Chapter 2
Chapter two
King’s Claim
-Kael-
Kael stood at the window of his private chambers, starting over Calyrix’s courtyard where night-thorn roses clawed up the walls. Beyond the ramparts, the kingdom of Nythra unspooled in a tapestry of cursed jagged mountains, haunted marshlands, and twisted forests.
His kingdom. His burden.
The seat of his rule, the Nythra court, gathered tonight within Calyrix’s black walls, eager to feast on gossip and power as much as they once feasted on blood. They would pick apart every rumor, every flaw, every trace of vulnerability Kael showed. He refused to give them any.
A thousand years ago, the gods punished the nightbound for daring to break the old order. Fae and vampire should never have merged, the crossing of those lines had made something too powerful, too enduring, and the gods had feared what they’d created.
So they’d turned the land against them, tainting its rains, twisting its magic, scarring the soil.
Even now Kael could feel the pull of that poisoned blessing in his own blood, the constant ache of power too strong to ever rest, yet never quite free.
He closed his eyes, trying to push down the restless pounding of his heart. Since the moment he’d taken Maris from the human city, a tension had gnawed at him. It coiled behind his ribs like a serpent, refusing to let go.
Her scent clung to his hands, a mixture of lavender and the sweet tang of her blood.
Her green eyes with silver starbursts. He had seen those eyes as she looked up at him, terrified but unbowed.
There was something in that gaze that struck him deeper than any blade ever could, something that cracked through the centuries-thick armor around his heart.
Kael set his jaw. He could not allow weakness.
He turned away from the window, crossing the room in long, silent strides.
His study smelled of dust and old roses, its shelves filled with scrolls and spell-stitched books.
The tapestries on the walls showed battles from the founding of Calyrix, fae knights crossing swords with vampire lords, blood spraying like black rain under a white moon.
He’d grown up with these images burned into him, lessons on loyalty, on power, on survival.
No one will protect you except yourself. His father’s voice, long dead, echoed in the back of his mind.
Kael raked a hand through his dark hair, trying to focus. Soon the entire court would gather to see what prize he had brought home from the human kingdom. They would whisper and scheme the way they always did. And every one of them would wonder what made this human girl worth claiming.
Even Kael’s closest allies would doubt.
“A seamstress?” they would hiss behind their rings and poison-sweet smiles. “Has the King lost his mind?”
He almost wished he could answer them honestly.
He didn’t understand it himself.
Something about Maris felt wrong and right all at once, as if fate had taken a personal interest and twisted his hand to bring her here.
He had sensed her before he’d even set eyes on her, like a thread pulling him from his throne in Nythra west to the Kingdom of Eryndor's capital, Glassreach. He found his way through the mortal city’s filth and ruin, straight to the alley where she’d been cornered by fate.
He hadn't known her face or name but felt a divine pull to seek her out.
He prayed she was an answer to a silent prayer. A god gifted pawn to gain more control within the continent. Only time would tell.
Kael adjusted the cuffs of his black brocade coat, letting the silver embroidery settle flat. He had to project calm, confidence, the court devoured doubt.
A soft knock broke his focus.
“My King?”
He turned to see Valea standing in the doorway, her hard features etched even sharper by the lamplight.
“It is time,” she said.
Kael nodded.
“Is she ready?”
Valea inclined her head. “She is dressed and awaiting your command.”
Kael’s jaw clenched. The memory of Maris’s wide green eyes, that fragile strength hidden under fear, hit him harder than he liked.
He couldn’t afford distraction. He had to show the court that she was his, protected, yes, but also claimed. If the court scented weakness, their loyalty could fracture.
He stepped past Valea without another word, his boots silent on the stone.
Steel yourself, Kael. She is a tool, nothing more. He reminded himself.
Valea’s mouth barely twitched, betraying a flicker of something respect, or perhaps fear.
Kael straightened, every line of him carved to radiate cold command. The King of Nythra, crowned by the gods’ curse, ruler of monsters.
He stepped out into the torchlit corridor, Valea following half a pace behind, their footsteps ringing through the polished halls of Calyrix. Valea peeling off from his side to take her place in preparation to bring Maris.
