C H A P T E R F I V E
She plays the card well, even if she doesn't know its true value.
C H A P T E R F I V E
Olwyn
I have barely been back in my suite for an hour when a team of maids arrive, seemingly impervious to my protests.
They swarm around me, primping and fluffing, their deft hands dressing me.
The dress is a breathtaking sight in a delicate shade of light blue, reminding me of the clear sky on a crisp morning. It clings to my figure perfectly, accentuating curves and movements with graceful precisio n? . Eating hearty meals and being able to snack has been an improvement from the smaller morsels I was given back hom e? —yet another reminder of the poverty even royalty live in whilst vampires flaunt their wealth.
The bodice is adorned with intricate, silver-threaded embroidery that seems to shimmer like starlight. A narrow waist gives way to a flowing, layered skirt that billows with every step, each layer a shade lighter than the one above it. The fabric cascades like a gentle waterfall, the hem brushing the floor as I move, creating an illusion of walking on air.
The dress is completed with dainty straps that adorn the shoulders, leaving the back exposed in a sensual way I am certainly not used to. I feel like the princes s? —quee n? —I am. Yet, despite the maids' insistence, I absolutely and vehemently refuse to wear the silver crown they have brough t? .
I cast a glance into the tall leaning mirror, and I am suddenly grateful for the maids' presence. The reflection that stares back at me, draped in this gown, looks almost supernatural.
The subtle makeup applied by the skilled hands of the maids has worked a kind of magic on my features. My olive eyes, usually understated, now seem to shimmer. My lips, painted in a soft shade of pink, have taken on a natural, healthy glow, and they glisten with a dewy sheen.
My long silver hair, which cascades down my back in curls I could never accomplish on my own, has been woven with small braids along the sides, just above my ears.
A low whistle breaks the room's silence. Turning, I find Iolas leaning casually against the doorframe, hazel eyes alight with mischief. His curls catch the waning light, framing sharp cheekbones and a roguish smile that could make even the most composed heart flutter.
“You certainly clean up very well. Is it just for show, or is there a reason you're trying to distract me from my role as your most trusted guard?”
“Compliments from the court's rake, how novel,” I say, the sarcasm dripping from my words like poison from a blade. I’ve seen so many members of staff lust after this male as we walk past, that I’m almost bored of it. He is hard to ignore as he’s often the tallest person in any room, his chest broad and muscles demanding attention. I seem to draw most of his flirtatious behaviour, and I’m convinced it’s because I don’t fall for it.
Or maybe he knows he’s my only companion in this place and he’s trying to be nice.
“As if I need a dress to distract you. And you’re my only personal guard,” I point out.
I storm past him and his dark laugh follows me, echoing in my mind as we silently tread through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace.
The grand dining room is an extension of the palace's breathtaking elegance. High, arched windows stretched from floor to ceiling, their stained-glass depicting scenes of mythical creatures and beautiful landscapes. Gossamer drapes billow gently, caught by the gentlest breeze, offering glimpses of lush gardens beyond.
The walls are covered with intricate tapestries that seemed to come to life in the soft, golden glow of ornate chandeliers, casting a warm ambiance over the room. The dining table is a masterpiece, an immense slab of shimmering crystal that seems to have been carved from a frozen waterfall.
As I enter with Iolas, the king is already seated at the head of the table. He wears an exquisite suit of dark green, the colour accentuating his dark features.
His eyes raise but give nothing away as he watches me enter. I swear I see his gaze linger on my figure and the darkness in his eyes diminish a little as they meet mine, but with a blink I realise I am wrong.
For months I have taken my meals in this room on my own, with only Iolas to keep me company. Iolas who walks forward to stand by the chair at Altair’s side.
I had gotten used to it just being us two. Had grown accustomed to it. Suddenly, I feel like that nervous princess again.
