C H A P T E R S E V E N
She is my queen, my responsibility, and I will protect her.
C H A P T E R S E V E N
Olwyn
T he first glimpse of dawn barely whispers through the window, casting long, slender fingers of light that claw across the stone floor of my chamber.
It is a mockery of the sleep that escaped me last night, my mind constantly reminding me that I’d be subjected to spending time with the king today.
I drag my feet towards the dresser, where a small breakfast is waiting, but my eyes immediately fall on a set of training leathers neatly arranged on the chair next to it. I’ve seen some of Altair’s guards wear them on their way to their training arena beyond the courtyards.
But the realisation that someone has entered my room without my knowledge during my sleep seriously pisses me off.
I hope it was Iolas… if it had to be anyone.
With a yawn, I resign to the fact that I probably won’t get away with skipping breakfast and training, so I approach the chair, eyeing the outfit with disdain.
Picking it up, I can’t help but note how different they are from anything else I have ever worn. The thicker material feels foreign against my fingertips, and a silent commentary runs through my mind about how uncomfortably tight they will likely be on my frame. It is a stark departure from the looser breeches and shirts I have become accustomed to when training with Iolas.
I can’t shake the feeling of dread settling in my stomach as I slip into the training leathers. The material is tight, restricting. I try to steady my breathing, but the thought of spending time alone with Altair sends my mind racing. What if I can’t keep up? What if he’s pushing me for a reason? My fingers tremble slightly as I finish fastening the last strap, and I can’t help but think that this training isn’t just about learning to fight. It’s about proving myself—to him, to Iolas, to myself.
Opening the door, I almost slam into the chest of all six foot seven of an imposing vampire.
“Good morning!” Iolas chirps, his hazel eyes bright with energy as his hands gripped my shoulders to right me.
I raise an eyebrow at his enthusiasm, unimpressed.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
He nods, and then his eyes widen when he takes in my attire, his gaze travels down my form… slowly. “Looking good little witch,” he remarks casually, though his tone has lowered. “I'm here to escort you to training,” he says, oblivious to my evident lack of enthusiasm.
I sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Fine, let's get this over with,” I mutter, stepping out of my room.
“Uh uh,” Iolas raises a hand to stop me, before circling his finger in a bid to get me to turn around.
“What?” I jerk my head at him.
This time he rolls his eyes at me, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me, before taking a hold of my hair.
“What in the gods name are yo u? —”
“Your training with me has been child’s play.” He interrupts, tugging at my silver strands. “And training with Altair is no place for a mane such as yours to fly free,” he murmurs as he leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You wouldn't want it to be an advantage to your opponent, would you?”
“Since when do you care about advantages in training?” I counter, trying to ignore the way his proximity to my neck sent a shiver down my spine. Iolas has always used dirty tactics to knock me on my ass.
“Since always, little witch. You know I'm here to protect you, even from yourself.”
“Protect or control?” I shoot back, though the bite of my words is softened by the rhythmic pull of his hands as he starts to secure the braid.
Iolas breathes out, turning me around. “Is there a difference in your eyes?”
“Always,” I reply, meeting his hazel gaze squarely as his chest expands.
“Good to know,” he says with a step back, as if needing space.
My fingers play with the end of the braid; the leather strap tying the end.
“So what? Altair is going to pull my hair if I don’t tie it back.”
Iolas releases a dark laugh that makes me clench my toes. He pats the top of my head before clasping the tops of my shoulders.
“Only if you ask nicely, little witch.”
He uses his vampire speed to dash away from my carefully aimed punch, and I throw the very well-done braid over my shoulder.
“Where did you get the strap from?” I ask, my fingers itching to touch the smooth leather again. I can’t imagine he keeps many around, seeing as his hair is too short to tie.
“I have my ways. You never know when a leather strap might come in handy.” He winks and I scoff, pushing him aside to walk down the hallway.
As we stroll through the palace, passing by various members of the staff, I can’t shake the feeling of unease gnawing at me.
I know I should just follow his orders, keep my head down, and get through this training session without causing any trouble. But something inside me rebels against the idea of being so compliant, so passive. Iolas may be protective, but I can’t rely on him forever. I need to prove to Altair that I’m not just another pawn he can control. If I’m going to survive in this palace, I have to show him that I’m stronger than he thinks—even if that means risking his wrath.
We arrive at the training room tucked away towards the back of the palace, the heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron and etched with runic symbols of protection, creaks open to reveal an expansive space dedicated to martial training. The room is dimly lit, with the only illumination coming from flickering torches mounted on the stone walls. Their golden light casts long shadows that dance across the floor, adding an eerie ambiance to the otherwise utilitarian space.
