greatest magic is already in your blood. This is merely a key to help you unlock it.”

“Well, Amen,” You look from the retreating form of your mother to your own determined eyes in the mirror, your fist closing tightly around the velvet pouch. “Amen to that. And may the new moon bring me something better.”

The great hall is a roaring sea of silks, velvets, and the low thunder of a hundred murmured conversations, all washed in the golden light of a thousand candles. The air is thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasting meat, and the faint, cloying perfume of ambition. You stand with your mother in the place of honour, just behind and to the right of the Queen’s Catherine gilded throne. Catherine, your almost-sister, sits with a hand resting on the pronounced curve of her belly, a serene smile fixed upon her face, though you see the faint strain of fatigue at the corners of her eyes. You feel a protective surge, quickly banked. Tonight, you cannot afford to be merely a protective cousin.

The procession of dignitaries begins, a river of power and pretension flowing toward the dais to pay homage to the boy-king and his heavily pregnant queen. Your father stands at Matthias’s other side, a pillar of stern authority, his voice a constant, low murmur in the young king’s ear, shaping his perceptions, guiding his reactions.

Your own guide leans closer to you, her breath a soft whisper against your ear, her fan fluttering gently as if to stir the air, but in truth, to mask her words from all others.

“See there,” your mother murmurs, her eyes on a broad-shouldered man with a forked beard bowing low before Matthias. “János Vitéz, the Archbishop of Esztergom. A mind like a steel trap, and ambition to match your father’s. He would be a powerful shield, but his loyalty is to the Church first, and his own power second. A dangerous ally.”

The man moves on, and another takes his place, a younger, fiercer-looking noble with a hawk’s nose and restless eyes.

“And that one,” her whisper is laced with a hint of disdain. “Nicholas Újlaki. His lands border Pongrác’s. They are rivals in greed, two vultures circling the same carcass. He would take you to spite Ladislaus, but you would simply be trading one monster for another, perhaps a more foolish one.”

A duke from Bohemia is announced, his chest glittering with Jewerly. He offers extravagant compliments to the Queen.

“Empty courtesies from an empty purse,” your mother dismisses him instantly. “His influence is a phantom. He seeks loans, not a bride.”

You watch, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as man after man is presented and just as swiftly dismissed by your mother’s quiet, ruthless commentary. The velvet pouch feels like a lead weight tucked against your skin, its promise feeling more foolish by the minute. How can this stone help you navigate this labyrinth of flawed and dangerous men?

Then, a new figure steps into the circle of torchlight before the dais. He is not announced with the blaring titles of the others.

He is dressed not in bright silks, but in deepest black, a stark, severe contrast to the riot of colour in the hall. His doublet is of simple, elegant cut, devoid of jewels, his only ornament a dark fur draped over one shoulder. His face is pale, sculpted and severe, with eyes so dark they seem like pools of night. He moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate, and the crowd parts before him without a sound. This is not a man who announces his presence; his presence announces itself, and the world falls silent in acknowledgment.

He is the most compelling, the most terrifying man you have ever seen. Your breath catches. This is him, a voice screams inside you. The one.

He stops before the dais and offers a bow that is not subservient, but a calculated gesture of respect from one power to another. His voice, when he speaks, is low, measured, and carries effortlessly in the silent hall. It is a voice that has known command.

“King Matthias,” he says, and the name sounds like both a recognition and a challenge on his lips. “Hungary flourishes under your gaze. I bring greetings from the Carpathians, where the wolves are restless and the earth remembers its ancient debts. An alliance forged in steel is stronger than one written on parchment. I am here to remind us both of that truth.”

You wait for your mother’s whisper. You crane your ear toward her, desperate for a name, a title, a crumb of information about this man who holds the entire court in thrall.

But her whisper does not come.

You turn your head slightly. Her face is a carefully composed mask, but you see the tension in her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on her fan. She is staring straight ahead, refusing to even look at him.

Confused, you lean in. “Mother,” you whisper urgently. “Who is that?”

She does not look at you. Her lips barely move. “Vlad Țepeș. Voivode of Wallachia.”

And you understood the most obvious part. Everyone knew that man's story, at least the most famous part, the reputation that followed him like a shadow.

“He… his power is palpable,” you breathe, your eyes drawn back to him like a moth to a flame. “Could he… would he be—”

“No.” The word is a sharp, final dagger. She finally turns her head, and her eyes are not guiding now; they are warning. They are frightened. “He is not an option. Not for you. Not for anyone in this family.”

“But why? Hungary needs his armies against the Turks. He needs our support.”

“What he needs and what he seeks are two different things,” she hisses, her voice low and venomous. “His father, Vlad Dracul, and your uncle, John Hunyadi… their history is written in blood and betrayal. Actions were taken. Terrible actions. If he is here, it is not for a bride. It is not for pleasant alliances. A man like that does not forget. He does not forgive. He bides his time. He is here for one thing only, should he ever get the chance: vengeance. And we,” she says, her gaze sweeping over you, then back to the dangerous figure before the throne, “must be very, very careful not to give him that chance.”

A tense silence stretches after Prince words, thick and heavy as the fur on his shoulder. All eyes are on the young king. Matthias, to his credit, does not flinch under the weight of that dark gaze or the cryptic warning. He leans forward, his boyish face set in a mask of regal composure that you know your father helped him practice.

“The Crown of Hungary welcomes the Voivode of Wallachia,” Matthias replies, his voice clear, though it lacks the deep, resonant gravity of the man before him. “We remember the ancient debts of the earth, and we value steel above parchment. Your alliance is noted and appreciated. Let us speak more of our Kingdoms after the feast.” It is a dismissal, but a polite one, an attempt to steer the conversation back to the safe, public waters of celebration.

The moment breaks. The courtiers remember to breathe, and the low murmur of conversation slowly swells to fill the void left by the prince’s daunting presence. The prince offers another of his minimal, unnerving bows and turns to melt back into the crowd, which parts for him as water parts for a shark.

Your eyes are locked on him, your mother’s warning a distant buzz in your ears. You watch the straight line of his back, the way he moves without seeming to notice the people around him. And then, just as he is about to be swallowed by the throng, he stops.

It is as if he felt the weight of your stare, a physical pull. He turns his head, not fully, just a slight shift. And his eyes, those pools of absolute night, find yours across the crowded hall.

There is only the startling, direct connection of his gaze. It is not a glance; it is an assessment, swift and thorough, taking in every detail of you standing there beside the queen. It lasts less than a heartbeat, a fleeting, electric moment that leaves a strange, cold heat prickling on your skin. Then he turns away and is gone, absorbed into the tapestry of the court.

You blink, your heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape. You force yourself to look away, to turn back toward the safety of the dais, your mind reeling.

He saw me.

A profound disappointment washes over you, cold and final. Of all the men who had paraded before you tonight, he was the only one who had truly stirred your curiosity, the only one whose very essence seemed to radiate a power so absolute it could shatter a man like Pongrác with a word. But that same power made him the most dangerous choice of all. If your family, who held every card at this court, feared him, then you had no choice but to fear him too.

A pity. A truly devastating pity. For a moment, you had seen your shield. And in the next, you saw the sword that could destroy you all.

Now you understood why your father was so urgent to bring Ladislaus’s territories under his control, or so you thought. You could only listen as he laughed with the man, as if they were lifelong companions and friends, as if just a few months ago Ladislaus had not switched sides, nearly swearing loyalty to the sister of Matthias’s deceased predecessor over the decisions of the nobles. An insult, nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, for your cousin’s teetering reign, the fragile borders, and the imminent Ottoman invasion, the resources Ladislaus offered were key. His lands were where supplies could be most easily and quickly procured should any of the three situations turn dire.

This was the new reality at the banquet. On purpose, your father had seated you right beside Ladislaus. For the past hour, you had only listened to your father and him talk, to Ladislaus reminiscing and boasting about the vast, prosperous resources he possessed—resources that would be of great help in case of a disastrous rule. In your mind, you could only recall the man’s reputation as a thief and an enslaver. And though your father agreed with everything he said, you knew that once you were married, it would be your father who would manage everything as his own. He only needed an excuse to take them without Ladislaus being able to refuse, and that excuse was his marriage to you.

It was then that Matthias interrupted to propose a toast. He struck his glass with a spoon, and the sound of crystal cut through the murmur like a knife. All eyes turned to the king. He stood, imposing, the crown on his head gleaming with a golden glow.

“Friends, allies, loyal subjects,” he began, his voice projecting with a natural authority that filled the hall. “I toast to this night. To the relationships that grow stronger, to the goodwill that unites us, and to the faith in God that guides us—the very faith our enemies so desperately wish to destroy.”

The crowd murmured its approval. Matthias raised his glass even higher.

“I toast to my wife, Catherine, the rock upon which my heart rests and the mother of my future heir.” She inclined her head gracefully, a hand on her womb. “I toast to my loyal uncle and subject, Michael Szilágyi, whose counsel and sword have been pillars of my reign.” Your father nodded solemnly, his face expressionless but his eyes shining with pride.

Then, Matthias’s gaze settled on you. A faint surprise coursed through you.

“And I toast,” he continued, his voice taking on an almost tender tone, “to my cousin, whose gentle spirit and loyal service have not only been a balm to our queen but a constant companionship and a reminder of the family for which we fight every day. Her presence has been a light in moments of great darkness.”

As if you were the true center of attention, he extended his hand over Catherine, gesturing for you to rise.

And you did, your legs slightly trembling, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon you. You did not understand such adulation. You had only done what was expected of you. You looked at Catherine, seeking guidance, and she responded with a slight, encouraging smile.

“And in that spirit of securing our future,” he declared, his eyes sweeping the room, “it brings me great joy to announce a union that will further strengthen the bonds of our kingdom. A marriage that will unite two great houses and ensure the prosperity and security of our lands.”

Your blood ran cold even before he spoke the names. Your father’s placid expression, Ladislaus’s smug, triumphant smirk—it all made a terrible, horrifying sense.

“I hereby announce the betrothal of my beloved cousin,” Matthias said, his hand gesturing toward you, “to our most loyal and resourceful supporter, Lord Ladislaus Pongrác. May their union bring not only personal happiness but enduring strength to Hungary!”

The applause was immediate.

“To all of them!” Matthias proclaimed, raising his glass. “And to the future of Hungary!”

“To the future of Hungary!” the room roared in unison, and the sound of clinking glasses filled the air like a peal of bells.

You stood frozen, a smile plastered on your face that felt like a death mask. Across the table, your mother’s face was a pale, stoic mask, her knuckles white as she too clapped, her eyes screaming a silent apology to you.

Ladislaus rose, giving a grandiose bow, his eyes glinting with possessive victory as they swept over you. He had won you. The key to the door he wished to unlock had been handed to him publicly, irrevocably, by the king himself.

The future of Hungary, it seemed, would be built on your sacrifice. And as you sat back down, the taste of wine on your tongue was as bitter as ash.

Confusion curdled in your chest, thick and sickening. The announcement… it was today? You had thought this night was merely for welcoming the foreign guests, for your father and Matthias to subtly interrogate each envoy, to take the measure of friend and foe. You had believed you had time—precious, desperate time—to find another path, to ignite a spark of interest in some other powerful man. You had clutched your mother’s strange stone as if it were a lifeline, a promise of a chance to fight.

That chance had been stolen from you before you could even draw a weapon. The despair was a physical blow, a wave of impotent fury that threatened to crack the porcelain smile on your face. A bitter resentment, hot and sharp, flared toward your family—toward your father for his ruthless pragmatism, toward Matthias for his grand, casual gesture that had sealed your fate as if gifting a prized horse. Did they love you so little? Did they know the monster they were chaining you to and simply not care? The thought was a betrayal in itself, but it was there, a poisonous vine twisting around your heart.

You forced it down, choking on the guilt that immediately followed. They are securing the kingdom. You are a Szilágyi. This is your duty.The mantra felt hollow, a shield of rotted wood against the reality of Ladislaus’s gloating presence beside you. How could your father, who claimed to love you, condemn you to a life under that man’s thumb? The disconnect between his affection and his action was a chasm you were falling into.

The roar of the toast faded, replaced by the resumption of feasting. The taste of ash in your mouth would not leave. You were so lost in the tumult of your own despair that the conversation at the high table seemed to come from a great distance, a dull hum beneath the ringing in your ears.

It was the sudden shift in the quality of the silence around you that pulled you back. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. Matthias was leaning forward, his face set in an expression of keen interest. And his gaze was fixed not on your father, or on a foreign duke, but on the one man in the hall who seemed to carry his own winter with him.

“And you, Voivode Țepeș,” Matthias’s voice cut through the chatter, deceptively light. “Your… methods in Wallachia are the subject of much discussion. You hold your differences against the Transilvanian Saxon with a firmness others find… extreme. Tell me, do you believe fear is a more reliable currency than gold in the defense of a kingdom?”