I start to take my seat at the opposite head of the table, the soft rustling of my elegant gown accompanying my movements. Altair clears his throat, diverting my attention. He points to the seat at his right side, a silent invitation. My brows furrow at the unspoken request, and I roll my eyes in a mock display of annoyance.
Nevertheless, against my initial resistance, I give in, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible.
Iolas smirks. Amusement dances in his eyes as he watches my strides, and my graceless descent into the indicated chair.
While my knowledge of the king is limited, I can discern the irritation in his cold gaze, even as his eyes harden at the sight of the bruise on my chin from Dazeem’s disgusting fingers.
I sit, folding my hands in my lap to quell their desire to fidget.
Iolas continues to stand, and I glance at him, confused.
“Are you not eating with us?” I ask.
He suppresses a smile and shakes his head.
“Why?” I press.
“ Has he been eating with you?” Altair draws my attention, his head tilts to the side as his gaze shifts from my face to Iolas behind me.
“Well…” I hesitate, realising I might have misspoken. Too late now. “Yes. When else would he eat considering he spends all his time guarding me?”
Iolas snorts, quickly masking it with a cough.
The king's cold eyes fix on me, and his voice cuts through the air like a chill wind. “It seems you two have become quite familiar.”
“You know how it is, Your Majesty,” Iolas banters back, his tone light. “Guarding Her Highness day and night, one becomes practically family.”
I suppress a gasp, astonished at the audacity with which Iolas speaks to the king. Altair's expression hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his features.
“Iolas,” the king warns.
Iolas chuckles, seemingly undeterred. “Just doing my job, Your Majesty. Making sure no harm comes to our beloved queen.”
“Yes, well. Your job is protection, not commentary.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Iolas replies, inclining his head in a gesture that might have been respectful if it wasn’t for the mischievous glint in his eyes.
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting back a smirk, despite the worry that surprisingly blasts through me. I do not want to see Iolas get into trouble.
The king's scowl lingers on Iolas for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to his plate. Without another word, he raises his hand and clicks his fingers, and like magic, food materializes on the plates in front of us. The sudden appearance of the sumptuous feast is a startling sight, momentarily distracting me from the tension that grips the room.
I can’t hide my surprise. I’ve never seen Altair use his magic beyond the shadows that seem to slither and coil around him like living extensions of his will—cold, dark tendrils that seep from the corners and writhe when he’s angry. But this? This is different. This is refined, effortless.
Magic here is tied to bloodlines, each house wielding unique powers passed down through generations. Altair’s command overshadows is infamous—a power said to come from an ancient ancestor no one remembers, but one that marks his bloodline as both revered and feared. But conjuring food with a simple snap of his fingers speaks to an even higher level of power, something only the most elite of vampire nobility can do.
A chill runs down my spine. If Altair can do this without a second thought, what else is he capable of?
I turn my head, and Iolas shoots me a quick, mischievous grin. He doesn’t seem scared of him at all. Confusion runs through me at the thought, as I try to reconcile what I’ve just witnessed. How could the king swiftly punish Dazeem, yet allow Iolas to speak so boldly without consequence?
A spark of hope flickers in me despite my better judgment. If Iolas can joke and jest with Draven without facing violence, perhaps there’s a chance the king’s temper isn’t as uncontrollable as I feared. Maybe one day, I could navigate this life without the constant worry of triggering his wrath.
But still, a reminder lingers in the back of my mind—I don’t truly know who the king is. Growing up, I had been fed stories of his merciless rule, tales that cemented his reputation as cruel and power-hungry, especially after he took me from my home by force. That memory holds strong, but seeing Iolas's ease around him cracks the certainty of my belief. I may not be ready to trust, but maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Draven than the monster I imagined.
The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread fills the air, but I can hardly taste anything as I pick at my food. My hands feel cold despite the warmth of the room, and each bite is a struggle as my thoughts whirl.
I wonder how the king would react if I demanded Iolas be fed.
Probably not well.