The floor is made of smooth, polished stone, with two large training mats resting against it, designed for ease of movement and to endure the wear of combat. Along the walls are various training apparatuses: wooden dummies, practice swords, and racks of weapons from different eras.
The air is tinged with the faint scent of sweat and leather, a testament to the countless training sessions that have taken place within these walls. Several weapon racks stand against the walls, their contents neatly arranged yet ready for quick access.
My eyes immediately seek out the figure waiting inside. I pause for a moment, my gaze lingering on his relaxed posture and the effortless grace with which he carries himself. The shadows don’t seem to be present at this moment, and he almost looks human… besides his pointed ears.
Until I notice he is wearing casual breeches and a loose linen shirt.
“Why do I need leathers?” I finally voice the questio n? —perhaps a bit too loudl y? —that has been nagging at me since I first laid eyes on the training outfit.
“You're the one who needs protecting,” Altair replies without looking in my direction.
My eyes narrow in his direction, the implication not lost on me. “And you don't?” I challenge.
I swear I see the corners of his mouth turn up before I blink. But nope. That familiar scowl remains on his face.
But his eyes seem a little lighter. “I assure you; I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
I am unimpressed by his arrogance. “Funny, I seem to recall a certain incident involving a dagger and your hand,” I retort, unable to resist.
The lightness in his gaze falters slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he regains his composure. “Ah, yes, that,” he says, his tone tinged with mock seriousness. “Merely a momentary lapse in judgement.”
I can’t help but smirk at his response, feeling a small sense of victory. “Well, let's hope today's training doesn't involve any more 'momentary lapses' on your part,” I quip, earning a chuckle from Iolas who is standing close behind me.
Altair's jaw tenses, a subtle sign of his growing impatience, but he maintains his composure as he gestures towards the training square in the centre of the room. “Iolas, you may leave.” he says, his tone clipped.
“What?” I blurt out. Altair pauses. So does Iolas. “Is Iolas not staying?”
The tension in the room escalates as Altair's gaze bears into mine, his expression unreadable. “Are you questioning my ability to keep you safe?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I square my shoulders, refusing to back down. “Yes,” I reiterate, meeting his gaze head-on. “After all, I was the one who stabbed you, remember?”
Now this time my eyes do not deceive me. A hint of a smirk plays at the corners of his lips. But his eyes remain steely, so it does nothing but unnerve me. “Fair point,” he concedes. “But you have my word. I will not hurt you… much.”
With a sceptical glance, I glance towards Iolas, who stands nearby, his expression carefully neutral. Iolas has become a companion, perhaps even a… friend. But would he stand up against the king if he chose to take a bite?
“You'll be just outside?” I ask, seeking reassurance.
Iolas nods. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he replies, his tone respectful for once, yet tinged with a hint of amusement.
Altair’s casual posture doesn’t fool me. I know that beneath his calm exterior lies a dangerous predator, one who’s more than capable of pushing me to my limits. As he gestures towards the training square, I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. This won’t be like training with Iolas—there won’t be any playful banter or gentle corrections. Altair is here to test me, to see how far I’m willing to go to prove myself. And I can’t afford to fail.
“Shall we begin?” he asks, and perhaps I should have thought before speaking, because now he seems agitated. He shares a look I can’t decipher with Iolas, before the latter leaves the room.
We’re alone.
A wave of fear washes over me. Despite my attempts to appear composed, the prospect of training alone with the king makes my stomach churn and goosebumps cover the flesh under the tight leathers.
Who is going to stop him if he decides to tear into my throat?
Suddenly I want to run from the room.
But one of the things Iolas taught me in our sessions was that running from a vampire was one of the worst things you could do. Their natural instincts love a hunt, and a warm-blooded human was the best prey.
It’s a good thing my feet feel frozen to the floor.
Altair stretches his neck to the side, his voice breaking through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. “We'll start with something simple,” he announces, his tone authoritative. “Iolas has been training you with a dagger. Today we’ll practise hand to hand.”
That doesn’t sound too hard.
Iolas has been training me for months now and I have gained some skill with my fists and with a small blade.
I feel a moment of relief.
Before I realise that means Altair will likely be up in my personal space.
And closer to my neck.
Knowing there is no way out of this I nod, acknowledging the king's instruction, trying to push aside the nerves that threaten to overwhelm me. “I'm ready,” I tell him, forcing confidence into my voice despite the doubts swirling in my mind.
I am not ready.
As Altair nears, a surge of adrenaline courses through my veins, my fingers itching to draw my blade from its sheath. Determined to get him away from me. Memories of our previous encounter at dinner fuels a reckless urge to strike out again. Why not? I've already wounded him once before.