The question hung in the air, a blade poised. You could not fathom why Matthias would introduce such a volatile topic at his own celebration, a public challenge to a man known for his brutal pragmatism. It felt like tossing a lit torch into a room full of gunpowder. You glanced at your father, expecting him to smoothly intercede, to deflect and soothe as he always did. But his silence was deafening. He merely watched, his expression unreadable, a strategist observing a battle unfold from a safe hill.

Then, the Voivode spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the din of the hall with the chilling clarity of ice cracking on a winter lake.

“A king must understand the nature of the tools he uses,” Vlad began, his dark eyes fixed on Matthias, utterly ignoring your father’s presence. “The Saxons of Transylvania declared their loyalty to those who usurped my father’s throne. They funded my enemies. They celebrated my family’s suffering. I cannot risk such a disease festering within my own borders. Gold?” He almost smiled, a cold, sharp thing. “Gold can buy a man’s service, but it cannot buy his loyalty. It makes him a richer mercenary, not a truer subject. A man who betrays for gold will betray again for more gold. Or for a prettier title. Or simply because the wind changes direction.”

The silence in the immediate vicinity of the high table was absolute. Ladislaus, beside you, had stopped chewing, his face slightly pale.

Your father finally stirred, clearing his throat, the sound overly loud. “Surely, Voivode, there are always… alternatives to such permanent solutions. Diplomacy. Sanctions. The guidance of the Church. Spilled blood is a stain that is difficult to wash away, even from the hands of a king.” It was the expected rebuke, the voice of civilized politics.

But Vlad’s gaze did not waver from Matthias, as if your father were a gnat buzzing at the periphery of his vision. “When the rot is deep, Count Szilágyi, one does not paint over the wood. One cuts it out. I was left with no other action. I chose the one that ensured my survival and the security of my throne. A ruler who hesitates to protect what is his does not deserve to keep it.”

Then, his eyes swept, for the first time, across the table. They passed over your father’s rigid face, over Ladislaus’s irritated one, and for a fleeting second, seemed to brush against yours before returning to the king. He delivered his final blow, his voice dropping to a intimate, carrying pitch that felt like it was meant for every betrayed soul in the room.

“A traitor will always be a traitor. A thief, a thief. You can give them the brightest gold, the most powerful title, even your most beautiful daughter…” His words landed on the recent announcement with the weight of a tombstone. “…and you will still lie awake at night wondering when they will turn their face against you. I have always preferred to see men for what they are: selfish, arrogant, and treacherous. It saves a great deal of disappointment later.”

The air rushed from your lungs. It was a direct, undeniable strike. He had taken the very foundation of your betrothal—the political calculation that a man like Ladislaus could be bought and trusted with your body and your family’s future—and had held it up to the court not as strategy, but as profound, wilful foolishness.

A shocking, treacherous sensation flared in your chest. It was not offense. It was vindication. It was a fierce, blazing agreement. He had given voice to the screaming protest in your own soul, the one you had to choke down with talk of duty and family. He had looked at the transaction your father had made and had named it for the dangerous gamble it was. The words were a blow to your father’s plans, and to your own future, yet you felt a perverse, thrilling sense of gratitude. Someone had said it. Someone had seen the rot.

You dropped your gaze to your plate, your heart hammering against your ribs, afraid that the wild, complicit agreement in your eyes would be seen by everyone. The taste of ash in your mouth was suddenly gone, replaced by the metallic tang of a truth too dangerous to speak aloud.

A faint, unbidden smile touched your eyes, a flicker of light in the gloom of your despair. It was a reflex, a spark ignited by the sheer, audacious truth of his words. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze lifted from your plate, seeking his across the crowded space.

He was still turned toward the king, his profile a sharp, pale cut against the torchlight. But as if feeling the pull of your look, his head turned. His dark eyes, which had moments ago been imparting a lesson in cold Realpolitik to a king, found yours.

This time, it was not a glancing blow, a swift assessment. This time, it was a connection. You did not look away. Neither did he. And in the depths of that midnight gaze, you saw it—a subtle, answering curve at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile that acknowledged your own. It was not a smile of warmth, but one of sharp, perfect understanding. A conspirator’s smile.

There was no doubt. None at all. He had said what he had said with purpose, with brutal sincerity, and he had aimed it precisely where he meant to. And he had seen your silent, grateful applause. He had seen the vindication in your eyes and, in seeing it, had found a moment of dark amusement.

The silence that followed Vlad’s pronouncement was thick enough to choke on. It was Ladislaus who broke it, his voice a jarring, overly hearty sound that clashed with the tension. He raised his glass, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

“A most… illuminating philosophy, Voivode,” he said, his tone slick with false camaraderie. “It is always bracing to hear a man speak with such conviction about the nature of treachery. It reminds one of the… complex paths some must walk to reclaim their birthright.” He paused, letting the insinuation hang in the air before driving the dagger home, his voice dropping into a more intimate, cutting register. “Tell us, Prince Dracula, how did you find the Sultan’s hospitality during your… extended stay? And the pay he provided for your army when you first marched on Wallachia? It is a curious thing, how the definition of ‘traitor’ can shift depending on which side of the border one stands, and who is signing the paychecks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The gasp in the hall was audible. This was no longer an insinuation; it was a direct, public accusation of the highest treason, of consorting with the Ottoman enemy. Ladislaus had not just thrown a stone; he had launched a spear aimed straight at the heart of Vlad’s legitimacy.

All eyes swung back to the Prince of Wallachia. You held your breath, expecting a denial, a flash of righteous fury.

Instead, Vlad did something far more terrifying. He smiled. A wide, sharp, and utterly chilling smile that did not touch his eyes.

“You are remarkably well-informed for a… landholder, Lord Pongrác,” he said, his voice a low, agreeable rumble that somehow silenced the hall more effectively than a shout. He did not deny a single word. “Yes, I have indeed supped with the devil. I have used the tools available to me, no matter how stained. I took the Sultan’s gold. I learned his tactics. I used his army. And when it served my purpose, I turned on him. But you see, the critical difference is this: I have never once claimed to be a saint. I do not pretend to be a loyal lamb in a court. I know precisely what I am.”

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning Ladislaus to his seat. The smile remained, a predator’s grin. “I recognize the faithless because I am capable of faithlessness. I understand the traitor because I have played the traitor when it served a greater purpose. My survival. My throne. I make no apologies for it. I simply ensure that those who would play those games with me…” his gaze flickered, for a fraction of a second, to your father, then back to Ladislaus, “…understand that I am the master of them. No one has ever successfully cut me out. They have tried. And they have learned that the rot they sought to exploit runs far deeper in them than it ever could in me.”

The air left the room. He had not denied it. He had embraced it. He had taken Ladislaus’s attempt to shame him and had worn it like a crown of black iron, transforming an accusation of treason into a declaration of supreme, unchallengeable self-awareness and power. He was not a hypocrite; he was an honest monster, and in doing so, he revealed the pathetic, cloaked greed of men like Ladislaus, who hid their own treachery behind a veil of feigned loyalty.

Ladislaus looked as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He had thrown his spear and hit a mountain, and the mountain had laughed, the sound echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

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Aro loves his gift, adores it when things go his way; as they often do. It could be an immense disability if his enemies knew how to exploit it however, could easily bring Aro this knees. Therefore he had made the habit of always wearing gloves, unless he was in the company of his family; for their minds he always found comfort in. The one person he never expected to take advantage of his gift was his darling mate, but they must have felt especially devious that day.

He was holding their hand, like he always would whenever they were in the comfort of their private wing; listening to his brothers chattering softly. Their mind was usually the calmest place for him to reside, in the beginning the fantasies appeared briefly; Aro disergarded them as intrusive thoughts and memories. But they returned, over and over again; more graphic every time.

For a while Aro would just sit there, determined not to let his mate sway him into losing composure in front of his family. Looking over at them with a glint in his eye and giving them a sweet smile before leaning in to kiss their cheek, he was determined to not break. But his mate was just as stubborn as he was, and right now he felt dangerously close to being at their complete mercy.

The fantasies would become more detailed, more coherent as his mate showed him every single facet of what they wanted to do to him. The grip on their hand would tighten, not quite painful; a warning for them to stop what they were doing.

Oh but the divine images and fantasies they were showing him... they made it difficult for Aro to concentrate on whatever his brothers were saying. How he would rather prefer being surrounded by his luxurious blankets and fabrics with his mate above him. Whenever they took charge and pushed him down he felt like he was in heaven. Their pretty mouth wrapped wonderfully around his co— The king had to stop his train of thought right there, if not there would be a great chance of him having his mate right there on Athenodora's precious ottoman.

It was difficult for Aro to not let out a sigh of relief when him and his mate were finally able to excuse themselves, making a swift exit as he swore he could hear his brother chuckle behind him. They did not get far however before Aro had his mate pinned against the wall, breathing far more laboured than it should be.

"Now, what should I do with you?" "I promised Caius I would help—" "Frankly my dear, I do not give damn about what you promised my brother. My quarters. Now." "D-Damn..." "What we will do shall warrant more than simple damnation love, Now Go."

𝐀𝐫𝐨

Aro had always been quite appreciative of the secretaries, humans from difficult walks of life that now wanted to dedicate themselves to otherworldly masters. Their bravery he could respect, many of them had quite pleasant minds as well which was always a boon for him personally. Their contribution to the Palazzo was undeniable, and he looked forward to greeting someone new.

But, something felt different today. Now Aro would never claim to be prophetic but he always had a sense of when something good or bad was about to befall him and his kin. And when the nervous secretary walked into the throne room besides Chelsea he instantly knew what had been bothering him since the early hours of the morning. It was difficult to contain his excitement.

He had experienced that so called pull a hundred times over through the minds of others, but it had not prepared him for this. It was nowhere near a 'love at first sight', but he certainly felt inclined to be fond of this human as they made their introduction.

For the first time Aro did not ask for the secretaries hand, instead giving them a polite greeting without touching them; his brothers were alert at once. Something was different about this secretary.

It was quite amusing to Aro actually, that a potential mate had finally presented themselves and they happened to be their secretary of all things. Plans on how to tell them had began forming in his mind already, perhaps he should not tell them right away? Let them feel comfortable in their midst before he could attempt to romance them? For now he would have to appease his brothers however, for Caius was looking quite cross.

"Why did you not look into their mind Aro?" "... Because I believe they will become quite precious to me dear Caius." "... That's impossible—" "Ah, but is not the impossible always quite possible when it comes to us immortals."

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐮𝐬

Caius had always trusted Chelsea's judgement when it came to hiring new secretaries, they had all been polite and dutiful towards the coven regardless of their fate. He could respect that. Usually him and his brothers would not meet the secretary before they presented themselves with Chelsea by their side, it tended to be a formal affair... until now.

The moment the great doors opened Caius had felt something shift inside of him, a magnetic pull he had either ignored or shied away from in the past; bust this time there was no place for him to hide. He could only sit still and act his part.

Aro made his introductions of course, grasping on to the secretaries hand tightly and learning their entire backstory. Sometimes twisted in Caius' stomach then, a pang of jealous for now his brother knew his potential mate better than him.

When the secretary addressed the the three of them separately Caius was unable to keep his expression from softening, a small tug of his lips left the other vampires in the room confused.

The moment the door closed behind them Caius let out a deep exhale, unsure of what to do for the first time in forever. A human mate had never been in his plans, it would create a fickle situation no matter how short their mortal life would be. It also did not help that Marcus was looking at him with a knowing smile.

"Well brother... this is quite a surprise." "Hold your tongue Marcus, I have made no decisions yet." "But you will, and your gaze grows hungry." "... If anyone steps out of line they will answer to me. Our new secretary is officially under my protection... for now."

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬

New secretaries rarely interested Marcus, sure there had been a couple of them who had been turned and joined their ranks through the years; but nothing more had ever come of it. Rarely did they have a gift worth mentioning or a unique skill, simply dutiful people who had served them well and deserved their reward.

When they heard the tell-tale sound of human footsteps Marcus already felt himself perk up, something would be different this time around and he needed to be alert. The way he shifted in his seat had grabbed the attention of both of his brothers, Caius and Aro giving him questioning looks before the doors opened.

The truth was right there in front of him, nothing was hidden from his sight after all. He could see clear as day the potential for a bond to be woven between himself and this new secretary as they made their introductions whilst stood besides Chelsea.

Marcus didn't know if he was prepared for this sort of commitment once more. He had carried an undying love for Didyme for thousands of years, the grief over losing her had clouded his mind since the last day he saw her. But, this human at the very least had the right to know; and make an informed decision themselves.

As he watched them leave, a small smile tugged at his lips. He would give them a choice, they could pursue this or he would gladly turn them on the morrow if they wanted to leave and not see him ever again.