But the silence ends as soon as the king finishes eating.
The king wipes his mouth with his napkin, placing it on the table. “I need to tell you something.”
I sit back in my chair, my heart pounding in my chest. What could he possibly need to tell me? Are my parents dead? Has something happened to them? The uncertainty gnaws at me, and I struggle to maintain a composed facade. “Go ahead,” I manage, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
“We shall be treating with the vampire king of the west. We have entered peace talks. He’ll be visiting us here, at the palace.”
That’s possibly worse than anything I was imagining.
The vampire king of the west.
Casius Sovran.
The name alone sends a chill through my veins, conjuring images of the monster from the stories I’ve heard in hushed whispers. They say his cruelty knows no bounds, worse than Altair, and that even the most hardened vampires trembled at the mention of his name. And now, he is coming here. My pulse quickens, not just at the thought of his arrival, but at the uncertainty of what his presence will mean for me—and for the fragile peace I am desperately clinging to whilst captured.
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my gown. My eyes darting briefly to the exit, then back to Altair, the faintest tremor in my hands betraying the calm facade I try to maintain.
Peace talks between the vampires. I had never heard of such a thing.
Never thought it was possible.
“Why?” I ask, clearing my dry throat.
“Pardon?” Altair’s brows rise an inch. “Does this not please you?”
Two vampire clans who have long been at war with each other coming together? For what purpose?
No. This does not please me. At least, not without further context.
“Yes, very delightful,” I manage, my voice laced with a sarcasm too sharp to be mistaken for genuine enthusiasm. My hands clench into fists beneath the table, nails digging crescents into my palm—the only outlet for the terror I feel.
I hesitate, the room’s tension pressing down on me. My heart thunders as I think of my parents, but I force myself to broaden my focus. The fate of the humans isn’t just about them—it’s about all those whose lives are now under Altair’s control, threatened by uncertainty. I meet his gaze, trying to summon more strength than I feel.
“What of my kind?” I push, my voice tight. “What is to happen to the humans in Avantra? Have they been discussed at all?”
Something flickers in his eyes, a momentary crack in his detached demeanour. He glances once more at Iolas before returning his attention to me.
“It has yet to be decided.”
A chill runs down my spine. The ambiguity twists in my gut, heavy and foreboding. My mouth opens, then shuts again, indecision clawing at me. His brow rises, as if amused by my hesitation.
“What about my parents?” I finally ask, the tremor in my voice betraying the desperation I can’t fully mask.
“They are where I left them,” Altair replies, the coldness in his tone like a blade. He lifts his goblet, dismissing the gravity of my question with practiced indifference.
“And I am hoping that is alive ?”
“Perhaps not deservedly so, but yes,” he replies with more than a hint of disdain.
I clench my teeth, anger boiling inside me. “They remain in their palace?”
“Yes. They are still living out their pitiful existe n? —”
“Enough,” I interrupt, my tone firm and hands feeling warm. “I am not in the mood to be subjected to your callous disregard. My parents deserve more respect than your scorn.”
“Your parents deserve the sharp edge of m y? —”
Before he can finish, I reach down, fingers brushing the hem of my gown as I pull the dagger from the sheath strapped to my thigh. The motion is quick, almost instinctual. In one fluid move, I raise it and send the blade hurtling forward. The metallic thud as it embeds itself into his hand reverberates through the room.
A surge of satisfaction courses through me, brief and fierce. But as Altair’s two-toned eyes lift to meet mine, a glint of cold, calculating surprise flickering in their depths, the satisfaction drains away, replaced by a wave of sickening fear. My pulse pounds, realization hitting me like a blow.
What have I just done?
My eyes drop to the dagger I just embedded in his hand, and I wait for the repercussions of my act. But the king’s gaze merely lifts from me, turning and meeting Iolas.
“You gave her a blade.” The king's voice carries a mix of surprise and accusation, directed at my vigilant guardian.