I raise my fists instead, positioning them defensively in front of my face as Iolas’s lessons whip through my head. With a swift movement, I launch an attack as soon as he comes within striking distance, but he effortlessly sidesteps my blows. Undeterred, I press forward, launching a barrage of punches, each one aimed at him with increasing determination.
It is the tipping up at the corners of his mouth that spurs me on.
The slight smirk that causes my fear to bleed into anger.
But I watch him as much as he watches me.
He is like a dancer, as he effortlessly blocks each punch I aim at him. Without raising a single hand. With each evasive manoeuvre, I feel a growing sense of inadequacy creeping in, a gnawing doubt that I could ever meet his skill and precision. It makes me feel like Iolas has been babying me.
Makes me doubt that I could ever be strong enough to protect myself.
Every blocked strike heightens the tension in the air, fuelling my determination to prove myself, even as I struggle to keep up with his relentless pace.
But even though I couldn’t land a single punch… I quickly realise that Altair is holding back, his movements slower and less forceful than I have anticipated. He is avoiding, but he isn’t advancing. A frustrated huff escapes my lips as I struggle to understand how I am supposed to improve if he continues to pull his punches.
Continues to treat me like a fragile human. A human who is surrounded by vampires.
“Why are you going easy on me?” I demand, straightening and dropping my arms. My chest heaves slightly from the effort I have already exerted. I know I am being bold, questioning him with irritation lacing my words as I meet his gaze, searching for an answer.
“I am merely assessing your skills,” he says with that infuriating calmness that seems to cloak him like a second skin.
“By treating me like a child wielding a stick instead of a sword?” Anger simmers beneath my skin, begging for release.
For a moment, surprise flickers across the king's features before the mask slips, revealing a glimpse of the storm beneath. His next strike comes swift as a falcon's dive, forcing me to deflect with an urgency I haven’t needed until now.
It becomes evident that he had been holding back, and now he is challenging me to keep up. With each step, each feint, he tests my reflexes and endurance, urging me to match his pace.
Each evasion by him results with a flick from his finger where I’ve left myself vulnerabl e? —which happens to be a lot of places, judging from the number of times I feel the slight sting from the flick of his fingertip.
He’s toying with me. The realisation hits like a slap, stoking the fire of my anger. Every movement, every flick of his fingers is designed to frustrate and provoke me. I grit my teeth, refusing to be treated like some fragile human who can’t handle the fight. If he thinks I’m weak, I’ll show him just how wrong he is.
“Your anger is a blade, Olwyn,” he says, his voice a low hum that vibrates through the tension between us. “Yet unsharpened, it lacks direction.”
His words are like the bite of winter wind, cutting and cold, designed to provoke. I can feel the simmering heat of irritation rise within me, fuelled by his deliberate goading.
Every blocked strike sends a jolt through my arms, the impact reverberating down to my bones. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my chest heaving as I struggle to keep up with his relentless pace. Sweat drips down my temple, stinging my eyes, but I force myself to focus, to push through the burning in my muscles. I can’t afford to show weakness now.
After several attempts at striking him, he shifts his tactics. As I lunge forward with a punch, he sidesteps gracefully, seizing my wrist with a grip that feels like iron. Panic flares in my chest, but an instinct I didn't know existed surges within me.
I twist my body beneath his arm, using the momentum to spin out of his hold. My shoulder protests the sudden movement, but I push through the pain, bringing my leg up in a sweeping arc aimed at his knees. Altair moves like liquid, releasing my wrist and leaping back just in time to avoid the blow.
I blink.
I blink some more.
My own surprise is drowned out by the vicious satisfaction I feel at seeing the same shock on his face.
“That was… unexpected,” he remarks, his voice tight with restraint.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have even attempted that move. I would have hesitated, too afraid of making a mistake. But now, as I stand facing Altair, I feel something shift inside me.
As my hand finds the handle of my dagger, ripping it from its sheath, his chin lowers, his dark eyes stormy as the room darkens slightly. “I sai d? —” he starts to warn me.
Undeterred, I swing my arm up, aiming to carve a hole in his smug, assured expression, determined to unsettle him as he has done to me.
His open palm collides with my wrist, sending a shockwave of pain shooting up my arm, but I clench onto the dagger despite the agony coursing through my bones. Altair winces, his arm dropping slightly, but I growl in frustration and lash out, aiming to stomp on his irritatingly graceful feet.
