The Vampyr King's Last Bride

Chapter 1

Vastion

My wife had been dead only a few hours, and already the air in the chamber felt thin, as if the Heart of Eventide was exhaling its last breath with her. Like the scavengers they were, the Council barely granted me the mercy of a silent vigil before they began to usher in the next Season.

Though she was my sixth wife, our bond had been a rare, unshakeable thing in a world built on shifting shadows. Sometimes, I believed she was the only fragment I had left of my own soul, saving this kingdom from the man I was destined to become without her.

Two distinct knocks on the door preceded Orin’s arrival.

He entered hesitantly, offering me a knowing look before bowing deeply.

He knew I didn’t expect such formalities in the privacy of my chambers, yet still he clung to them.

He would not give the Court any reason to question his loyalty as my commander—or my friend.

“My king,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically timid. “The Reapers have gathered. They are eager to begin preparations for the funeral.”

“They are eager for me to find my next bride, you mean!” I snapped, my fangs unsheathing with the flash of unbridled frustration.

“Her body is not yet cold, and still, they rush to deliver her remains for burning, because all they truly care about is the clockwork of tradition and the theater of ceremony.”

It strained my patience to breaking, knowing that even my royal will could not prolong this moment of peace—nor deny the Reapers their claim to her mortal shell. They would drain her blood, reclaiming every drop so as not to waste resources. I shuddered, the thought dragging me back to the present.

Orin offered me a look of quiet empathy, and my fangs receded. “My apologies, Orin. My outrage is not intended for you.”

“I know, my liege,” Orin replied, his tone somber and heavy. He, better than anyone, understood my utter distaste for this charade.

Six times I had endured these cycles, and yet each time the Season turned, a bitterness rose from the depths of my soul, curdling sweet memories into something sour.

I didn’t know if it was the repetition that galled me, or the fact that the Vampyr nobles viewed these human queens as nothing more than political tools to maintain the peace.

They never grasped the magnitude of the sacrifice these women made.

Nor had they ever truly cared to know them—save for one.

The thought stung like an open wound. Even now. I forced the memory back into the shadows where it belonged. Today was not about her. No day should ever be wasted on the memory of that woman again.

No. Today belonged to Adria.

I held her hand, her weathered bronze skin soft against mine as I studied the grooves like lines upon a map.

I fought back the stinging heat of tears; as much as I’d wished for more time alone to reconcile with her passing, I knew there was someone far more important to Adria than I—someone who deserved their own moment of peace.

“Send for Lailanor,” I directed Orin. I reached out, smoothing a stray lock of dark hair back to frame her face one last time.

Orin nodded with understanding. He knew of the unspoken bond that necessitated this lady’s maid’s presence.

He had always been perceptive—dangerously so.

It was the primary reason he remained both my commander and my sole confidant.

For what few shortcomings he possessed, I simply overlooked them.

My reign had been long, dark, and profoundly lonely; I would not be blamed for clutching the few souls I trusted close to my chest.

Before exiting to fetch Laila, Orin walked tentatively to the side of the royal bed.

He bent down on one knee, crossed his hand over his chest, then lifted it to his mouth, placing a kiss on his knuckles before resting them gently against the silk of the sheet. A silent, sacred tribute to our Queen.

He knew Adria had mended holes in my heart he could never hope to touch.

A Vampyr only bowed to a human queen when other humans were watching—a calculated charade to maintain the illusion of her status.

In their cold hearts, they respected only their king, the provider of bounty and blood.

They recognized her because the treaty commanded it, but they acknowledged no crown upon her brow, and certainly no royal blood in her veins to warrant their true allegiance.

That was why Orin’s gesture meant so much, even if he performed it solely for my benefit. When he stood, he placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it for good measure, and left the room to fulfill my request.

While I waited for Laila, I did what I had for every wife before her: I tried to take in her presence one last time.

I sought to savor the silence before the storm of the next Season.

For over 50 years she had been by my side, and the day we met remained as vivid as ever.

She was a Tribute from Lyr, a territory I’d wed two brides from in the past. But the moment I performed my assessment, I knew she was different.

When introduced to a potential queen, I’d move in close and take their hand, searching for a spark of attraction. Most spent their lives raised to loathe or fear my kind, and yet the treaty demanded a union of these two opposing forces. Her reaction was neither hate nor horror.

