Heir of Night

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢 V

𝓥𝓲𝓴𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂𝓪

Heir of Night
All Rights Reserved
©2018 L. C. Rose

~*~

He is a void. A reaper given skin and breath, a nightmare incarnate.

I had never feared anyone but my father. Fear was not something the daughter of Vladimir Draculesti XIII knew. It was something we of the High House weren't born to know. I knew power. I knew how to instill fear. My father made me untouchable. He prepared me to be unbreakable.

At least, I thought as much... But as I peer into the gloom of the male's vertical, onyx eyes while he approaches, fear is the only thing my body finds familiar. But he defies me with a look and I glare right back, if only to hide my nauseating dread.

He strides closer, the skin on his bones darkening, appearing almost scale-like.

I glance to the meadow behind the lofty figures. The path , lightly lined with snow, is a straight shot to another heavy set of trees, which would, in theory, give me enough coverage to run. Six steps, 8 at the most. And they won't be able to catch me.

Only shadows and leather and frost surround me, the light bobbing and tilting with the sway of the wind throughout the withering woods.

My fangs offer no defense. I have discovered such things the hard way, even before all of this.

All those years in my Court, I've learned to listen. Learned to read a room, to sense when the air has changed. Enemies were everywhere and everyone was a threat.

I make my mouth a hard line as the male finally reaches me, my eyes bright and cold. He's inches away, his breath a sheer puff against my forehead. I look up to ogle at him, seeming as livid as I can.

"Let's weigh our options here, boys. Haste shouldn't cloud our better judgment, don't you think?" The first male says to the older one, that vexing smirk still on his face. However, there's anxiousness in his tone as his eyes shift from me to his other comrade poised to kill.

My eyes burn, even as I fight the terror that claws its way up my body.

"And what would you have us do, commander?" The older outsider responds, irritation in his voice. "The girl is the Tyrant's progeny. She is too big of a variant to leave unchecked. Her life shouldn't hinder your resolve, no matter how innocent you might think it is."

Normally, such a statement would enrage me, but I am completely unnerved by the leader's face.

Last year, Father took my siblings and I to the Central Wastes to witness the slaughter he and his armada would unleash on the remaining fae outposts located there. I had been drawn by the stories our father told of the legendary battles the Crimson Army had participated in. While there, I had expected a stale massacre, a brute onslaught; but instead, Father gave us a marvelous dance of blades, fangs and red velvet that gushed everywhere. And he loved it, grew stronger from it.

That was the expression flickering beneath the leader's composed features, betrayed only by the whites showing around his pretty sky blue irises. There was caution there; but he was thrilled. Fascinated by the challenge.

"She'd make a fine ransom." He comments. "A little trophy to dangle in front of the lowlife's face? She's sure to rile some kind of reaction."

Bastard.

That gave me my first inkling to rather want a pitiful and tortuous end at the hands of the towering imbecile in front of me than be held against my kingdom.