Suddenly, I find myself pressed against him, his firm grip holding my arm. I gasp, looking up and seeing nothing but swirling darkness in his eyes as I feel the heat emanating from his body through the thick leathers I wear. It ignites a blush on my cheeks. A flash of light blue sweeps across his dark eyes as the shadows flicker, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I told you—” Altair begins, but the blade at his throat silences him. He remains still, his fingers releasing their hold on my arm as I step back, lowering my blade.
Because how badly will I be punished if I open his throat right here?
He will heal, and quickly… this blade will not kill him. But it will still hurt, and he will bleed out until the wound closes.
I can’t imagine that would be comfortable.
I need air.
I turn away without thinking, but his touch again on my arm makes me whirl around, anger pulsing through me and warming my hands. I scream in anger that almost blinds me as my free hand shoots up, palm open, poised to strike, but it stops inches from his face… and nothing happens.
What was that?
It was instinc t? —a refle x? —I don’t understand.
Yet Altair looks victorious, reaching to grab my wrist, holding it steady in front of his face. And there is something more there. Something guarded behind his dark gaze.
Like he had expected this .
I was sick of feeling like I was predictable.
Like I was known .
His shadows peel away from the objects in the room and dance around us, shifting like living entities, drawn to Altair’s presence. And I realise they hadn’t been present until now. But they coil and twist, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the world—a private stage. I can feel their cold tendrils brushing against my skin, as if urging me to give in, to let the darkness claim me.
“Go on, I dare you,” he whispers antagonistically, his breath a caress against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. His grip on my wrist tightens ever so slightly, urging me forward.
“I-I… I don’ t? —”
“You do. You know what this is. Do it.”
Magic.
The magic I had been coveted for. The magic the prophecy has promised. He thinks I am hiding it. This whole time, he has been trying to bring it out of me.
My eyes lock onto his, a swirling maelstrom of emotions hidden beneath the surface as his calm mask has slightly slipped from his face. I am tired of these games, tired of being seen as something I am not.
“I can’t ,” I whisper, the admission tasting like ash on my tongue.
A twisted smile appears on his lips, fangs glinting in the dim light. “Can't or won't?” he questions me. “You have the power within you, waiting to be unleashed. You know exactly what to do with it.”
My nose scrunches up in irritation. “Don't you think if I knew how, I would have rid myself of you already? Would have escaped?”
His eyes gleam with a victorious glint. “I think if you truly wanted to get rid of me, you could have done it by now. I know you know how to, little witch .”
My patience wanes, hating the way Iolas’s nickname for me sounds from his lips. How he says it was like an insult, and not a term of endearment. From the only friend I have had in the palace for months.
I snap. “You don’t call me that!”
With his hand a blur, he moves to hold the back of my neck, his fingers wrapping in the strands of my hair, pulling it back ever so slightly.
It will only take one small twitch of his hand. One small, effortless movement for him to bend my head, expose my neck and sink his teeth into my skin.
But his eyes flash in what seems like awareness, and he only pulls me closer, his breath mingling with mine.
“I’m not going to bite you, Olwyn.”
The atmosphere feels wholly different now.
I don’t believe him, even if his voice sounds heartbreakingly honest. I want to scream, to lash out, to do anything but stand here and feel his grip tighten around my neck. But a part of me—an infuriating, traitorous part—wants to give in, to see what would happen if I let the magic he claims I have surface.
But I can’t. I don’t know how, and even if I did, I’m terrified of what it might unleash. The thought of losing control, of becoming something I don’t understand, freezes me in place. I could use my blade. Could stab him with it. But what is the point when I know it won’t hurt hi m? —will only piss him off more.
“Just let me go!” I shout at him, and it sounds like I mean right now, but he works out my true meaning.
“When you really think about it, do you really want to escape? You are well fed. Corph knows you look a hell of a lot better than when I first claimed you, especially in these Gods forsaken leathers. You aren’t restricted to your suite, or micro-managed on how you eat. You are stronger, healthier, and dressed in the finest clothes I can obtain. You can train and harness your powers…”
My back stiffens. How could he know how I had been living back home in Avantra? The memory of being confined to my suite there, a room hidden away from prying eyes, feels like a ghostly echo now. In Avantra, my existence was limited to that small, secretive space, accessible only through a concealed doorway that was known to a select few. The room itself was dark and cold, with heavy drapes that blocked out the sun and a single, narrow window high up on the wall, providing little more than a sliver of the outside world.
Food was a rare and controlled luxury, delivered by servants who were permitted to enter only at specific times. But I never complained, I knew the city suffered from hunger due to the vampire's restrictions on food imports. My parents had told me so.
Altair continues. “You have a much easier life. Do you really think you could go back to living in Avantra?”
