Bloodbound bride

The crimson moon hung low over the ancient land of Velmora, staining the night sky with the color of spilled wine. Its eerie glow bathed the gnarled forests and frost-covered peaks, casting long, shivering shadows upon the earth. At the heart of this land stood Duskfall Keep-an ancient fortress of stone and sorrow. Its black spires clawed at the heavens like the fingers of a dead god, and its walls whispered stories older than empires.

The world believed the vampires of Velmora were long gone. Slain. Forgotten. Myths, at best. But Duskfall Keep was no tomb. Not yet.

And he was no myth.

Demetrius sat upon the throne of ash and bone in the grand hall, a goblet of dark liquid cradled in his pale fingers. His gaze was fixed on the flickering fire, though his mind was leagues away-lost in a silence older than war.

He wore black, as always. Not for mourning, but for memory. Long had he outlived the ones worth grieving.

At thirty, he appeared young by human standards. By vampire reckoning, he was ancient. A pureblood of the first lineage, untouched by mortal decay, his presence commanded stillness-like the moment just before lightning strikes.

He had long since ceased to care for the petty affairs of humankind. Their wars, their hunger, their love. Especially love.

Love had betrayed him once. He would not let it happen again.

And yet, tonight, fate stirred its hand.

"Lord Demetrius," came a voice from the door. It was Alex, his steward-gaunt, loyal, half-dead in the way only those who served vampires too long could be. "She has arrived."

Demetrius didn't move.

"She?" he said finally.

"The girl."

The words settled into the air like dust.

Ah, yes. The girl.

A marriage pact, forged in desperation. The human nobles of the Southern Reach-on the brink of collapse, their lands cursed with famine-had struck a deal. A life for peace. A daughter for protection.

They sent him a bride.

Unwanted. Unwilling.

Unwise.

"Bring her in," Demetrius said.

Alex bowed and vanished into the hall's shadows. Moments passed. Then, the doors groaned open again.

She entered slowly, her footsteps light but unyielding against the cold marble. Wrapped in a traveling cloak, she paused beneath the torchlight, lifting her chin as if daring the darkness to swallow her.

She was beautiful, but not fragile. Her posture told of pride, though her hands-half-concealed-trembled faintly. Red curls spilled from beneath her hood, catching firelight like embers. Her eyes-hazel, golden near the iris-met his without flinching.

"My lord," she said.

Demetrius stood, descending the dais in long, silent strides. He stopped before her, tall and motionless.

"You are Peach?" he asked, voice like low thunder.

"I am," she replied. "Peach reigns of the Southern Reach. Daughter of Lord reigns."

"You come here as tribute."

"I come here as hostage," she said.

The words should have offended. They didn't.

Demetrius's mouth curled at the corner. "And yet you wear defiance like a crown."

"Would you have me kneel?" she asked. "Beg you not to bite me?"

"I don't bite without invitation," he said, stepping closer.

She didn't retreat.

"What do you want from me?" Peach asked, voice quieter now, but not weak. "Obedience? Fear? I have little of either left."

"I want peace," Demetrius said, surprising even himself. "And peace has a price."

She studied him then, truly looked. At the cold beauty of his face. The emotionless line of his mouth. The sharpness behind his calm.

"No man marries for peace alone," she said finally.

"I'm not a man," he replied.

Peach's breath hitched-but she didn't look away.

He respected that, though he didn't say it.

"You will stay in the North Wing," he said. "The wedding will take place on the Blood Moon, seven nights hence. Until then, you are free to explore the keep. My servants will attend to your needs."

"I will not be your pet," she said.

"Then be my prisoner," he murmured. "It makes no difference to me."

But that was a lie.

A strange thing had happened when she'd entered the room. A pull. A soundless pulse, deep in his chest-where his heart no longer beat.

He would ignore it, of course. He always had.

She turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. "Why haven't you killed me?" she asked.

Demetrius looked at her with a quiet he rarely showed.

"Because, Peach reigns.. I am tired of war. And you, oddly, smell like something... new."

Then he turned his back on her, dismissing her as easily as one swats a candle flame.

But when the doors shut behind her, Demetrius stood in the silence for a long time, gripping the goblet so hard the crystal cracked.