Iolas sounds like he is trying not to laugh. I don’t turn to look. I dare not take my eyes away from the king. Not after what I have just done in temper.
“Well, someone had to teach her proper knife handling. Otherwise, her poor table manners would be the talk of the kingdom.” My lips twitch. “Don’t want her accidentally stabbing you.”
“Just intentionally?”
“I think it was a good decision after what happened with Dazeem, don’t you? Even if she didn’t even attempt to use the dagger.”
“I was just about to before Altair came in!” I protest.
The king's gaze shifts from Iolas to me, assessing the situation with a calculating eye. Without a word, he rips the blade free from his hand, and I swallow hard. He inspects the bloodied weapon with a cold gaze… before licking the crimson from the end it.
I glance down, watching as the edges of his wound stitch themselves together, leaving barely a red mark upon his hand.
I struggle to keep myself from wincing, clenching my teeth.
Placing the blade on the table, Altair nods. “Good. She should know how to defend herself.”
What?
“Just don’t give her a witch blade,” he hisses slightly at Iolas, and I fight to hide a smug smile. “I had planned to train you upon my return. I’m glad you had a head start, even if you are sloppy in your movements.”
“ Sloppy ?” It slips out, a bite in my tone.
“Yes,” the king smirks . “But we can remedy that.”
Before I can react, his hand darts across the table to grip my own, holding it flat against the polished surface. The unexpected contact sends heat through my arm.
I might as well have all the strength of a newborn. His grip is firm, unyielding, the warmth of his hand seeping into mine even as the cold steel of the blade grazes my skin. The sensation is electric—half pain, half thrill—as the tip of the dagger presses down just enough to quicken my pulse but not enough to break the skin. I can’t tear my eyes away from his, the dark depths promising both danger and something far more unsettling.
He moves the cold blade until it rests on the fleshy part between my thumb and forefinger. Fearful anticipation runs through me as his lips part, his fangs now on show.
“A l? —” I hear Iolas say cautiously.
“If you wanted to truly make me bleed, this is where you should have struck.” He speaks, his voice low and intimate.
My hand remains captive under the king's firm grip, the cool steel of the dagger tracing a delicate path across my skin. I resist the urge to pull away, meeting his darkened gaze with a mixture of defiance and curiosity.
“If you wish to be a queen who commands respect, you must learn to wield more than just words,” the king murmurs, the blade lingering at a point where my pulse quickens beneath. “You will continue your training. Especially with King Casius coming.”
I don’t argue.
I nod, acknowledging the truth in his words even as the sharp edge of the blade dances along the delicate surface of my skin. The king's gaze, now fixed on my eyes, holds a challenge and a promise of a different kind of training than what I have been doing with Iolas.
Finally, he releases me, and I sit back in my chair hastily, rubbing a finger over the back of my han d? —no mark to be seen.
“When will he arrive?” Iolas asks, his voice low but steady. I know he is only asking for my benefit. It is likely he and the king have already had this conversation, and yet, I find myself clinging to the shred of clarity his question provides. I am grateful all the same. I am glad Iolas doesn’t try to keep information from me. He can probably tell I am panicking. Can tell I want to run away.
Altair answers with a calm, matter-of-fact tone, “In one moon’s time.”
The words hang in the air like a heavy weight. A single moon, and everything could change.
Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t.
That’s why the idea of Casius terrifies me. With Altair, as volatile as I believe he is, I always felt there was some safety in his palace. His power and position acted like a shield, keeping the other vampires at bay, at least until today with Dazeem.
But now? He is home and that feeling of security is gone.
My mind wanders as they speak, and I know I should be listening. But—oh Gods above.
Now he is home, am I expected to uphold a… marital role?
My thoughts drown out the sound of their conversation.
There is no way in Noctura that I will be going anywhere near the man. Gods know what depraved things he is into. I will be keeping my body and my blood to myself.