He could already hear the murmurs of the court gathered beyond the great doors — the sharp notes of laughter, the hush of conspiracy, the shifting of silks and polished armor.
His jaw tightened as the doors opened announcing his entrance, he made his way to the dais the picture of cool indifference.
They will see her. And they will not touch her. No matter the cost.
Upon finding his seat the court bowed before him as he signaled Valea to bring in his ward.
-Maris-
The doors opened so suddenly that Maris flinched. Valea stood beside her, one skeletal hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward with implacable strength.
“Do not show weakness human,” Valea hissed softly, just before pushing her through.
Maris’s slippers sank into a thick carpet the color of dried blood. The hall was even more enormous in the dusk light, grand beyond anything she had ever imagined. Pillars of black marble rose to a ceiling lost in shadow, their surfaces crawling with roses and thorns sculpted in a lifelike snarl.
Lanterns burned with silverlight, casting a glow that made the gathered nobles: fae, vampire, and nightbound alike, look like beautiful nightmares come alive.
The Court of Nythra.
Every eye in the room turned toward her, drinking her in, dissecting her, judging her with a cruelty that made her want to melt into the floor.
Kael sat at the far end, on his throne, as regal as a statue, clad in a high-collared black coat embroidered in moon-silver. His silver eyes met hers, unreadable, unyielding, and something in her chest clenched tight.
She forced herself to walk forward. Each step felt a thousand miles long, echoing in the silence that had fallen.
Someone whispered behind a gloved hand:
“A mortal? In the King’s hall?”
“Has he gone mad?”
After a trek that felt like a millennium she reached the foot of the dais and stopped, bowing awkwardly because she did not know the customs of these . . . people, these monsters.
Kael watched her with that impossible, searing focus, as if every mistake she made would cost them both their lives.
“Rise, Maris of Eryndor.”
His voice rang through the hall, calm, absolute.
Maris lifted her head. Her pale green eyes with their strange silver starbursts caught the silverlight and seemed to glow. She saw how several nobles leaned forward at the sight, hungry curiosity flaring in their eyes.
Kael’s lip curled, a silent warning that they look and do nothing more.
“As I stated last night, you stand under my protection,” he announced, cold and clear.
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd, but no one dared challenge him. Many took a step away from her.
Kael stood and stepped down from the dais, moving to stand before her, so close she could feel the icy aura of his magic.
“You will learn our ways, you will learn to defend yourself,” he murmured, low so only she could hear. “Fail, and I cannot protect you.”
Maris’s heart stumbled in her chest.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” she breathed.
Kael’s jaw tightened, his eyes held her own.
“In time.”
He faced the court again, a predator at ease in his domain.
“You will show her respect,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “She is mine.”
Mine.
The word made her knees weak, not in a way that was sweet, but terrifying, because it was as final as a locked cell.
As the court watched with shining eyes and hidden daggers, Maris wondered if she would ever leave these walls again, or if she had stepped into a cage she could never escape.
The beginnings of a feast stirred as soon as Kael took her hand and led her up the dais to perch at his side.
Servants emerged from hidden passages, carrying trays of meat gleaming with dark sauces, jewel-toned fruits piled high, goblets of black blood wine so rich it stained the lips of the passing nobles.
Every movement was graceful, eerily perfect, as if they were trained more like living marionettes than people.
Maris tried not to gawk.
Laughter rang sharp as knives, and every so often a noble would lift their glass and let a red tongue flick across a fang before they drank.
It was monstrous, yes, but also horrifyingly beautiful.
Maris was guided by Kael from the dais once the nobles had taken their seats at banquet tables.
He placed her once again at his side at a smaller table that had been set for the king alone.
Dishes far more familiar to her — roast fowl, bread, stewed greens — had been arranged there as if to spare her from the nightbound fare.
Kael sat in a high-backed obsidian chair crowned with hammered silver. From there, he commanded the room with a simple flick of his hand, a tilt of his head, a silent monarch who did not need to raise his voice.
Yet his eyes, gods, his eyes never left her.
Every time she shifted, when her eyes swept the hall in fear, Kael was watching. Like a wolf, half-possessive, half-patient, tracking prey or protecting it. Maris could not tell which.
She tried to sip her water, but it felt like swallowing stones under his gaze.