"Our new secretary seems quite capable," "They will not be our secretary for too long Aro." "... Brother?" "It has been so long, but I feel the pull... and I owe them the curtesy to get to know them at the very least."

You began to ask for him.

It started with simple requests. Books. Stories. Candlelight when the days were too long. He brought you everything you asked for, and nothing you didn’t.

And then, one night, you asked, “Will you stay a little longer?”

His breath caught. You heard it. But he only nodded and folded himself back into the armchair by the fire, as if he hadn’t just waited a hundred lifetimes for that question.

You didn’t speak again that night. Neither did he. But when the candles burned low and your eyes began to shine red, you looked over and whispered, “Thank you.”

His smile was small. Quiet. The kind of smile that doesn’t try to be seen.

But you saw it anyway.

There were still bad days. Sometimes, without warning, a scent in the hallway would make your throat tighten. A flicker of movement would send you spiraling. Your body remembered things your mind hadn’t dared process.

Aro never asked you to explain.

But when you curled in on yourself, when your hands trembled and your voice vanished again, he would simply sit on the floor, mirroring you from across the room, and stay.

He always stayed.

He showed you the gardens one evening.

You’d never seen the outside of the castle. You hadn’t dared. The idea of exposure, even under moonlight, made your limbs seize with anxiety.

But Aro had waited until you asked.

“Is it safe?” you said.

“With me?” he asked quietly. “Always.”

And so you let him lead you down the stone corridors, through carved archways and cool air, until you stepped out onto ancient stone paths laced with moss and candlelight.

The moon was high, pale and full. The scent of night-blooming flowers hung in the air like incense.

You stared up at the sky. You hadn’t looked at the stars in weeks. Maybe longer. They were still there. Quiet. Watching.

“They look the same,” you whispered.

Aro’s voice came gently behind you. “They are.”

You turned slightly. “Even when everything else isn’t.”

He didn’t reply. But the silence said yes.

You sat together on a bench under an old olive tree. Your hand rested close to his — close enough to feel the brush of his sleeve against your skin when the wind stirred.

“I used to believe love had to feel like fire,” you said quietly. “Like something that burned.”

Aro looked at you, not directly, but in the way someone listens with their whole soul.

You swallowed. “But maybe… maybe it’s supposed to feel like this.”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his stillness did.

Like hope exhaled.

You began to speak of your turning. Only in pieces. Only on your terms. A name. A smell. A moment you hadn’t remembered until you did.

Aro listened. Always. He never interrupted. Never offered vengeance.

You’d thought you wanted revenge, once. But now, all you wanted was space to breathe.

“You’re not what he made you,” he said one night, voice barely above the rustling fire. “You never were.”

You didn’t reply. But your hand drifted across the space between you, and this time, it found his without trembling.

He didn’t hold it.

He just let it be.

It happened slowly.

The love.

You didn’t recognize it at first. It lived in the pauses. In the way you waited for his voice. In the way your shoulders loosened when he was near.

You’d once hated being touched. Feared it. But now you brushed against his side as you passed in the corridor. Sat closer. Rested your hand against his chest when you couldn’t sit still.

You never apologized.

And he never asked why.

He didn’t tell you he loved you again.

Not out loud.

But he showed you every day, in the stillness, in the offerings, in the way he never once made your healing about him.

You saw it in the way he averted his gaze when you smiled. Like it hurt to look. Like it meant too much.

You wondered if maybe it did.

One night, in the gardens, under violet moonlight, you stood beside him and whispered, “I think… I’m beginning to feel something.”

He didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

You looked at him. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s not fear.”

His lips parted. Then closed.

You reached up slowly, cupping his cheek in your hand — so lightly, like he might break.

Or maybe, like you might.

He closed his eyes. Not with want. But with relief.

And for the first time, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.

Your voice was barely there. “Don’t move.”

“I won’t,” he whispered.

You kissed him one week later. It was brief. Soft. Almost startled. Like both of you were afraid to admit it had happened.

You pulled back quickly. He didn’t chase you. Didn’t press.

But he smiled. A real one. The kind that cracked through centuries of grief.

And you found yourself smiling back.

You weren’t healed. Not completely.

Some days, the nightmares still came.

Some days, you still wept in the quiet, too ashamed to say why.

But you weren’t alone in it anymore.

You had someone who sat with you in the dark without needing to fix it. Someone who didn’t need your love to feel whole — only your presence.

And you were starting to want to give him both.

You still didn’t say the words.

Not yet.

But one day, you would.

And he would wait.

The first face you saw when the fire in your blood dimmed wasn’t his. It was hers — Jane, with her strange red eyes and perfect lips curved into something unreadable. She stood with her hands behind her back as you huddled against the wall, dirt-caked, trembling, too starved to fight.

Demetri was next. He stepped toward you once and you screamed. You hadn’t meant to. It just tore out of you — raw and primal, a sound born from fear so old it already felt ancient in your chest.

That was when they realized you weren’t dangerous. You were broken.

They brought you to Volterra in silence. You didn’t struggle. You didn’t speak. You barely moved. When they gave you a room — soft, warm, full of things that should’ve comforted you. You didn’t lay in the bed. You didn’t touch the books. You sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, shaking every time a footstep echoed in the hallway.

You drank only when the pain in your throat grew too unbearable to ignore. Cold bags of donated blood, passed through the door without ceremony. You hated how easily your body accepted it. How natural it had become to hunger for something so wrong.

You didn’t understand what you were. You only knew what you were not, safe.

He came three days later.

The door opened without fanfare, and you looked up — already braced to flinch, to cry, to beg. And then you saw him.

Tall. Dressed in black. Movements so slow, so deliberate, he barely seemed to breathe. You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know who he was. But you felt something the moment your eyes met his.

Not comfort. Not recognition. Not even fear. Something else.

It was a pull.

You recoiled instantly, body folding in on itself, hands out like you were warding off fire. “Don’t,” you croaked. Your voice cracked, your throat raw. “Please don’t come near me.”

He didn’t. He froze where he stood, hands lifting ever so slightly in surrender. And then slowly, carefully, he knelt.

Not like someone humbling himself. Not like someone worshiping, either. It was quieter than that. Sadder.

“I won’t touch you,” he said softly, his voice low and ancient. “I give you my word.”

And then he sat there, silent. Not watching you like a predator. Not speaking. Just existing in the same room, as if his presence alone might help you remember what it meant to be yourself again.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t look at him again. You waited for him to leave.

He stayed for an hour.

And then he left.

He returned the next night. And the next.

Always the same — he would knock once, step inside without a guard, and sit. Sometimes by the fire. Sometimes on the far wall, his back against the stone.

He never crossed the room. Never raised his voice. Never tried to touch you.

He spoke occasionally. Small things. Questions he didn’t expect answers to. Stories you didn’t understand. Observations about the stars you couldn’t bring yourself to see.

And then, one night, after nearly two weeks of silence between you, you whispered, “Why?”

He looked up slowly. You were curled in the corner still, but your voice — faint, hoarse, lingered in the quiet like a match burning in the dark.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

His eyes softened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then: “Because I felt you long before I ever saw you.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You began to understand, piece by piece. You heard whispers from the guard. From Alec. From a woman named Chelsea, who never dared come near you but often stood outside the door when Aro visited.

“She’s his mate,” someone said once.

“He found her too late,” said another. “She doesn’t even know what she is.”

You hated them for saying it. You hated him more for not denying it.

Because you felt it, too.

Not in your chest, where love should’ve lived. But in your bones. In your blood. In the way your body reacted to his presence — tense and small and drawn like a string pulled tight.

You hated it.

You hated him.

And still… you waited for the sound of his footsteps. Every night. Without fail.

“I want it gone,” you said one evening, eyes on the fire, voice hollow. “This… connection.”

Aro didn’t answer right away. He was seated across the room, his hands folded in his lap. You never looked directly at him, but you always knew where he was.

“It’s not something I gave you,” he said at last. “And it’s not something I can take away.”

Tears welled in your eyes, sharp and angry. “Then what good is it?”

His voice didn’t tremble, but it cracked faintly. “I ask myself the same question.”

He brought you books, scrolls, soft silks. He never tried to bribe you with comfort. It was quieter than that. He simply left them there, never commenting if you didn’t touch them.

You began to read, eventually. You liked the old ones best. Books that were handwritten, bound in leather. Words that had survived the passage of time.

He noticed. But he didn’t say a word.

He only smiled, a small, hidden thing you caught in the firelight.

And still, he never moved closer than the threshold.

One night, you asked, “Do you want me to love you?”

The question hung like smoke.

Aro looked up slowly, his eyes red and heavy with years. “I want you to live.”

You stared at him, shocked by the answer.

“Loving me,” he said quietly, “is something you never have to do. But living… that’s something I pray you choose.”

The first time your hands touched was by accident. You were reaching for a book and your fingers brushed his. You froze. He did, too. The air shifted. The bond surged.

You yanked your hand back like you’d been burned. Your body shook, your vision blurring. You whispered, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

He stepped back at once, hands open, face twisted in quiet agony. “I never will,” he said. “Unless you ask me to.”

You didn’t speak for three days after that.

And then, softly, you began to change.

You laid on the bed. You asked for music. You ate without sobbing afterward. You started asking questions: Where did he grow up? Did he believe in God? What did it feel like to live this long?

Aro answered everything with slow, careful honesty. He never tried to enchant you with power or status. He never tried to convince you to love him.

But in every word, you could hear it: the devotion. The restraint. The ache.

And it broke you.

Because for all the love he held for you — he never made you carry it.

“I’m not healed,” you whispered one night, eyes fixed on the fire.

Aro sat in the chair beside you, as he always did now. Not close enough to touch. But closer.

“I know,” he said.

You hesitated. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be.”

He looked over, eyes soft. “Then I will love you while you try.”

You didn’t cry. You hadn’t in weeks.

But you thought you might, then.

You touched his hand a week later. Not by accident. Not for long. But it was your decision. Your fingers curled around his gently, trembling but sure.

His eyes widened. You watched the pain fall away from his face in a single breath.

And he didn’t say a word.

Because for Aro, that was enough.

For now.

You couldn’t look away. And you never truly looked back.

You tried to forget it. You told yourself it was nothing. You had a coven. A family. You hunted animals. You pretended to be human.

You laughed with Emmett. Read with Edward. Watched the sun set beside Esme.

But something inside you remained untouched. An ache. A thread pulled tight.

You had never seen Aro in person. And yet, he filled your dreams. A voice without words. A face painted in memory.

Carlisle never spoke ill of him. Only carefully. Cautiously. Reverently, at times. He had once walked beside him. And part of you wondered… had Aro painted himself into Carlisle, too? Had he ever let go?

And so, the decision became inevitable.

You would go to Volterra. Alone.

Not to negotiate. Not to deliver a message.

But to offer yourself.

The journey to Italy felt like floating toward a star you’d never touch. Every step felt guided by something older than instinct. Older than fate.

The guards were waiting when you arrived. They recognized your name immediately. Tension rose in the air like lightning before a storm.

“Carlisle Cullen’s creation,” one of them muttered. “What would she want here?”

You said nothing.

They led you deep beneath the city, past limestone walls and iron gates until the air grew cold and the silence turned heavy.

You didn’t flinch.

The doors to the throne room opened. And you walked through.

He was already standing.

Aro.

Time slowed.

His eyes met yours and the earth seemed to fall away beneath you.

The red of his irises burned like coals. But they weren’t cruel. They were… hungry. Not for blood. For something deeper.

He stepped down from the dais slowly, carefully — as though afraid to startle you.

“You…” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “At last.”

The guards stilled.

Caius’s expression twisted into confusion. Marcus only tilted his head slightly.

But Aro, he never took his eyes off you.

“You’ve come far,” he said, now just a foot away. “For what purpose?”

You didn’t hesitate. “To be with you.”

Something trembled in the room. Not physically — but in the air. In the meaning of what you’d said.

Aro’s gaze sharpened.

“I saw you,” you said softly. “Long ago. In Carlisle’s study. The painting. I felt the pull then, even though I didn’t understand it.”

“And now you do.”

You nodded once. “You’re my mate.”

The word mate fell like thunder.

Aro didn’t move. He only stared. And then, finally, he smiled.

“You always were,” he said. “From the moment your heart first beat.”

He offered his hand — not for power. Not to see your mind.

To touch you.

When your fingers brushed his, it was like exhaling after holding your breath for a century.

The bond ignited immediately. A thread drawn taut between two ancient souls, one just beginning, the other too long alone.

His thumb traced the back of your hand.

“I have waited centuries,” he said, reverently, “but I never thought the end of my waiting would walk into my halls.”

You didn’t reply. There was no need.

You expected pushback from the others. And it came.

Caius questioned your loyalty. Jane watched you like a hawk. And Demetri whispered about what Aro might see in you.

