The Future of Night Falls
The first thrust into the ground was steady.
But the second hit hard, and the third felt more permanent than death.
He tamped down the urge to negotiate, the impulse to keep her a delicate, sweet-smelling human and slaughter all who opposed them, but that wasn’t the answer.
There would be challenge after challenge for her right to the throne.
Matilda was fierce, but she wasn’t invincible, and she would’ve fallen to Alaria if it weren’t for the wolf dust. Turning her would give her a better chance of survival.
Soon, he no longer dug like a noble king, but like a man who was trying to outrun fate.
The soil was stubborn and damp from the night air, and dirt clung to the shovel, his boots, and his hands. Every shovelful felt like something was being taken away from him.
But he didn’t stop. His breath fogged in the cold air, each exhale harsher than the last. His muscles burned, but he welcomed the pain. It kept him from thinking too much—from imagining her face when he had to do the unthinkable.
He gripped the handle so tightly the wood creaked. His eyes stung, but he kept digging while speaking under his breath.
“This is for life. Not death,” he repeated as a comforting reminder, forcing himself to keep going.
The hole deepened, and the walls took shape as the earth piled around him like a dark halo. Sweat beaded along his brow despite the chill in the air. His hair clung to his temples, and his muscles ached to the bone.
He dug until the grave was finally deep enough, and when he was done, he stood there, staring into the grave as if it were the abyss. It was the place he’d bury her and prayed she would rise again.
Luka’s chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. He dropped to his knees and pressed a palm to the earth, grounding himself.
“Forgive me. Forgive me for needing you enough to do this,” he said, voice barely audible over the whipping wind and the roaring of blood in his ears.
He pulled a small blade from his belt, admiring the moonlight glinting against steel.
His hand trembled before he forced it still and pressed the edge to his skin.
The flesh split, and blood trickled from his palm into the earth.
He released a shaky exhale, and the soil drank his blood instantly, as if it were dying of thirst and begging for more.
He continued cutting down his palm, wrist, and arm until the blood flowed profusely. His knees weakened, but he remained upright.
“You must complete the ritual, my King,” Ezra whispered from above.
Luka closed his eyes and began the chant of archaic words that predated him and his predecessors to the beginning of his kind’s creation. The words were sacred and were only used for turning, binding, and calling a soul back from the realm of no return.
His voice was rough and broken as the words effortlessly tumbled from his cracked lips.
“Blood to bind. Blood to call. Life to life, though darkness falls. Let death be brief, let love be strong. Return to me where you belong.”
The air shifted, and the wind stilled. The earth seemed to hum beneath him, as if answering his call. He continued, voice trembling but unwavering.
“By my vein, by my vow, I give what I am. Matilda Seraphina Alesi, rise when the night calls your name.”
His breath shuddered, vision blurring at the edges. He felt a bond forming in his chest—a thread pulled taut across fate itself.
“Come back to me, please,” he whispered, lowering himself to the dirt. His lips pressed against the soil until he collapsed from blood loss and exhaustion.
The grave was fortified and protected. All he needed was her.
***
Hours passed before Luka finally roused. His body felt drained like sand slipping through an hourglass. He hoisted himself out of the grave, tugged on his clothes, and ventured back to the castle.
His pulse quickened when his ears picked up whimpering and grunts from his beloved.
He sprinted down the corridor, boots striking stone. His feet quickened when he heard her breathing. It was uneven and urgent. Another sound reached him—a sharp inhale, followed by a soft cry she tried to swallow. His chest tightened, and the corridor to their chamber felt impossibly long.
He reached the door and flung it open.
The room was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles.
The air was warm and heavy with the scent of sweat and fear.
Matilda paced with one hand braced against the wall, the other cupped beneath her belly as if to steady the child inside.
Her head was bowed, curls falling around her face in damp strands.
It was time.
Time to welcome life, and time to usher death.
***
“This… this is witchcraft,” Matilda complained to Dr. Blackwood as she supported her belly with her hands and paced the room.
“It is biology.”
“Witchcraft,” she hissed, closing her eyes and breathing through the contraction.
“Biology.”
“I swear to the gods if you say biology one more time—what am I saying? The gods will not hear me. Clearly, they have forsaken me. Look who is the sire of my child.”
“That was a choice,” Dr. Blackwood commented as he prepped for delivery.
Matilda rolled her eyes.
“How could there be a choice if we are fated mates?”
“Oh. I have forgotten that part.”
“Why is this child so early?” she asked through clenched teeth. She leaned over the bed and placed her hands on the mattress. “She is heralding my demise.”
“This is a joyous day for Night Falls. We finally have an heir,” Dr. Blackwood said giddily, not paying Matilda or her anxiety any mind.
“Dr. Blackwood?”
“Yes, my Queen?”
“I need you to give it to me straight. Is there a chance that I don’t return?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
His bluntness hung in the air like a poisonous cloud. Eventually, he acknowledged her fears.
“I apologize, Matilda; however, turning a human isn’t an exact science. King Alesi is aware of the risks, but he believes in your strength.”
She released a shaky breath. “Belief won’t bring me back.”
A contraction ripped through her, forcing her to brace against the bedframe. Her nails dug into the wood. “Gods… she is not gentle.”
Dr. Blackwood moved to check her again, his expression tightening with concern. “She’s coming fast. Faster than expected.”