Her pupils didn’t dilate; her pulse didn’t quicken. Adria was utterly unphased by my presence. It was then that I knew she was the perfect—and safest—choice after Kesna’s betrayal had left a gaping, and seemingly unmendable, hole in my chest.

I used to wince at Kesna’s name, but the years with Adria had managed to scour away most of those corrosive memories.

Now, I merely grit my teeth at the irritating reminder of the stain she’d left.

That’s what Adria had called it. In Lyr, resources are scarce; one does not discard a tapestry for a single blemish.

You rinse it. You rehang it. Over time, the spot fades until it is forgotten.

I studied Adria’s aged features, and I envied their testament to an existence rife with experience.

By her side, the infidelities of the past inflicted upon my reign and household seemed inconsequential.

But with her passing, the old scars began to ache once more.

Would my next wife foster even more distance from that troubled time, or would she rip the wound back open?

Another gentle knock sounded. “Enter,” I called sternly.

Laila stepped inside, shut the door, then dipped into a bow. She was turned at an older age than I was, but her appearance was still youthful. Eternal.

“Come,” I said, beckoning her to the bedside. “I wish for you to have your own goodbyes.”

As she strode to my side, blood-red tears already tracked down her cheeks. I gently patted her back as she sank to her knees and took Adria’s hand. I kept my voice low; even with my guards, some secrets were too precious for prying ears.

In the privacy of these chambers, Laila let her grief fall freely.

Most of my subjects would never mourn a human queen; they simply waited for the next iteration.

But Laila had served Adria since her first day, and I had quickly noticed that the “coldness” Adria showed me vanished in Laila’s presence.

Her cheeks would flush; she would giggle at Laila’s daft humor.

There were too many long baths, too many excessive changes of dress.

I could have put Laila’s head on a pike for even entertaining such a transgression.

But their love was an innocent thing that played out in the corners of my vision.

Perhaps some small part of me even enjoyed watching a fire I could no longer feel myself.

I had chosen Adria precisely because I could not handle the pressure of a frail human trying to thaw my icy heart.

My own brother. My own wife. The betrayal had nearly claimed me.

But my sister, Samina, along with Adria and Orin, had found a way to pull me from the clutches of my self-loathing.

Watching Adria and Laila’s affection—and eventual love—come to fruition warmed even my bitter soul.

They never pushed the boundaries beyond harmless flirtations until I confronted Adria and gave my explicit blessing.

With some caveats for her safety, of course.

By then, she had become a dear friend. Candid. Sarcastic. A wit that rivaled any Vampyr noble. If my kind could have looked past her mortal flesh, they would have truly embraced her as their queen.

Each night, we entered these joint chambers to satisfy the guards; then, I showed Adria the secret passages that would grant them the privacy the two deserved.

The years passed. We played our respective roles, king and queen.

And Lailanor as her lady’s maid among the Court—and love behind closed doors.

While Adria aged with unquestionable grace, Laila’s grief grew with every new wrinkle on her lover’s skin, just as mine had with every queen.

But as Adria’s body declined, her mind expanded, gaining the wisdom that only comes with a finite lifetime.

It was the greatest gift she had granted us: thoughts unburdened by timeless and stagnant epochs of rebirth.

“Thank you,” Laila choked out through her tears. “Thank you for sharing her lifetime with me.”

“Yours was a great love. I am honored to have witnessed it,” I offered her, knowing the words would not ease the aching she would carry with her. Perhaps forever. I would need to keep a close watch to ensure she did not make any rash decisions under the weight of that reality.

“She was special to you, too. She brought you friendship when your heart needed it most.”

I took in a deep breath, feeling grief tighten my chest once more. “Take all the time you need, Laila; no one will interrupt you. I will see to that.”

I paced toward the exit of the giant room and settled my face into the rigid and harsh expression my subjects had come to expect of their king. I reached for the door handle, reluctant to part with my sorrow, for beyond this door lay the next era.

The reign of the sixth queen had been bountiful, but the looming shadow of the Forlorn now marred the horizon. I sighed, opened the door, and strode confidently into the hallway.

The search for the seventh bride had begun.