But he said nothing to them. Only kept you close. Introduced you to the archives. Let you sit beside him at court. Taught you the names of the vampire kingdoms you’d never even heard of.

You learned quickly. You fed when needed. You held your head high.

But you remained soft only for him.

One night, in a chamber lined with velvet and parchment, you finally asked him.

“Why didn’t you come for me?”

He turned, startled.

“When I was new,” you said. “When you felt the bond. Why didn’t you take me?”

His expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, it cracked into something more vulnerable.

“Because I knew,” he said, “that if I came too soon… I would not have been able to let you go again. Even if you weren’t ready.”

You stepped toward him. “I was ready the moment I saw your face.”

He smiled sadly. “But you still had to find your way. If I had taken you then, it wouldn’t have been your choice. It would have been mine.”

You looked at him, the oldest vampire alive. The one who could bend empires with a whisper. And yet — he had waited for you.

You kissed him then. A slow, deliberate thing. Not hungry. Not desperate.

A claiming.

And he let himself be claimed.

The next morning, he took you deeper into the castle than ever before. Into a gallery of sealed portraits. Some ancient. Some more recent.

He stopped in front of one. You.

Painted in soft gray tones. Eyes fierce. Lips curved faintly upward.

“I had it commissioned,” he said quietly. “When I first saw you through Carlisle’s mind.”

Your chest tightened. “So you knew.”

“I always knew.”

He turned to face you. “But even then, I wasn’t prepared for the real you. You burn brighter than I imagined. You are not what I expected.”

“And still,” you said, “you want me?”

Aro stepped forward and took your face in his hands.

“No,” he said. “I need you.”

That night, he took you to the rooftop above Volterra.

The city glowed golden beneath you, quiet and ancient.

You leaned against the railing. Aro stood beside you, his cloak fluttering gently in the breeze.

“Do you miss them?” he asked after a while.

“The Cullens?” you asked. “Sometimes. They were kind to me. But I never felt like I belonged.”

“And now?”

You turned toward him. “Now I feel like I’ve stopped pretending.”

He smiled. “You are more than I hoped for.”

You touched his chest, where a heartbeat once lived. “So are you.”

Aro bent down then, and kissed you with the full weight of centuries behind him.

And the flame that lit inside you never dimmed again.

Volterra was colder than you imagined — old stone and quiet corridors, soft candlelight glowing like memory. The castle felt like it breathed around you, ancient and awake.

They didn’t restrain you. You were led through the halls like a guest, not a prisoner. But the guards didn’t blink. You could feel them assessing your every move, measuring how easily you could be killed.

You were half-human, after all. Breakable. Vulnerable.

But not quite.

You entered the throne room with your chin held high. Aro sat at the center, draped in black, flanked by Caius and Marcus like marble statues.

His eyes locked on you the moment you stepped in.

“So,” he said softly, rising from his throne. “The rumors were true.”

You said nothing. Let him study you.

“A hybrid,” he breathed, approaching you. “But not like the Cullen child. No… older. Changed. Not born.”

You stood your ground as he came closer. You didn’t flinch when he stopped just a breath away.

“May I?” he asked, raising a hand toward yours.

You hesitated. Then offered it.

His fingers curled around yours — cool, dry, and impossibly light.

Aro’s eyes fluttered shut.

Then his expression darkened.

He opened them slowly, studying you.

“I see only fragments,” he murmured. “Memories woven like torn silk. You weren’t turned the usual way.”

“No,” you said, voice steady. “I was dying. The venom didn’t finish the job.”

He seemed… delighted.

“A miracle,” he whispered. “An in-between thing.”

“I’m not a thing.”

Aro smiled. “Of course not.”

He turned and gestured. “Walk with me.”

You glanced at the guards. “Is that a command?”

He tilted his head. “An invitation.”

You followed.

The halls of the Volturi were strangely beautiful. Every inch whispered history — tapestries, statues, books that had never touched sunlight.

“You do not thirst,” Aro mused as you walked. “But you are not human.”

“I eat food. I sleep. I bleed.”

“But your strength… your speed…”

“Stronger than a human. Weaker than you.”

“Fascinating,” he said again, half to himself.

You stopped at a balcony overlooking the city. The night air touched your face, and for a moment, Aro was quiet beside you.

Then he said, “Why did you come?”

You glanced at him. “You asked.”

“Others would have run.”

“I’m not like others.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

He turned to face you, something sharper behind his smile now. “Do you know why I asked for you?”

“You wanted to see me.”

He nodded. “True. But more than that, I wanted to understand you.”

“Because you see me as a threat?”

“Because I see you as potential.”

You raised a brow. “For what?”

“For change,” he said simply. “For something new. You are a crack in the old world, my dear. A path forward. Or… a danger to be handled.”

You didn’t react.

“You think I’m cruel,” he said.

“I think you’re dangerous.”

He smiled at that.

“And what do you want?” he asked.

You looked down at the streets of Volterra, golden and distant. “I’ve never belonged anywhere,” you said. “Too human for the vampire world. Too strange for the human one.”

Aro’s voice lowered. “And if I told you that you could belong here?”

You turned to him slowly. “As what? A specimen? A weapon? A pet?”

His smile faded.

“No,” he said. “As something cherished.”

Later, you were led to a private chamber. Not a cell. A room. With a bed, and books, and a window that let in the stars.

You stood there for a long time, not sitting, not speaking.

Then the door opened.

He had come alone.

No guards. No fanfare. Just Aro, as quiet as the dead.

“I should let you rest,” he said. “But I find myself… reluctant.”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped inside. “You must understand how rare you are. Not just for what you are. But how you carry it.”

You watched him closely.

“You haven’t tasted human blood,” he said. “But you’ve felt the pull.”

“Yes.”

“And resisted it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I know what I’d become if I didn’t.”

“Do you think that makes you noble?” he asked. “Or afraid?”

You looked him in the eye. “Both.”

Aro’s lips parted, and he laughed softly. Not mockingly. Like he was surprised.

“You are unlike any creature I’ve known,” he whispered.

He crossed the room. And this time, you didn’t stop him.

His fingers brushed your cheek. Cool. Careful.

“I could give you anything,” he said. “Power. Knowledge. Eternity.”

“I have eternity,” you said.

He stepped closer.

“But not purpose.”

You felt it then — that dangerous, electric thing between you. The way he looked at you. Like a king discovering something holy. Like a man staring into the unknown.

“I don’t trust you,” you said.

“No,” he murmured. “But you want to.”

You swallowed.

He leaned in. “May I?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

He kissed you — not with heat, but gravity. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips. It was soft, cold, and strangely human.

When it ended, he didn’t pull away.

“You could stay,” he said. “You would never be alone again.”

You closed your eyes.

“But I would never be free.”

A long silence.

“I won’t lock the door,” he said. “But I’ll always be here when it opens.”

You looked at him.

“You don’t want a companion,” you whispered. “You want a keepsake. Something to marvel at and admire. But never truly know.”

His expression was unreadable.

And then, quietly: “Perhaps I want both.”

You touched his chest, just briefly, where a heart had once beaten.

“I’m not ready to be someone’s possession,” you said.

“Then be no one’s,” Aro replied. “Be mine.”

Your breath caught.

But you stepped back.

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

“I won’t stop you.”

You nodded once. And turned away.

Before he left, he said: “You will come back. I’ve seen it in you.”

You didn’t answer.

But your pulse was louder than ever.

Caius had looked at you as though you were an anomaly, something inexplicable and infuriating. For a moment, the throne room had fallen silent, the usual air of formality dissipating into something heavy and charged. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of his gaze, yet you couldn’t look away either.

Aro had been the first to break the silence. “Oh, how delightful,” he murmured, his tone light but laced with intrigue. He moved closer, his pale hand extending toward you. “There is something extraordinary about her, isn’t there, Caius?”

Caius’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Extraordinary or not,” he said coldly, “she’s human. Fragile. A liability.”

Aro’s grin widened as if Caius’s words only amused him. “Ah, but she’s also your mate, dear brother.”

The words sent a shockwave through the room, and you couldn’t quite comprehend their meaning. Mate? Your heart pounded in your chest, but it was nothing compared to the flicker of something—anger? Fear?—that passed over Caius’s otherwise impenetrable face.

“Impossible,” Caius said sharply, though his voice betrayed a crack of uncertainty. “She’s nothing.”

You flinched at the coldness of his tone, but Aro was quick to soothe. “Oh, Caius, you can’t fight fate,” he said, stepping back and gesturing toward you with a flourish. “She’s quite intriguing, isn’t she? Even Marcus agrees.”

Marcus, the quietest of the three, simply nodded, his ancient eyes watching you with something that felt like pity. “The bond is there,” he said softly. “Undeniable.”

Caius glared at Marcus, but his defiance faltered when he looked at you again. His crimson eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might lash out. Instead, he turned abruptly, his cloak billowing as he stormed out of the room without another word.

After that day, your life in the Volturi castle became a strange blend of luxury and imprisonment. You were given quarters that rivaled those of royalty, with silk sheets, fine clothes, and meals prepared to perfection. But the grandeur did little to ease the tension of your situation. You were watched constantly, your every move monitored by guards who reported directly to Caius.

He avoided you at first, his disdain for the situation evident in every clipped command he gave the others regarding your care. Yet, despite his coldness, he refused to let you leave the castle grounds. When Aro questioned this decision, Caius’s response was curt and final: “She’s too fragile.”

You overheard the whispers among the Volturi guard -- snippets of conversation about how Caius’s protective streak was unusual, even for a mate. “He won’t admit it,” Jane had said once, her cold voice laced with both amusement and curiosity, “but she’s already under his skin.”

The first time you saw Caius’s care for you in full force was during a confrontation with a visiting coven. One of their members -- a tall, arrogant vampire with a cruel smirk -- had made a passing comment about the “human pet” in the castle. The words hadn’t even fully left his mouth before Caius was upon him, his hand wrapped around the vampire’s throat.

“You will address her with respect,” Caius snarled, his voice like ice. “Or you won’t address her at all.“

The entire room had fallen silent, and even Aro seemed taken aback by the ferocity in Caius’s tone. The vampire stammered an apology, and Caius released him with a shove, turning to you with a glare.

“Stay out of my sight,” he ordered, his voice harsh. “If we find another issue with your coven, you will all be ended, including those with petulant disrespect on their tongues.“

Over time, Caius’s cold exterior began to show cracks. He would linger in the shadows, watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. He began to ask subtle questions about your past, your interests, your fears. At first, his inquiries felt like an interrogation, but gradually, you realized he was trying to understand you.

One evening, as you sat in the castle’s vast library, he appeared without warning. “Why do you always sit here?” he asked, his tone less sharp than usual.

You looked up from the book in your lap, startled. “It’s quiet,” you said simply. “And the view of the gardens is beautiful.”

He said nothing, his gaze drifting to the window. After a moment, he sat in the chair across from you, his presence both unsettling and strangely comforting. “Beauty is fleeting,” he said, almost to himself. “But you… you endure.”

The words hung in the air, and you didn’t know how to respond. Before you could find your voice, he stood and left, his cloak swishing behind him.

As time passed, his moments of softness got more frequent, but always shocking to you. Though you spent most of your time alone, more and more often you found that Caius would join you in a room, sitting across it and speaking to you softly. It was almost like he didn't dare to touch you, in fear that you'd break.

For the past three days, you hadn't seen him. He was engrossed in a lengthy trial, one of the betrayal of a coven that was close in affairs to the Volturi. It was complicated and required much contemplation by the Kings and the Guard -- so you didn't think too poorly of Caius for not finding time to see you. You didn't ever expect anything from Caius. He was in a dominant position over you and came and went as he wished. But, luck would have it, you'd fallen extremely ill the first night you hadn't seen him for dinner.

The human secretary, Janine, that was tasked with checking on you when Caius was busy wasn't the most.. intelligent.. caretaker. In fact, in your sick delirium, you'd had only one accurate thought. If Caius caught wind of how she'd been caring for you, she'd be swiftly killed. After all, she hadn't even informed Caius of your illness.

The cool, marble walls of your quarters seemed to trap the heat radiating from your fever-ridden body, amplifying your misery. You lay in bed, tangled in damp sheets that stuck to your skin, every muscle in your body aching as though you had been trampled. The room blurred and swam before your eyes, but even through the fog of your illness, you registered the sound of the door creaking open.

Janine strolled in, carrying a water pitcher and a single glass with a dismissive air. She placed them carelessly on the table beside your bed, the loud clink making you wince. “Here,” she said flatly. “Drink some water. That’s all you need.”

You blinked sluggishly at her, the effort it took to keep your eyes open making your head throb worse. The room tilted for a moment before settling, but the indifference in her tone didn’t escape you. Her presence, the lack of care in her movements, and the words themselves grated against your already fragile state. You'd known Janine was full of jealousy -- jealous of your position. You were given almost anything you wanted, though you didn't request much, but.. You were to be the wife of one of the Kings eventually. It was enough to make her distaste for you grow with every second.