Matilda laughed bitterly when another wave hit her. She gritted her teeth and ignored the sweat beading along her brow.
“I have another inquiry,” she said to distract herself from the pain. “What happens to the king if I don’t return?”
Dr. Blackwood hesitated. “The king will do what must be done.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “Meaning?”
He sighed and resigned himself to the conversation that needed to be had.
“When Queen Anastasia died, I thought that was the end of him. I truly believed he would not survive a month. He refused blood. Refused counsel and shut himself away and allowed the hunger hollow him out. I had treated soldiers on the brink of death, but I had never seen despair like his.”
A contraction tore through Matilda, but she forced herself to listen as the physician continued.
“He would not speak or rise from the floor some days. I feared he would simply… fade. Vampires do not die easily, but grief can be its own kind of rot.”
“And you think he’d fall apart like that again if I don’t return?”
“I think,” the doctor said, meeting her eyes, “that if you do not return, he will follow you into whatever darkness took you. Whether it takes hours or years.”
Her breath hitched. “Years,” she whispered. “I could miss her entire childhood.”
“It is possible,” he admitted. “Rare, but possible. Some take days to rise. Some take seasons. A few… take decades.”
“Decades,” she mumbled.
Dr. Blackwood studied her silently, taking in the worry and indecision on her face.
“You are not certain of being turned, are you?”
“I love him.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I love him, but I want to raise my child. I think if there were some way, I’d like to wait.”
Dr. Blackwood gave a thoughtful nod. “That is your right. Your mortality does not have to be decided tonight. You should focus on bringing the heir of Night Falls into the world.”
Matilda nodded and shifted onto the bed when her contractions started wreaking havoc on her body again.
She heard his heavy footsteps before he arrived.
The heavy doors crashed open so hard the hinges rattled.
Luka filled the doorway, looking equal part panicked and relieved.
His cloak was half-fastened, hair wind-tossed, and his eyes burned with emotions he didn’t bother to hide.
He was by her side in a blink of an eye, lowering to a knee and grasping her hand.
“Matilda,” he breathed, squeezing her hand.
Her mouth dropped, but the pain swept away her words like a rip current.
“I-I-I….”
“Yes, my beloved?” he said, leaning closer.
“I loathe you, my King,” she whispered.
He patted the back of her hand. “I love you, too.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Luka ignored her and turned to Dr. Blackwood.
“Tell me what is happening.”
Dr. Blackwood cleared his throat. “Her labor has progressed rapidly, Your Majesty. Faster than we could ever anticipate.”
Luka’s jaw tightened. “Are they in danger?”
Another contraction seized Matilda, forcing her forward with a low guttural groan. Luka steadied her instantly, bracing an arm around her back, the other gripping her hand. He murmured soothing words to her in their old tongue, and she clung to the sound.
“I-I feel immense pressure,” Matilda admitted. “I need to push.”
Dr. Blackwood moved briskly, examining her once more.
“What is happening?” Luka asked again, trying and failing to mask his concern.
“She’s close. The child is descending quickly. You’ll need to push when the next wave of contractions comes, my Queen.”
Another contraction hit, painful and deeper than the one before. Matilda cried out, fingers crushing Luka’s. He didn’t flinch but remained steady for her… for them.
***
“Good,” Dr. Blackwood praised. “Breathe again and push,” he instructed.
Matilda bore down. She trembled violently as Luka whispered words of encouragement against her temple, grounding her with the steady weight of his presence.
“You’re doing beautifully, my Queen. Stay with me.”
“I’m trying,” she gasped. “Gods, Luka—”
“I’m here.”
“I see the head!” Dr. Blackwood exclaimed. “Just one more, my Queen. One more.”
Matilda gathered what strength she had left and leaned into Luka, pushing with a raw cry that tore through the room.
Then… silence.
A heartbeat later, a thin, startled wail filled the chamber.
Matilda sagged against her husband and cried. Luka’s breath came out broken and ragged. He lowered his forehead to hers, praised her strength, and reminded her she was deeply loved.
Dr. Blackwood lifted the tiny, squirming bundle, wrapped her, and turned toward them with a rare, softened expression.
“A girl,” he announced.
Luka gazed upon the infant.
“A daughter,” he whispered.
Matilda reached out with shaky arms. “I told you. Let me see her.”
The doctor placed the newborn into her embrace, and the child’s cries quieted almost immediately, as if recognizing the heartbeat she’d known for months.
Luka leaned over them with his hand hovering before he dared touch the baby’s cheek. One caress of his finger made his heart crack open with love, pride, and adoration.
“What shall you call her?” Dr. Blackwood inquired.
Matilda looked up at Luka. “Denalia.”
Luka cleared his throat. “Denalia,” he confirmed.
Denalia blinked up at them with soulful brown eyes, a button nose, and rosy, pouty lips. Her tiny fists curled, and her cries faded into soft, curious breaths.
Luka pressed a kiss to Matilda’s forehead. “You’ve given me a miracle.”
Matilda exhaled, exhausted but glowing. “Never forget.”
“Never,” he whispered, perfectly transfixed on his daughter.
She was small, fragile, and held the key to his heart. His blood flowed through her veins, and only a few minutes old, she already favored her mother.
Denalia was Night Falls’ future, and he prayed to the gods that Matilda would forgive him for the deceit he would soon commit.