The contrast is undeniable. Here, in this palace, I have more freedom than I ever dreamed possible in Avantra. I have access to training and resources, a marked improvement from the scarcity and isolation I experienced. Yet, the cost of this freedom is not lost on me. His words and proximity flare up a reckless version of me as my chin tips up, daring to expose more of the slope of my neck. “I think that you can feed me and dress me in whatever you want. A pretty pet is still just that. A pet .”
The darkness around him pulses and he bares his fangs, my stomach dipping uncomfortably at the action.
“You are not a pet !” He is breathing heavily now, his eyes wild. “You are my wife.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and urgent, but there’s something about them that makes my chest tighten, and my breath catch. I don’t know if I should feel grateful or more trapped than ever.
“Remember, Olwyn,” his voice is low, almost too soft, and it catches my attention like a thread I can’t ignore. “I chose you. Not as my prisoner. Not as my pet. As my queen. ”
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, it feels like he’s stripping me bare, like he can see every thought, every fear, and every doubt I’ve hidden so carefully. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to look away, to retreat into the walls I’ve built around myself.
He continues, and his words hit harder than I expect. “If I wanted you for food, or to prevent a prophecy from coming true, I could have drained you the moment I saw you.”
I flinch. It’s not what I want to hear, but it’s the truth, and I know it. His presence in my life has never been as simple as I assumed. Not just the king, not just the monster—there’s more to it, more to him than I’ve let myself see.
“But if you want to stroll around this palace feeling like a prisoner, unable to make more for yourself... that is your doing, not mine.”
His words hit harder this time, and I feel the weight of them. I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve been so focused on feeling trapped, so consumed by the feeling of helplessness. But what if he’s right? What if I’ve been keeping myself in this cage, instead of trying to find a way out?
“You have plenty of opportunities laid before you, all you must do is ask.”
I almost laugh bitterly. Ask. For what? For freedom? For control? For some semblance of the life I used to know? I’ve been asking for too long, and all I’ve gotten is silence in return. But then, his words echo again, louder this time. You have plenty of opportunities. Maybe I just haven’t been asking the right questions.
“You are destined for more than you realise,” he says, his voice calm, but the pressure behind it is undeniable. “Embrace it or fight against it. The choice is yours, Olwyn. But you will choose.”
I blink, feeling like the ground beneath me is shifting, like the walls I’ve built around myself are starting to crumble. I want to fight him, to tell him he’s wrong, that I didn’t ask for any of this. That I never wanted to be his queen, never wanted to be trapped in this world of politics and magic. But something in his words makes me stop.
He’s giving me a choice.
I can’t remember the last time anyone did that. He doesn’t want me to be his puppet, but his equal. Or at least, that’s what it sounds like.
I’m not sure if I’m ready to embrace it, not sure if I want to embrace it, but as his gaze holds mine, I know something has changed. Maybe it’s not just him. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve been too afraid to take control of my own future.
But now, standing here in the silence that stretches between us, I realise—this choice is mine, whether I’m ready or not.
But this magic he wants me to show him… it isn’t there.
“I can’t,” I whisper, the words escaping my lips before I can stop them. His eyes drop to my lips for a moment, a flicker of disappointment passing through his gaze.
But then, as swiftly as the storm had come, it passes. One second, his presence is all-consuming, his grip a vice around my neck and wrist, and then—it’s gone. The shadows retreat, dissolving into the corners of the room as light floods back in. I’m left standing in the aftermath, the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin, my pulse still racing as if my body can’t quite believe the danger has passed.
“Fine,” he mutters, his voice low. “Have it your way.”
Without another word, he turns on his heel, flexing his hand. He stops once he opens the door. “Consider what binds you, Olwyn,” he says over his shoulder, his silhouette framed by the doorway. “Is it your captor's chains , the limits you place upon yourself? Or perhaps something else?”
I stare at him, struggling to process the sudden shift. The room feels emptier, colder, without the oppressive weight of his presence bearing down on me. But his words echo in my mind, refusing to be ignored. I should be relieved that it’s over, but instead, I’m left with a gnawing sense of unease.
Why didn’t he bite me? If my blood is so potent with magic, why hasn’t he taken it for himself?
His words make it seem like he knows more about the bigger picture. If I am such an important part, why won’t he share it with me?
It is beginning to become a bit overwhelming. Before he had returned, I could just play pretend. I am no longer the girl from a crumbling kingdom. I am a quee n? —a captive in a luxurious priso n? —even if every move is under the watchful eyes of the vampires around me.
For whatever motives the king has, I need to play the game now.
So, if he wants me to train, I will. To learn my magic and release it. I will.
If he is going to help me get stronger, I’d let him.
But first I’m going to get answers.