You felt like death was going to come over you if you didn't at least receive something for your pain, though. You knew you needed to speak up.

"Janine. I need something stronger."

She sighed loudly, as though your request were an inconvenience rather than a genuine cry for help. “You’re just feverish,” she said dismissively, straightening her posture as if to emphasize her superiority in the moment. “Drink the water and rest. You’ll get over it.”

Her lack of empathy left you stunned. The world swirled around you, the fever clouding your ability to argue or even react properly. You managed a faint whisper, one you weren’t sure she even heard. “If Caius knew…”

She froze for the briefest of moments before her lip curled into a smirk. “Caius isn’t here, is he? He has far more important matters to attend to than a sick little human. Just be grateful he even allows you to stay here.”

The tone in her voice felt like a slap, but you lacked the energy to do more than close your eyes and turn your face away. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, exhaustion overcoming you. If you were less weak, you would have slapped her. But you couldn't even will yourself to get out of bed.

As Janine turned to leave, the door slammed open with such force that it rattled on its hinges. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the air growing heavier as an unmistakable presence filled the space.

It was a positive for you for the first time in the months you'd been at the castle. You knew who it was, of course. Caius's entrance into a room was always felt by everybody in it. Usually, it made you slightly anxious and a bit more self-conscious, but now, relief washed over you in waves.

“Janine.” Caius’s voice was low, cold, and lethally calm, each syllable a knife’s edge. It still held its usual venom, though. Enough to make you sting for hours after hearing it.

The blood drained from Janine’s face as she spun around, her smirk vanishing instantly. “My lord,” she stammered, attempting a clumsy curtsy. “I was just--”

“You were neglecting your duties,” Caius interrupted, stepping into the room with deliberate, measured strides. His crimson eyes flicked to you, narrowing at your pale, fever-flushed face and trembling frame. “What. Has. Happened?”

Janine opened her mouth to respond, but her voice faltered under his glare. “She’s… unwell,” she finally managed. “I brought her water--”

Caius’s lips curled into a snarl, cutting her off. “You call this care? Leaving her to suffer, unattended, as though she is some insignificant pest?”

“My lord, I--”

“Enough.” The word was sharp and final, and the weight of his authority silenced her completely. His focus shifted entirely to you as he crossed the room in two swift steps.

He sat beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight, and his icy hand brushed against your burning forehead. You flinched slightly at the stark contrast, but the relief was instant. His expression hardened further as he assessed your condition.

“Why did you not call for me?” he asked, his voice gentler now but still tinged with frustration.

You swallowed hard, the effort painful. “Didn't.. want to bother you,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the last word. “Janine was here to check on me, and I thought your trial needed more of your attention than I did.”

Caius’s crimson eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He stayed silent for a moment, as though trying to process your words, before leaning forward slightly, his gaze boring into yours. His hand, still cool against your fevered skin, shifted slightly, his thumb brushing over your temple with a gentleness you hadn’t thought him capable of.

“You thought wrong,” he said, his voice low but resolute, the frustration in his tone undercut by a strange softness. “Nothing -- no one -- is more deserving of my attention than you, especially in such a state.”

You blinked up at him, surprised by both the intensity and the tenderness in his words. Caius was not one to admit weakness or vulnerability, yet here he was, clearly affected by your condition.

“You… have responsibilities,” you murmured weakly, though it was hard to hold his gaze with the weight of his emotion bearing down on you.

“And you are one of them,” he interrupted sharply, though not unkindly. “Do not mistake my obligations for distractions. Your well-being is of paramount importance to me. More so than you seem to realize.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten, though whether from the remnants of the fever or the weight of his words, you couldn’t tell. Before you could muster a response, Caius glanced toward the door, his expression hardening.

“I trusted Janine to care for you, and for that, I hold her failure in the highest contempt,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “Her negligence is inexcusable, and she will not escape retribution.”

“Caius” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t… hurt her. She didn’t mean--”

“She failed you,” Caius cut in, his tone steely, though his gaze softened when it returned to your face. “And for that, there will be consequences. But that is no longer your concern.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, realizing there was no use arguing. Caius’s mind was set, as it always was when matters of justice -- or vengeance -- were involved.

He seemed to sense your unease, his expression softening further as he leaned closer, his other hand coming to rest lightly on the bed beside you. “You are too kind, even to those who do not deserve it,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. “But I will not allow kindness to become a vulnerability that others exploit. Not while you are under my care.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, the effort of staying awake and coherent starting to take its toll. Yet you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in his words, as harsh as they might have seemed. For all his coldness and cruelty to others, there was something fiercely protective in the way Caius regarded you -- something that made you feel safe, even now.

"Caius?" You gained the courage to ask quietly, willing yourself to open your eyes again. You studied his beautiful, porcelain face, his white blonde hair. His pale pink lips. "Um.. Does it bother you? Me being human?"

Caius stilled at your question, his sharp features momentarily unreadable. His crimson eyes, softened only slightly by the flickering candlelight, locked with yours. For a moment, you worried you had overstepped, that your curiosity had breached some unspoken boundary.

But then he leaned back slightly, his expression shifting into something contemplative. “Bother me?” he echoed, his voice calm, though his words carried a weight that made your heart quicken. “Your humanity is… an inconvenience at times, yes. But that is not the same as being a bother.”

You blinked, unsure how to interpret his words. “What do you mean?”

Caius’s gaze flicked away briefly, a rare hesitation crossing his face before he returned his attention to you. “It is not your fault that you are fragile,” he began, his tone measured as though choosing his words with care. “Fragility is inherent to your kind. It is… difficult, at times, to reconcile your mortality with the attachment I find myself unwillingly forming.”

Your breath caught at his admission, and you weren’t sure if it was the fever or the weight of his words making your head spin. “Attachment?”

Caius’s jaw tightened briefly, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly, though not in anger. “Do not make me repeat myself,” he said, though his words lacked their usual bite. “You are... significant to me in ways I have yet to fully understand. But your humanity complicates matters.”

He leaned forward again, his cold hand brushing against your cheek with a surprising gentleness. “You are weak, delicate, mortal,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “And yet, despite every reason I should have to resent your presence, I find myself... drawn to you. It defies logic.”

His words left you stunned, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with your fever. You searched his face, looking for any sign that he might be mocking you, but there was none. Caius was earnest, his piercing gaze unwavering as he awaited your response.

“I don’t want to be a burden to you,” you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice catching you by surprise. “I don’t want my humanity to be… a weakness.”

Caius’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression softening in a way that was almost imperceptible. “Your humanity is not a weakness, unlike most humans,” he said firmly. “If anything, it is a testament to your resilience. You endure pain, illness, and fear, yet you continue to fight. That is not weakness -- it is strength.”

The intensity of his words left you speechless, your throat tightening as you fought back the surge of emotion they stirred. Caius’s hand lingered on your cheek for a moment longer before he withdrew, his gaze flicking briefly to the water pitcher on the table.

“You should drink,” he said, his tone softening further. “You need your strength to recover.”

You nodded faintly, your body too weak to do much else. As Caius poured the water with a grace that seemed almost surreal, you couldn’t help but marvel at the strange contradiction that he was -- a cold and unyielding king who had somehow become your most unlikely protector.

When he handed you the glass, his fingers brushing yours briefly, you whispered, “Thank you, Caius.”

For a moment, something in his expression shifted—an almost imperceptible crack in his icy exterior. “Rest,” he said, his voice carrying a softness that was as shocking as it was comforting. “You are safe here. I will see to that.”

As you drank the cool water and settled back into the pillows, the warmth of his presence lingered, chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones. Despite his protests and denials, Caius was proving to be more than the fearsome king you had once thought him to be. He was something far more complex -- and far more human.

You eventually fell asleep, stirring only when you got too warm or too cold. Although not awake, you could feel Caius's presence. If he sensed that you were too hot, he laid a gentle hand on your forehead, cooling you down. If he felt you shiver, he lifted the blankets closer to you, tucking you in further to spread their warmth across your body. You almost thought you could hear his voice, just before you fell into an uninterrupted, finally comfortable sleep.

“Such beauty. Such compassion. A gift for a king that deserved much less than you,” He murmured, almost inaudibly. He seemed to be speaking to himself, not you. His voice was like a prayer that lingered in the silence of the room. “You don’t belong in this world of darkness, Y/n. You are light, fragile and fleeting, burning brighter than I deserve. But still, here you are. A puzzle I cannot solve… and yet I do not wish to.”

The warmth of his words settled over you like a protective veil, and you couldn’t help but sigh in your sleep, comforted by the quiet intensity of his presence. There was something deeply private in what he had said, something he hadn’t intended for you to hear. But it didn’t matter. In that moment, despite everything -- the coldness, the darkness, the endless uncertainty -- you felt something unexplainable stir within you.

In your human life, you'd been so undeserving of this type of pain. You were pure, quiet, humble. You were dainty and sweet, such a contrast to Caius himself. An angel in human form.

Now, you were locked behind thick doors of stone and silence. He hadn’t left the corridor outside your chambers since the moment your screams had started. Even Marcus, ever-emotionless, had raised a brow at his brother’s refusal to move.

Three days. Three nights. Eighty-two agonizing hours of Caius pacing like a maddened thing, listening, analyzing every faint twitch of sound behind that door. He had committed a thousand atrocities over the centuries -- but this was the first that truly felt like penance.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak. And though his immortal heart did not beat, it ached.

You had trusted him with your life -- with your soul -- and he had returned the favor by sentencing you to fire. Beautiful, purifying fire, yes... but fire nonetheless. And now, all he could do was wait for you to awaken -- reborn, perhaps, but changed. There was no going back.

The last time he saw you, your eyes had been glassy with tears, your hand trembling in his as your heart slowed under the weight of the venom. “Don’t leave me,” you'd whispered.

And he hadn't. Not once.

So when the stone doors creaked open -- slowly, cautiously -- Caius straightened like a statue brought to life, his breath caught in his throat.

Then he saw you.

The transformation had been nothing short of divine. Your skin gleamed like moonlight, your eyes were red and ravenous. But it was the way you stood -- tall, regal, absolutely still -- that made him falter.

Your fierce eyes finally ceased from analyzing your surroundings, clearly enamored with your newfound eye strength. They zeroed in on your mate, every inch of his skin, his red eyes, his plush pink lips and platinum hair. You inhaled his smell, a warm bliss finally hitting your cold eyes, showing him similarities to the girl you were when you were human.

His worries melted away. Even changed, you were still in love with him.

You stepped forward, for once in your life not tentatively. Your cold hand floated up, sliding onto Caius's cheek.

Caius couldn't breathe, not that he needed to. Not when your gaze held such fierce clarity -- like your eyes saw into his soul now, truly and completely. Your touch, once timid and featherlight, now carried a steadiness that shook him far more than any battlefield or rebellion ever had.

Your thumb brushed over the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, and something in your expression softened -- just a sliver, but it was you. It was the very core of your gentleness breaking through the cold steel of your rebirth.

“I remember everything,” you said softly, your voice velvet and laced with power.

It wasn’t the high-pitched, uncertain tone you used to carry. It was smooth, confident, regal. A voice meant for a queen. His queen.

Caius turned his face slightly into your palm, closing his eyes for just a breath, allowing himself this small moment of relief. You had come back to him. Not just in form, but in essence.

“I thought you wouldn’t be here,” you added after a beat, your tone flickering with a trace of old vulnerability. “I thought… the fire might take too long. That it might change me too much.”

“It did change you,” he whispered, finally letting his hands rise to cup your face in return. His thumbs rested beneath your jaw, tilting your head gently as his eyes drank you in. “But in the most magnificent of ways. You glow, my love."

Caius barely had time to marvel at the wonder that was you before your cool lips met his in a kiss that shattered centuries of restraint.

Your mouth pressed to his with all the need you’d bottled up over three days of burning agony -- and a lifetime before that. Caius responded instantly, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was fervent, claiming, the taste of your venom still fresh and electric on your tongue. It was heat and hunger, devotion and desire -- coiling between you like a tether pulled taut by centuries of longing.

You moaned softly into the kiss, and that tiny sound unraveled something feral in him. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging gently, and your sharp gasp made him deepen the kiss, parting your lips with his own.

For someone who’d never kissed with a vampire’s strength or precision before, you were devastating. Your hands roamed over his chest, up to his shoulders, as if reacquainting yourself with every part of him -- but this time, without fragility. You didn’t have to hold back anymore.

And neither did he.

His fangs grazed your lower lip, teasing, and you pulled him impossibly closer, tongue slipping past his lips, matching his fervor with your own. There was nothing tentative now. You kissed like a queen -- bold, dangerous, in complete control.

But then --

You froze.

Your hands stilled against his chest, your body going rigid in his arms.