I had a lover once, back when I still sneaked out of my palace room on the odd occasion, looking for a brief escape from my cage. A fleeting, stolen pleasure before everything changed.
Not that Altair has tried yet. Small touches here and there, like when he held my hand against the table. But in the short time I have spent with him, he has never even expressed an interest in my bloo d? —even with its magical properties.
I have been the first human born with the ability to use magic in centuries. No one knows why. Not my parents, or the priests they often summoned from all over the human realm.
“No wonder she doesn’t like vampires,” the king's voice breaks through.
“I think she at least likes one vampire,” Iolas grins as he steps more into view beside my chair.
My mouth parts, about to ask what they were talking about, but then I swallow my words.
Doesn’t like vampires?
I used to.
My mind drifts once more. Back to a large classroom, and a little boy with green eyes. Vampires I played with. A loud noise. Lots of light.
And then no more classroom.
Spilled blood all over the floor.
Screaming.
I blink a few times and shake my head. Altair’s head tilts like a feline, his eyes knowing.
“Where did you just go?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I blink, glancing away and not meeting his eye.
“Where did your thoughts go?”
“That… that is personal. And it doesn’t matter.”
He leans back in his chair, his expression waiting.
I huff. “I don’t dislike all vampires.” I tell them, and Iolas's brows reach his hairline.
“I… I think I used to be friends with some when I was a little girl.”
They share the same surprised expression, perhaps shocked at my use of the word ‘friends’, before Altair recovers.
“Well, well, well,” Iolas chuckles. “Will you look at that, A l? —”
The room darkens slightly as Altair shoots Iolas a warning look, and the latter’s mouth snaps shut. I’ve never seen Iolas silenced so quickly, but Altair sees the questioning look on my face.
“Is there something you wish to ask me?” He says.
“I want to know why,” I say, my voice steady and sharp, cutting through the air. I’m done being passive. Done being the docile little captive he probably expects.
“Why?” he repeats, his feigned ignorance only irritating me further. “Why what?”
I don’t hold back. I narrow my eyes, my suspicion bubbling to the surface, smothering any trace of curiosity I had. “Why you brought me here and then left. Why you’ve kept me like some kind of prize. What do you want from me?”
The words fall from my mouth, deliberate, defiant. No more polite questions. If he’s going to play his games, I’m going to make sure he knows I’m not some fool to be manipulated.
He chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. It unsettles me, and I can’t ignore the flicker of uncertainty it stirs within me. “Must there always be a reason?” he counters, his tone almost mocking. “Perhaps I truly just wanted to punish your parents for them hiding you.”
“Men like you always have reasons,” I reply without hesitation, my voice firm despite the nervous flutter in my chest.
“Men like me?” He arches a dark eyebrow, his amusement clear. “There are no men like me. But please, what sort of man do you think I am, Olwyn?”
A monstrous one.
A violent one.
For a moment, I hesitate, weighing how bold I can be. “A dangerous one,” I finally say. “A man who takes what he wants.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And what if I told you that what I want is you?”
My breath hitches. But I quickly mask it, lifting my chin defiantly. “Then I’d tell you that you’ll have to do better than cryptic games and half-answers,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. If he wants my blood, I’d rather him just tell me outright. Get it over with.
He laughs then, a genuine sound that takes me by surprise. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “But I think you underestimate the value of a good mystery.”
I roll my eyes, an action I’m so used to doing to Iolas, but feels expectedly rebellious towards Altair. “Or maybe I just don’t like being kept in the dark,” I retort.
“Oh, I’m starting to realise that,” he says his amusement fading into something more serious. He watches me for a long moment, and I can sense his scrutiny. He seems both irritated and captivated by my defiance, I can tell. The king lets out an exasperated breath, his gaze glancing at my plate before standing.
“You can go back to your room,” he orders.
I jerk back in my seat slightly. “Is that really necessary?”
He leans forward, his voice laced with an underlying tension as his eyes flash. “Entirely.”
