Chapter 4 A dance of knives

The carriage rattled through the pinewood pass like a phantom drifting between realms. Drawn by four black horses with eyes like molten silver, it glided over frost-hardened roads toward the Ashgrave estate-home of one of the last surviving vampire noble houses.

Peach sat stiffly beside Demetrius, wrapped in the burgundy silk gown he had insisted she wear. Her arms were bare, but she refused to shiver. Across from them, Alex sat like a corpse revived-silent, waxen, his thin fingers clutched around a leather-bound case.

She turned her head slightly. "What's in the box?"

Demetrius didn't look up. "A gift."

"For our hosts?"

"For our enemies."

Peach's lips thinned. "You do know how to charm a room."

"I don't need to charm them," he said. "I need to remind them."

"Of what?"

He met her eyes then, and something in his expression changed-just briefly.

"That I'm not dead yet."

The words carried more weight than she expected.

The Ashgrave estate emerged from the mist like a broken crown. Its towers were twisted, angular things, built in the old style-before beauty, before diplomacy, before vampires learned to wear the faces of gods.

The gates opened before them with a scream of iron. Servants in grey robes bowed as the carriage passed. Somewhere, bells were tolling-not in welcome, but in warning.

They were expected.

They were watched.

---

The great hall was carved from obsidian and bone.

Peach stepped in beside Demetrius, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes. The Ashgrave court sat on raised platforms, clothed in shadows and gems. A cluster of lesser nobles and half-bloods stood below, murmuring like hounds waiting for scraps.

And then, from the far end of the hall, came Lady Nyra Ashgrave.

She was a vision of cruel beauty-tall, willowy, dressed in silver silks that clung like fog to her alabaster skin. Her eyes, violet and veined with red, shimmered with amusement.

"Demetrius," she purred. "We feared you'd forgotten how to accept an invitation."

"I rarely attend wakes," he replied coolly.

Nyra's laughter rang through the hall, high and false. "And yet you bring a bride. How refreshing."

All eyes turned to Peach.

She met them head-on.

Nyra stepped closer, inspecting her like a relic. "So this is the girl who shackled the Unshackled."

Peach raised her chin. "If he's shackled, it wasn't by me."

That earned a few chuckles from the court-and a sharp, approving glance from Demetrius.

Nyra's smile twisted. "Bold. Perhaps too bold."

"I'd rather be bold than be quiet and dead," Peach said evenly.

The laughter stopped.

Nyra's eyes narrowed. "You'll learn there's power in silence, child."

Peach held her gaze. "And danger in underestimating the young."

Demetrius's voice sliced through the tension like a blade. "We came for wine and courtesy, Nyra. Not wordplay."

"Then drink, Demetrius," she said sweetly. "Drink while you still can."

---

The feast began.

But it was no celebration. The Ashgrave court ate nothing. They watched. They whispered. And Peach quickly realized what kind of game she had entered.

Every movement was measured.

Every smile was a blade.

The food set before her was warm, fragrant, and untouched by her hosts. She glanced at it, then at Demetrius.

"Is this... safe?"

He leaned toward her, voice low. "They wouldn't poison you. Not at a gathering like this."

She arched a brow. "Not very reassuring."

"They want you alive," he said. "For now."

For now.

She didn't eat.

Instead, she studied the faces around them. Some wore masks-literally. Others let their fangs show without shame. And some... some didn't look fully alive.

A woman with black tears painted on her cheeks watched Peach with hunger in her eyes. A pale man whose arms were covered in blood-red tattoos lifted his glass when she looked his way-but it was Demetrius he watched.

There were too many players. Too many motives.

And Peach was alone in the middle of it all.

Until he reached for her hand beneath the table.

His fingers were cold, and strong, and slow.

Peach looked at him-truly looked.

He wasn't pretending to be unbothered. He wasn't putting on a mask. He was calculating.

He was waiting for something.

Or someone.

Then it came.

The music stopped.

Nyra stood.

"I thought it fitting," she said, her voice echoing off the walls, "that we honor Demetrius's union in the old way."

Servants entered carrying twin blades-curved, ceremonial, adorned with rubies at the hilt.

A dueling set.

"The bride will dance," Nyra said, "and prove she belongs among us."

Peach stood slowly, refusing to let her hands shake.

"What happens if I refuse?" she asked.

Nyra smiled. "Then I'll assume you're unworthy."

"And if I win?"

Nyra's smile widened. "Then perhaps... I'll start believing you're dangerous."

Demetrius rose. "This is beneath the court."

"No," Peach said quietly, stepping forward. "This is exactly where I need to be."

She took the blade.

The hall grew still.

Her opponent was chosen-a lesser noble with speed in his step and cruelty in his eyes.

The dance began.

A swirl of blades and silk, movement like poetry, like violence set to rhythm. Peach dodged, parried, turned. Her opponent was fast, but she was faster than she looked-and she was furious.

She didn't fight like a noble. She fought like a girl who had survived.

And when her blade kissed his cheek, drawing the first blood, the hall erupted in silence.

Nyra's face was unreadable.

Peach sheathed the blade and bowed.

"Was that bold enough?" she asked.

Demetrius's voice cut through the tension.

"She's my wife," he said to the court. "And the next who doubts her will answer to me."

---

That night, in the carriage back to Duskfall, Peach sat beside Demetrius in silence.

"You shouldn't have let me fight," she said finally.

"You needed them to see you," he replied. "And you needed to see yourself."

She looked at him.

For once, he didn't look like a monster.

He looked like a man who had chosen his queen-and dared the world to defy it.