Caius pulled back just slightly, confusion flickering in his crimson eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, voice rough from the kiss.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even blink. Your pupils dilated, nostrils flaring as a sickeningly sweet scent hit the air -- warm, metallic, utterly intoxicating.

Blood.

Your head whipped toward the far end of the corridor, nostrils flaring as the scent grew stronger, laced with panic and fresh pain.

Down the hallway, behind a set of double doors leading to the main offices, the human secretary had sliced her hand on a piece of parchment paper. A minor, foolish accident. One drop. That’s all it took.

Your eyes darkened, jaw clenching as your newborn instincts screamed to the surface, drowning out everything else.

“She's bleeding,” you hissed, almost reverent, voice low and guttural. Your hands trembled -- not with fear, but with craving.

Caius stepped in front of you instantly, eyes sharp. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice a command born of centuries of rule. “Not her. Me.”

But you were already gone.

One blur of motion -- faster than the human eye could track -- and you’d vanished down the corridor.

Caius took off after you, a blur of platinum and black. Behind him, Aro and Marcus appeared in the hallway, faces unreadable.

“Shall we intervene?” Marcus asked quietly.

Aro smiled, almost fondly. “No. Let her show us what she is.”

When you reached the room Janine was in (a human secretary that hated you, mostly out of jealousy), your sharp eyes caught the droplet of blood falling from her finger. Caius, Aro, and Marcus stood behind you. A raspy growling exhale left your lips as Janine's wide eyes met yours.

You tilted your head, a smirk falling onto your ravenous lips as you picked up her fear. Your new confidence was evident to the Kings.

Three years of Janine's torment had made you cold. Unforgiving. Similarly to your mate.

"Funny, the situation we're in," You said, your voice low and rasped with hunger. You took a small step forward. "I used to be scared of you. Now look. You're cowering. All because of a paper cut."

You circled her, like a lion. The thin line between your restraint and hunger wavered every few seconds -- but you wanted to taunt her. You wanted her to feel what you'd felt for years. She'd made you feel inconvenient, powerless, she'd embarrassed you. You were scared of her gaze for years.

Aro smirked, watching with an almost fond interest. "This is quite the transformation," he commented softly to Caius and Marcus, his voice dripping with amusement. "I had no doubt she'd be a force to be reckoned with, but this… this is something else entirely."

"You remember the way you treated me, don't you?" you purred, your voice cruel and smooth. "The way you looked down on me? Like I was just some little girl beneath your notice. Do you remember the way you used to laugh at me? Make me feel small... insignificant?"

Janine's face paled even further, her lips trembling. She nodded, clearly understanding now the weight of her mistake.

"Name, please--"

A musical laugh slid from your lips. You slid a cold finger down her face, stopping at her pulse point. Your eyes darkened.

"No one's stopping me. No one values your life. You were cruel to me when I was fragile," you hissed, wrapping fingers around her throat. "You've worked with the Volturi for years. Do they show mercy when wronged?"

"Darling." Caius hummed, tilting his head. "Let us not play with our food, hm?"

You paused at Caius's voice, the coldness of his words settling in the air like ice. His tone was both commanding and restrained, a gentle reminder of the control he held, even as he stood just behind you. His presence was a dark anchor, pulling you back from the edge, even as your instincts screamed for more.

Aro’s amused smile flickered for a brief moment as he exchanged a glance with Marcus, both of them content to watch the drama unfold, but it was Caius who seemed to hold the reigns of the situation.

You slowly, reluctantly tightened your grip on Janine's throat, but your eyes remained locked on hers, still burning with the promise of your wrath.

Caius’s gaze was unwavering, his crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable. "It is beneath us to linger on a mere human. We've played the game long enough," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, yet there was a finality to his words that made your breath catch.

With his final assert, you pulled Janine's head sharply, exposing her neck. Then, a beautifully gruesome sight was exposed to the Kings. Your fangs extended and you dove in.

The moment your fangs sank into Janine's soft, fragile skin, the room was filled with the sickening sound of her blood spilling into your mouth. The taste was sharp, metallic, and intoxicating, but it was the fear that mixed with it that made the experience so exhilarating. The pulse beneath your lips was strong, a steady rhythm that resonated in the very depths of you.

Janine’s body jerked beneath you, her hands weakly clutching at your arm, but it was futile. Her struggles were meaningless, a mere echo of her last attempts to assert any kind of control, and you let her helplessness feed your hunger.

Behind you, you could feel the presence of the Volturi Kings -- Aro, Marcus, and Caius -- each of them silently observing the spectacle before them. Aro’s usual grin had faded, his gaze fixated on you with an intensity that was both curious and approving. Marcus stood still, his face unreadable, though his eyes hinted at something more... calculating. Caius, however, remained as steadfast as ever, his crimson eyes locked on you, unreadable, yet undeniably proud.

As your fangs tore into Janine's neck, her blood flowed faster, and you could feel the rush of power flood through your veins. You had never felt so alive, so unstoppable. The human was nothing more than a source of sustenance to you now, a mere pawn in your game of power.

Yet, even as your hunger began to fade and her life force ebbed away, there was something dark and beautiful about this moment. The vulnerability of the human woman, the sense of control you held over her, and the knowledge that you were no longer the weak, fragile being you once were. You were no longer the one cowering under her gaze.

Caius stepped closer, his voice low and commanding. "Enough," he murmured, his eyes glinting with the slightest bit of impatience.

You reluctantly pulled away, savoring the last taste of Janine's blood before letting her fall to the ground, lifeless and drained. Her body crumpled like a discarded puppet, leaving behind only the memory of her cruelty.

For a moment, there was only silence, the weight of what had just transpired hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Aro’s smile returned, this time tinged with something darker, almost satisfied.

"Truly magnificent," he remarked, his voice filled with quiet admiration. "You have embraced your power fully."

Caius’s gaze never left you, his voice just a whisper. "You are no longer the person you once were. You are powerful, so powerful. But with time, we will learn to harness this power."

You straightened, feeling the power of the moment settle over you like a cloak. Your eyes flicked from Janine’s lifeless body to the Kings before you, each of them acknowledging the transformation that had taken place, both in you and in the room.

For the first time since your transformation, you felt untouchable. But as usual, Caius grounded you. His fingers intertwined with your blood soaked ones as he walked with you down the corridor of the castle, leading you to his quarters.

When you reached them, he presented you with a bejeweled box, opening it quietly. Inside, there was an exquisite black dress, lace and silk with a corset. A blood red ruby sat in the center of the breast. Beside the the dress was a black cloak, similar to the one Caius donned. And finally, there was a glimmering necklace -- A Volturi crest, encrusted with diamonds.

"A queen must have the proper attire. Your transformation has officially made you a part of me -- my wife. It does not compare to your effervescence.. however," he hummed, a rare, gentle smile on his lips. "It is the very best attire possible. I hope you will accept it."

The words hung in the air like a delicate thread, wrapping around you in a way you hadn't expected. Caius's rare, gentle smile flickered across his face, a soft contrast to the fierce power that surrounded him. His words were not just a gift -- they were a declaration. A bond formed not only by blood but by something deeper, more eternal.

You stood there for a moment, your gaze flicking from the dress, to the necklace, and finally back to him. The offer was not just material -- it was the mark of his trust, of the position he was giving you. His wife. His queen.

Your fingers brushed lightly over the fabric of the dress, feeling its weight, its softness. The black lace shimmered faintly, as though it were alive. The blood-red ruby at its center seemed to pulse, like a heartbeat, in sync with your own.

For the first time since your transformation, you felt the full weight of what you'd become. You were not just Caius's equal in power -- you were now tied to him in the most sacred way possible. You were his queen. His partner.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips, your blood-soaked hands feeling lighter in his grasp. His touch was the grounding force you needed -- steady, unwavering. And yet, there was something else there too. A promise.

You then turned, placing a gentle hand on Caius's chest. Love poured into your red eyes as you leaned forward, pressing a firm kiss onto his lips.

"It is all absolutely beautiful, Caius. Truly. I couldn't ask for anything more than being your queen. For eternity."

Caius stood still as your hand rested on his chest, his crimson eyes watching yours with an intensity that spoke volumes. The world around you seemed to quiet in that moment, as though everything else faded into the background and only the two of you remained -- as it was always meant to be.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to yours yet again. The kiss was a powerful affirmation, full of love, respect, and something much deeper. It was a union of souls, forged through centuries and now sealed in this single, tender moment.

His hands moved to cradle your face, his fingers brushing along your jaw with a possessiveness that was unmistakable. The kiss deepened, a soft fire igniting between you both as you both sought to imprint this moment into your very beings.

When you finally pulled away, the air between you crackled with something more than just desire. There was something eternal, something unshakable.

His voice was a low growl, soft but brimming with power. "You are mine, now and forever. No one will ever be as important to me."

A faint smile curved his lips, one that was as rare and precious as the moments when he allowed his vulnerability to show. "You have everything, and you will have everything for eternity. I will never let you go." He finished.

You stepped back slightly, the glimmering necklace catching the light, the Volturi crest now a symbol of your bond. "I will always be yours, Caius," you whispered, your voice steady but laced with the same promise. "Until the world crumbles."

Caius reached forward, his hands pulling you back into his embrace, his lips finding yours once again. This time, it was more than just love. It was the sealing of your fate, the beginning of your reign together, side by side.

Marcus watched on with those ancient eyes. They must have always looked old, you thought to yourself. You couldn’t imagine Marcus’ eyes looking any younger than time itself. And Caius’ eyes -- well… Very well. You’d let him enjoy this silly little power trip. There was something of a cruel smile lifting the edge of his lip.

“I have the time to hold a grudge.”

“Have you nothing better to do with eternity than harbor petty anger? My, my, you truly do not play well with others.” Your eyes drifted to Marcus. “Have you nothing to say, old friend?”

“We are hardly old friends.”

You rolled your eyes, settling your attention back to Caius. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall speak no more until Aro arrives.”

“Why? Are you frightened?” He taunted. Bait, that’s all it was…

“Are you?”

The doors behind you swung open heavily, like a final breath. Four sets of heeled shoes struck the marble. You did not turn even as Jane and Alec walked close on either side of you, like eels as they glided up the platform standing in the background.

Heidi didn’t even so much as brush past you to go out a side door. It was an unusual occurrence to demand entrance into the Volturi especially when a previous invitation had been so rudely turned down. You were certain a number of the vampires along the walls with you were there simply to see what demise would befall you for such insolence.

The fourth set of boots slowly walked up to the direct back of you. There was no body heat to speak for Aro but you knew it was him. The eyes of all the people in the room suddenly on you could not mean anything else. 

“Did you receive a warm welcome?” His voice hit the back of your head and it was no louder than a lover whispering their intentions.

You straightened, your eyes piercing Caius where he stood. “Something like that.”

Aro finished the pace around you. “You are very brave to have come here.” His eyes scanned the walls. He was looking to see if it was true that you had come alone.

“I was hoping it might be rewarded.”

“Hope…” He tasted the word. “Now that’s a word I have not heard in a good while.”

Half of a smile spread across your face. “You’re welcome.”

“Hm.” Aro looked you up and down, amused, before continuing his path to his throne. The three men on the platform finally sat. “And I… well, perhaps I should not assume a thing. Why don’t you tell me why you are here?”

The blonde vampire stole the silence from you. You couldn’t help but think that the angelic color was wasted on him. He would be blonde. “Foolish girl, she’s changed her mind!”

“Caius, I did ask her to tell, did I not?” Aro only dignified the man with a slight turn of his head. He set his jaw and sunk back into his throne a little. Aro’s hand gestured for you to continue.

“It is true,” you responded. As much as it pained you to soothe Caius’ temper via agreeability you were not above it especially now. “I would like to petition for entry to the Volturi.”

The laugh of all the vampires in the room made it all the more funny, you supposed. Even Marcus’ perpetually morose eyes tilted up as he chuckled.

Aro only smiled. “Now my dear…”

“I am aware of my past petulence-”

“Ooh, that was not petulence,” he corrected you, leaning forward. “Petulence is far too generous. You were rude.”

You gulped. It was true. You had been rude those 200 years ago. Very rude. 

Aro continued. “I believe you said… what were the words you used…?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Allow me. ‘The Volturi are a semblance of order. Their actions are a colossal mimicry of law and the leaders are just as big of fools for as long as they stand if they believe that their offers of entry are anything more than an identification of spinelessness in the subject if they accept such a thing.’” Curse him for his memory. “Something like that.”

His really good memory.

The helmsman of the Volturi raised his brows at that. “Your recollection is pristine, Marcus. My goodness, such scathing words… I had forgotten.”

“‘Go to hell, you greedy fucks’ too,” Caius added, that hint of a cruel smile earlier was now a complete grin. “Can’t forget that either.”