Suddenly I remember who sits beside me. The predator has bared its teeth, and I know I shouldn’t push him. I know I should just do as I’m told and keep my head down. But something inside me refuses to back down, refuses to let him think he can control me so easily. Maybe it’s foolish, maybe it’s dangerous, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent too long hiding, too long being told what to do even before I met him. If I don’t stand up to him now, I’ll never have the chance again.
Plus, Iolas hasn’t eaten yet.
I square my shoulders, not one to easily back down. “And if I refuse?”
Altair scowls, his knuckles turning white on the arm of his chair. “Do you want to stay with me in my room?”
I hesitate, contemplating the fact that I don’t even know what his room looks like. The thought of venturing into that unknown territory holds a certain level of fear I don’t even want to acknowledge. Finally, I answer, “No.”
His lips curve into a small, almost amused smile. “Then return to your room. Iolas will accompany you and remain guard outside.”
I turn to find Iolas smiling at me, showcasing perfectly white teeth.
“Iolas needs to eat,” I say with a sniff.
“I will have some food sent up for him.” Altair says between clenched teeth, his patience wearing thin.
“I am fine, little witch.” Iolas assures me.
“Little wi tc h?”
I rush to distract Altair from Iolas’ nickname for me. “Or we could stay here whilst he eat s? —”
“Olwyn.” Altair bites out, and my mouth clamps shut.
My heart beats faster as I process the sound of my name on his lips, completely unexpected.
And then I realise they can hear it. Heat floods my face.
“I think I shall return to my room.” I stand, the chair legs scraping obnoxiously against the floor.
Iolas snickers. “I, of course, shall join you, Your Majesty.”
“Don't get too excited. I merely tolerate your presence,” I tell him.
“I think you’d like to do more than just tolerate my pre s? —” he begins to joke.
“Iolas,” Altair snaps, and for some reason it sends a wave of irritation through me.
Iolas has a glint in his hazel eyes. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Ignoring them, I lean forward to pick up my dagger from beside the king.
I don’t give him a warning before raising a leg, smirking as both of his own shot apart and the heel of one of these stupidly high heels digs hard into the chair between his legs. The sharp click of the heel on the chair’s surface is almost audible in the tense silence. My fingers brush against the cool steel of my dagger, and I see Altair’s eyes darken as I slowly, deliberately sheath it on my thigh.
I feel the heat of his stare, the way it burns through the fabric of my dress, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral. But I know he sees the fire in my eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, I think I see something like respect flicker in his. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
When I am done, I move without a word, walking out and refusing to look in the king's direction, though I sense his gaze burning into my back.
The rhythmic echo of Iolas' footsteps follows me as I make my way through the palace.
“He’s gonna make you pay for that in training tomorrow,” Iolas says from behind me, amusement clear as day in his tone.
I swallow hard, suddenly regretting my actions.
Now, the prospect of returning to my room holds relief.
Dinner wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t as… unpleasant as I thought it could be.
I wasn’t drained for starters, so that’s always going to be a plus.
Gods.
I stabbed the king.
I fight hard not to hyperventilate, considering myself fortunate to be alive. Had I done that in front of his lords or his subjects… I’d likely be bled out all over the floor.
I maintain composure as we walk up the spiral staircase.
Upon reaching my suite, I turn to Iolas, with only a slight quiver in my voice. “Thank you for the company, even if it's forced upon me.”
He snorts, his eyes sparkling. “Anything for you, little witch.”
I huff at his choice of nickname but open the door to my room nonetheless.
Iolas’s lips curl into a wicked grin, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I hope you’re ready for tomorrow,” he says, and my grip on the door frame tightens.
“Tomorrow?” I echo, a knot forming in my stomach.
“You heard Altair. Tomorrow, you start training with him .”
I slam the door without another word, hearing Iolas’s deep laughter echo behind it.
Shit.