“That last one was not me actually.” A glower from the blonde vampire. “My sire, rest his soul-” I hope he is eternally suffering, “-should be properly credited for that.”

There was a chuckle from all three on the platform, even Jane smiled a little. Although it was better than how you had begun it still was not a good sign.

“Yes, rest his soul.” Aro tilted his chin up. “Whatever did happen to him?”

A test. Aro knew what had happened. Everyone in the room knew what had happened. Or they knew a version. “My coven at the time… handled him and went our separate ways.”

It was not a lie. 

“Yes, I suppose you did handle it.” Aro remarked. “It was startling to hear about, just like that, ripped limb from limb by your coven.” He didn’t trust you. Why would he?

You swept up the steps before him and wordlessly knelt, reaching a hand up. A young woman reaching her hand up to a young man, both centuries old. Jane and Alec stepped forward in warning, flanking Aro’s throne. Your eyes flitted between them. An impasse. Still you kept your hand outstretched to Aro who had taken a small step forward in your approach. Your eyes landed back on him. Please.

Aro regarded you coolly; it was colored by something else though. Intrigue. Curiosity. Hunger. The last time Aro had read you had been 200 years ago; you had so much less control then. You remembered him snatching his hands away from yours as your nightmares, or rather his, had sloppily tumbled toward him while he flitted through your memory. Two horrible truths slamming into one another -- a mutual bruise, the two of you. Your talents were similar, all thing considered.

“You can look,” you whispered up at him. “I am better at this now.”

Something of a warm smile dawned on him, if indeed Aro could ever be described as warm, as he crouched down. His red, milky eyes bore into yours and then, gently, one of his hands tucked under your palm and the other covered your knuckles. You bridled the lightning fast nightmares as the man pushed forward.

Just like the first time it had happened, it felt like nothing more than the pad of a thumb releasing held pages as they rushed for the cover of a book. Aro flicked through two centuries of life in ten seconds, his eyes darting between yours as he passively consumed.

The story had to begin with the truth that covens did not turn on each other. In technicality it was not that it had turned on itself -- just all against the self-declared leader who held all of you in a vice-like grip. You refused to even give him his name in your memory, yet another way to kill him back in a way that truly mattered. 

His inclinations of you showing abilities upon your turning were unfortunately well-guessed. You cursed your sire for the rest of your days for his early but ultimately rare stroke of clairvoyance. With time you would learn that he was no stranger to fear as a weapon either. 

Aro pushed forward, unreadably neutral. The memory of the first time you ever used your abilities somersaulted through your consciousness. You had gone well beyond the bounds of the perimeter that had been set for you by your captor. It was direct disobedience to your sire’s orders and the vampire passing through never saw it coming. The spooking they had done you was a complete accident. Their intentions to take the human body you were feeding on, however, were undeniably loaded with malice.

You had only intended to shoot them a glare but something about the tense moment, about them approaching you with a hand reaching out to what was in yours… that’s what started it. You heard it first, an impossibly low thunder like something far beneath the earth pushing its way up; they heard it too. Your crouch was something feral when you did it and the nightmares that crashed into that poor vampire tumbled into your mind too. To that though you were a spectator, privy to the innermost workings of what horrified that particular individual.

Tense shoulders, a talon-like grip taking control of your hands, a furrowed brow. Your eyes snapped shut; while the nightmares were never your personal bane they hardly offered any comfort. You saw it all. It would be the first of many in the coming eternity. 

Their shrinking hands slashing and clawing through phantom blood, unable to cup it, unable to consume any of it in a vicious bout of craving. Frantically pressing themselves into the ground as the endless blood on the ground began draining into the soil. They were withering by the second. It didn’t matter to the vampire that it was utterly ridiculous.

The vampire before you, the real version, collapsed to the ground; you heard it, like a snare cutting through reverberating bass. You didn’t open your eyes until their breath came out in pants, as if they were suffocating on too much air. And it stopped. Just like that. An end to the focus ending their nightmare. 

Aro cocked his head, continuing to read you. In hindsight, you wished you had cut and run right then. You would have had a head start. Your sire wouldn’t have caught you in the few moments he had made the mistake of leaving you alone. From that moment on, he forced you to be at his side. You remembered the berating you had gotten for your disobedience that followed after his wide-eyed realization that you could do what you had done to the weeping vampire.

With that, you became the prize of the coven; it was your abilities that afforded your sire his longevity. He made you play with his food sometimes; asking what you saw as you screwed your eyes shut. You told yourself it was from the effort. In truth it was not any harder than flicking down a wooden block had been in your mortal youth. 

No, you strained with the wretched knowledge that the only thing you really had a knack for was holding out a mirror. The beastly things you saw -- what frightened the most deplorable of individuals. It was sick; in every horrid vision you churned out, you saw the inner workings of the mind, of the filthy things that these monsters had done in their conscious lives. The worst thing about your abilities was that the most frequent nightmare you bore witness to was them getting what they had deserved. Revenge. Balance. Order. Justice.

It was true. Yours and Aro’s gifts weren’t really that different. You saw a lot, possibly too much of whoever had the poor luck of encountering your proficiencies.

And, oh, how your sire had loved your gift. It was precious, he said. You recalled a time he had even called it artistry. It was after you used it, after you saw the depravity of human and vampire kind that he cradled your head between his heavy hands. You learned to savor the moments where he wasn’t throwing them around. And during those times when you deeply pleased him by what you were able to do, you saw him bloat with the intoxication of power. It would be many years until you really used your gift but it took little guesswork to know then what he feared: the loss of control -- the loss of you. Motivated by pride he kept turning others, stopping at the fifth of your covenmates when he realized that he had really only lucked out on his first try -- also, you.

That was when you had been initially approached. Your sire had never once received so much as a greeting from the Volturi; he never let you forget how bitter it made him. Unfortunately, his hold on you also included passing down his opinion. By the time the Volturi got to you, you had been spoiled against them. Only time would truly tell whether you would be forgiven for it.

At this moment, though his red eyes were set on you, Aro wasn’t really looking though -- not the present-you anyways. It was subtle, the way his brows and lips fluttered up and down as if fighting his own desire to respond. His expression sobered briefly.

You had spent centuries with the man, your sire… he was brutal. Even you were not immune to his rage. Each of your covenmates were strong in their own rights but none of you were singularly stronger than him. The Volturi’s arrival and immediate departure was one of the worst days of your life. You remembered holding one of your sisters, the sixth, the youngest, after it all. She begged you to stay and endure with her. And for two hundred years the two of you, all of you kept that promise to each other.

It had been one too many cruel moments when the dam broke. It was the moment that all of you realized that while you were too individually weak, he couldn’t handle all of you. You did the honors of the inaugural blow -- undoing him with nightmares of his own demise as it came to fruition. It was the only time in all of your years of using your abilities that you hadn’t clenched your eyes shut and shrunk away. No, that time… that time you had leaned forward, eyes unblinking as you watched him writhe in fear before what was left of him was instead writhing in pain. It was easy, like dropping a heavy bucket with little care of what happened to its contents. 

As Aro dug, it was only then that you realized you smiled when you’d done it. It was funny, you supposed, that your sire’s worst fear had come to pass right as it transpired just moments before in his mind. The six of you, your five covenmates and yourself, tore him to shreds. No blood that you had tasted or would ever taste compared to the delicious freedom of his eternal rest. He died, truly died, afraid. He deserved worse.

It was short-lived though. After centuries of subjugation, the sudden freedom was a blessing and a curse and not a single one of you could really agree on what to do except to leave. It was devastating in the same way you would see the final struggle of a living thing fighting off its final moments before succumbing; they were certainly in a better place. Two of them went on their own. The other three traveled together elsewhere. At the end of it you found yourself alone and not wanting to be weak again a day in your life.

While the rebellion had been justified, it was an overthrow of power, something especially dangerous in the halls of Volterra and you had been the ring leader. After all, you were the only one in the group with a talent.

Aro rose to his feet, gently tugging you up with him. “Now that does complicate the narrative, doesn’t it…”

Your eyes flickered to Caius who was in turn staring him down. “Oh, come off it, Aro. You are not honestly considering letting her in.” He stalked up to where the two of you were standing. You looked up at both of the men, still a step below. “The Volturi do not give second chances!”

“If I may, I am not asking for a second chance.” Bold… This was bold of you… “I am petitioning for membership on the grounds that it was offered once before. Your opinions of me have not changed since the initial offer.”

“Yes, they have.” Caius spat.

“Mine haven’t,” Aro confirmed. “Although I wouldn’t be so sure that is a good thing.”

Bright red eyes bore down as you finally pulled your hand from his grasp. His fingertips brushed along your knuckles before his hands lowered in kind. Him looking through your mind just moments prior felt less invasive. You directed your attention instead to the less intense of the two.

“We should have killed you the second you walked in here.”

Very well. “If it is an apology you want I will give it.” Your eyes were locked on Caius, pure impudence meeting unbridled sadism. You knew it drove him crazy.

“Foolish girl-!”

“I am sorry!” You snapped at him. The words came out more like ‘shut up.’ They were just as effective though. Caius stood silent although the sneer was still on his face. Of course that would do it for him. You knew it. It was disgusting. Oh, how he loved seeing people grovel. The hate in that man’s heart…

You suddenly remembered yourself. Aro had seen that -- your distaste for Caius, your willingness to do anything to be a member of the Volturi, your deep regret that your sire had influenced you to be so brash. That was one of the worst things your sire ever did: convincing you that his opinions were yours.

“I will repeat to you what I said to you earlier. Forgive me for the insolence of my early days. It was unwise of me to have behaved in such a way… and-” You were practically choking on your apology, uselessly panting with the effort. Admittance that you were wrong had a bad mouthfeel, especially after decades being forced to do it. “-and I was wrong about all of it. Consider me corrected.”

If Caius had been biting back any of his cruel amusement before, he certainly wasn’t hiding it now. Marcus was now standing closer having meandered nearer during the course of the apology. And Aro… Aro had the most curious of soft smiles on his face. 

You were beginning to think you had made some kind of mistake coming here. You had laid almost all your cards bare. You had shown them you were desperate which was far worse than just being desperate. This was something you were going to have to amend for a good while if they accepted you. That you begged to be let in.

“I am satisfied,” Caius remarked, eyes settling on Aro. They were standing over you, all three of them. 

Some days ago you had come across a rat moments before it was devoured by three street dogs in an alleyway on your journey to Volterra. It must have looked like something like this to that rather unfortunate vermin, you thought to yourself.

Your head dropped in complete and utter humility, eyes only on the marble underfoot. Even the pristine stone was too good for you… You had been at the mercy of the three men before you since you set foot in this dreadful place. It was only at that premature moment you still had an ounce of pride in your body. It was far gone now.

“Marcus?”

“I am satisfied.”

“As am I.” Cold smooth fingers tucked under your chin. Aro’s. You must have looked something pitiful. “And this-” Aro tutted at you, lifting your face up. “-we will work on this.”

The gesture might have been kind, intimate even, if it was anyone but Aro. You didn’t really trust him as far as you could throw him but you knew enough in having seen his nightmares many years ago that he would not tolerate an ounce of self-deprecation in a vampire beyond paying their due respects to the Volturi, to him. He had seen quite enough from you. That much was true.

“Yes… sir?” You tested the title. You weren’t quite sure what to refer to him as.

Aro’s face took on something of a delighted expression. “Look at you using your manners. See, Caius; she learns.” The blonde vampire rolled his eyes. “I do appreciate it but ‘Aro’ will do just fine.”

Ah. Well, that was embarrassing. You nodded affirmatively. Marcus’ eyes flicked from Aro to you and back before he returned to his seat. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Jane smile something wicked.

“We shall get you new attire, especially now that you will be joining the guard after some fine-tuning, but there’s no sense in putting you in anything of the sort since we’re coming up on-” The side doors swung open and Heidi led in a group of tourists who were guffawing at the ceiling. Aro’s hands flew up like a child prince being brought an expensive present. In a sense, it was -- “-dinnertime!”

Oh, so this was how they fed. Aro steered you to the side and behind him with a hand clamped around your upper arm. Heidi sidled up to you.

“Welcome to the Volturi.”

“How did you know?”

“You are still in one piece.” Fair. 

Aro leaned over to you. “Now, next time you will join your compatriots along the wall but tonight we will make an exception -- something of a welcome gift…” He extended his arm to the group of mortals before you who were clicking pictures of the room. Like fish in a bucket… or however the expression went.

You raised a brow at him. 

“You first, my dear.”

A vampire along the wall by the name of Felix bobbed on his feet, antsy. You smiled and launched off the platform for the human before you. The both of you rolled together as you slammed him into the ground. Only his limbs flailed clumsily. Yours had been a vision of centuries of practice. A trained killer.

You bared your teeth. He screamed. Humans… 

Wandering aimlessly about the grounds, such expansive ones at that and with such independence, was novel to you. You weren’t entirely sure what to do with yourself; it was beautiful. Just months ago you had been sequestered to your corner of the world, never to go beyond a painfully small perimeter. And now here you were… surrounded by the most powerful of your kind. Nearly unrestricted access to the grounds. New clothes. Fresh blood, not whatever your sire didn’t finish. Eyes never black with hunger. The respect you got as a tentative member of the Volturi guard. It was new.

And the Italian air. Sure, you didn’t really need to breathe at all. There wasn’t a function to smelling it. But the air… The breeze in Volterra was something fresh, warm, earthy, sweet, like blood. It was even more perfumy at night.

Something about the years of being on edge, even as an immortal, still ran through your veins, through the very way you functioned. Even in your most relaxed moments, you could recognize when you were being followed. And someone was following you.

You stopped in your tracks, only peering over your shoulder.

A fraction of you thought to yourself -- how odd… Aro should’ve been better at this. Then you realized two things. The first was that if Aro was truly aiming for discretion in whatever he was about to do, there was no reason for it to be him here and now. The second was that it was also entirely possible that Aro simply didn’t care that you knew he was there… or, in fact, did want you to know. Your curiosity was a helpless one; you must’ve looked like a cat.

“I was wondering when you were going to catch on.”

Only the trees in the garden obscured him from you, not the darkness. “How did I do?”

Silence as he rounded the corner. Black suit. Red eyes. Dark hair slicked back. You let him approach until he was a pace away, slowly continuing. “Ten seconds before you caught me… there are a good many vampires who would have gone much longer if noticing me at all.”

“Will you subtract a moment or two since I contemplated not acknowledging you?”

“Hearsay.”

“Only if you have the ability to corroborate and don’t.” You held your hand out to the side toward him, stopping in your tracks. 

Aro only looked at it from the side of his eye, not even stopping. He did grace you with a smile though. “I should like to keep my victory unnegotiated.”

Ah, yes… the cat walking next to whatever you could call it that killed it. You closed the distance with a few long strides, now playing catch up with him. “You were loud.”

“I was not aiming for stealth.” If Aro was trying to humble you, it was working.

“And what was your target then?”

Silence again. It was comfortable. In time you came upon your favorite spot in the gardens — the point at which you could overlook the better portion of the town. It was beautiful -- quiet and empty for the most part at this time of night but the evidence of mortality there, living and dying… well, you still found it charming. 

“Would now be the appropriate time to thank you?”

“For heaven's what?”

“For…” You finally looked at him beside you. He wasn’t looking at you; perhaps he was gazing beyond this little enclave in Tuscany. “For your hospitality.”

“Hospitality is for guests.”

“I was a guest for a small while.”

“You were more of a defendant.”

“Well, then, I thank you for your arbitration.”

“My ‘arbitration’?”

“Yes.”

Aro exhaled for the show of it. “Do stop your simpering and get on with what you mean.” 

You were speechless.

“I didn’t say ‘shut up,’ did I?”

You blinked at him. “I suppose… I am grateful to be somewhere nicer.”

“I can hardly be thanked for your decision to come here.” He still refused to regard you. You imagined it was a rare thing for Aro to resist such expressions of the kind. He was a proud man after all. You looked back out at Volterra.

Aro finally turned his eyes to you. It was a withering look. Now that you obliged. “I saw quite a bit in that mind of yours. It is such a shame that you were thoroughly convinced of such horrible things.”

You were confused. “The only thing that I was convinced of was inferiority.”

“Like I said,” he snipped. “Horrible things.”

“Now how is that horrible,” you inquired. Surely this did not bother him personally. Aro did not strike you as the type. “I do you no injury in my lack of pride.”

“And you think it is good for the Volturi’s reputation, for the guard’s reputation to have but one who thinks themselves lesser than even humans?” Aro seemed to shudder at the ‘h word.’

Oh. There it was. He was right. Your head lowered.

He tilted your chin up for the second time. It wasn’t as gentle. This time it was a scolding. Aro was not pleased. He released it looking back onto the town. “And you must stop that. It’s unbecoming.”

It was lost on you how to respond. “Sorry.”

“Already forgiven, my dear.”

“I guess… I just want to thank you for taking a chance.”

Aro scoffed and looked at you fully. He wasn’t a tall man; his height was hardly what made him intimidating. What made him intimidating was the stature with which he carried himself, the raw power, the hunger, the intelligence. A man like him hadn’t gotten to where he was without some impressive cunning. 

“I might find low esteem from my subordinates satisfactory on the usual occasion. I will not mince my words -- on you it is a most distasteful thing. I will forgive its ugliness for its reaffirmation but only for a time.”

If there was any functional air in your lungs, it would’ve been snatched from you. His words were not harshly spoken nor were they loudly boomed at you. Instead they broke skin like something sharp to vulnerable flesh. Aro took an imposing step forward. You took one back but it wasn’t enough. Your neck was craned up at him despite every inner instinct to shrink away; you wouldn’t dare disobey him again. You weren’t sure he would be as kind.

“There is nothing so abhorrent as one of our kind — our superior, beautiful kind — acting in the embarrassing way you continue to. If I was capable of emptying my stomach at the thought, I would.” Aro plucked something minute off your shoulder before rolling it between his long fingers and discarding it to the wind. “And as far as taking a chance is concerned, I- The Volturi- do not ‘take chances.’ Make no mistake, there is no calculated risk with you being here.”

“I-”

“If that is an apology or another meaningless expression of gratitude poised on your tongue, I would advise that you hold it there.”

You could only gape up at him. He was leaning over you still, very close.

“You will show the full extent of your gifts tomorrow. I want you officially in the guard as soon as possible.” And with that, Aro was gone, stalking away into the gardens.

With about 12 hours to ruminate on Aro’s words to you, you had decided that he had a flair for melodrama. You also decided definitively that you would never let him know such a thing unless he pried the information from you, which he was indeed capable of. This… what you were being made to do before the Volturi… You would not define it with such levity. When Aro had said that you were to display the full extent of your gifts, he had meant it. 

It wasn’t certain whether it was you or the man writhing on the ground that was the subject of the gripping fear that your nightmares brought, what with your upper body being curled in on itself the way it was. Your fingers were curled at the ends of your locked arms with effort. The unfortunate human’s whimpers rattled along the domed ceiling, merely an accessory to the deep hum in your ears. 

There was an exaggerated yawn from behind you — showy for a vampire — Jane’s. And a voice cut through the whole of it, halting your powers immediately. “No, no. That won’t do at all.”

Because you had already been shrinking away at the time of the interruption you needed only to open your eyes. The body thudded to the floor. Relief. It wouldn’t last. Aro was shaking his head as he leaned against his throne.

“You, my dear-” he pushed off his spot and stopped just behind you “-are holding back.”

The man, as far as you could tell, was only deeply phobic of spiders. It was how you had done it the dozens of times you’d done it before. Except for…

Out of the corner of your eye, Caius held a finger to his temple, rolling his eyes. Asshole… Aro’s voice pulled you back. “Try again.”

You clenched your eyes shut, your chest coiling up in kind. The man began wheezing almost instantaneously, the only sound in the room.

“No.” Aro cut in once again and you dropped focus. You turned to face him, your muscles loosening in the way that only annoyance could make them. His red eyes glimmered back at you. “That is not what I meant. Again.”

You huffed. You’ve done it once before, his face seemed to say. Who were you kidding… that was exactly what his sharp features said. When you had channeled that much power, you had been in an entirely different state of mind. That had been the raw rage you had buckled behind survival. All you had done was suddenly unleash it. You weren’t certain that you still had it in you. “Aro. I can’t-”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Nonsense. His hand straightened to a point — the human, once more. 

You faced more of your body, still tense, eyes clamping shut. Your arms locked to your sides and you willed the fear forward before you tensed — thunder in your ears. Your muscles reacted in pure instinct, the man weeping in perfect time. Despite the overwhelming physical sensation of pushing the abstract forward, you could feel Aro behind you. It was stronger this time.

Oh, the man wasn’t just afraid of spiders.

Between the spiders, flickering amidst the impossible number of angular legs and blinking sets of eyes, the insects that dribbled into every corner of his vision, there was something else. A girl with one dark eye and a knife. She was young.

You jolted backward, knocking briefly against Aro. If he minded he didn’t indicate any such sentiment. Your lip curled into a sneer. The human… he was pleading with a higher power that was certainly not listening if it was there at all. Pathetic.

When your eyelids closed this time they didn’t tighten. It was a flutter. And this time when your muscles tensed, you trembled. Where there was air between the clawed fingers at your side, you imagined the man’s fleshy neck. This… this was righteous. The girl began closing in, spiders skittering out of her path.

Aro’s voice brushed your ear. “May I?” You nodded your head, although you weren’t certain as to what exactly you were agreeing to. Aro would not harm you; you were sure of it.

It felt like a baptism. In a way it was. Feather light, Aro’s fingers ghosted first at the base of your neck, gently pulling the muscles out to your shoulders. In the touch you were acutely aware that it wasn’t intimacy that Aro was after; he was honing you. Your nightmares were only encouraged.

Aro’s hands smoothed over your shoulders with a quiet mastery -- tender in the way a sculptor guided pliable clay between their fingers as it spun at their behest. The harshness was gone with but a swipe. 

The man bellowed. He sounded now more of a screeching animal than man. The girl picked up her pace, almost a jog. The knife winked at him.

It turned into a full grasp as Aro traveled down your biceps, tugging the astriction out. He chased the natural form of the muscle down your elbows into the joint of your wrist. The rigidity in your fingers released at the pressure he placed there -- conjoined in poise.

You pushed a stronger assault of terror forward to meet the man. Long gone were the spiders. There was a small part of you that recognized that he wished for the insects instead of the young girl with a bruise ready to bury the knife in his chest, his stomach, anywhere the business end would find purchase. She was standing over him.

He screamed. Yes, ‘scream’ was the right word for it…

You spectated his nightmare; the girl with the dark eye had already started plunging her blade into him. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Aro’s hands shed themselves from your arms but only for a moment. Your chin bloomed with the familiar feeling of his fingers, turning it and angling it upright. Proud as it was meant to be.

He whispered again. “Look.” It was a gruesome sight. 

The possibility that the man had begun gouging out his own eyes the moment Aro had begun amending your posture was a good one. If that was the case he had indeed made decent progress. The man was on his knees and his left eye hung from its socket like a generous helping of hot cheese, swinging. You almost wanted to applaud the man’s zeal. Only a desperate rodent would have done what he had. His grubby fingers pushed into his own skull again, getting around the other eye, bemoaning his self-inflicted plight. He seemed to be chewing the air. There was viscera on the marble -- not the first time it had been so defiled and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Still, you didn’t relent; you had never extended your power this far. God, why hadn’t you done it before… Sure, you- no, he had taken his eyes but somehow it wasn’t enough. The young girl brandishing the blood-soaked knife was still angry. This was justice. And he hadn’t yet paid in full.

He howled, writhing.

Marcus approached at the very edge of your vision. “Aro… is this-?” 

He was halted by an upheld hand, the other slowly falling from your chin. Aro watched you as you watched the man, watched his nightmares.

“We needn’t toy any longer.”

The thunder in your ears rumbled to silence. “This is toying? If you saw what I saw, you’d know…”

Marcus seemed taken aback. You weren’t sure if it was because of how true your words were or how right they sounded coming from your mouth.

You drifted back to the man. “He deserves it.” Your voice came out no louder than a whisper.

“It’s alright, Marcus. We asked for an assessment-” The ensuing squelch and sudden cry indicated the man had found success on his second endeavor. “-and we have indeed received one.”

You found Aro’s eyes with yours.

There was something of an assuaged smile -- his bright teeth wolfish. The feeling of your cheeks pulled up was the only sign to yourself that you had been smiling. You took the moment to look about the room. Caius was staring at the man on the floor, mouth slightly ajar.

“Well?”

He turned his head first then his eyes. A grin.

You beheld the grotesque body with a sneer. He hadn’t even had the decency to look artful as he went -- his body held upright by the leverage of his spine against his heels. Pathetic. The way he dug at his own face like that… like you were some tumor, something he could just rip out of himself if he tried hard enough and be done with. He died as stupid as he looked. Your chest flared at the offense.

Aro was still standing near you. “Par excellence.”

You digested his words. You understood now. This was what he had known you were capable of. In just moments, Aro had cured you of your affliction, the debilitation of timidity. You matched his smile.

“Would now be the appropriate time to thank you?”

It was met with a giddy laugh. Aro clapped his hands together, utterly delighted at your words, your smile. He gulped it down and stepped backward offering you an expressive bow complete with arms outstretched. “No ‘thanks’ necessary. You… you are a credit to our kind.”

You bobbed your head in courteous reply to his own bow, unable to hide your giggle.

“You were never anything but.”