Chapter Two — The Night of the Celebration
The palace transformed as night fell.
Where sunlight had warmed marble and silk, now candlelight shimmered in pools of gold. Chandeliers blazed with hundreds of tiny flames, their glow reflecting in glass and silver. Music swelled from the grand hall — a waltz full of laughter and artifice, of nobles trying too hard to sound at ease.
Christin stood at the edge of it all, the soft murmur of the crowd like a tide she never quite reached.
Her gown — silver-blue, soft as moonlight — flowed around her like a whisper. The fabric shimmered faintly, touched by the flickering light. She had pinned her hair half-up, letting the rest fall in loose curls over her shoulders, and tucked a single white lily just behind her ear. It was the only adornment she wore, save for her mother's locket.
It's enough, she told herself. It has to be.
Everywhere she looked, splendor blurred together — jewels flashing, fans fluttering, voices rising in hollow laughter. She could almost feel the weight of judgment on her back. To them, she wasn't a princess. She was the King's mistake wearing borrowed silk.
"Christin, what are you doing hiding over here?"
Prince Adrian's soft voice broke through her thoughts. The boy had inherited his father's gentle eyes and his mother's golden hair — though none of her cruelty. He smiled at her as he approached, balancing two cups of punch. "You look beautiful tonight."
"Flattery doesn't suit you, Adrian," she said, though she smiled faintly. "You'll make your sister jealous."
He laughed quietly. "She already is. She's been asking every servant if King Leroy has arrived yet."
Christin's brow rose. "Of course she has."
"She's convinced she'll marry him," Adrian said in mock seriousness. "She claims her beauty will 'soften the heart of a vampire.'"
Christin chuckled, shaking her head. "Let's hope for everyone's sake she never tries."
Adrian hesitated, then lowered his voice. "You're still planning to go, aren't you? After the celebration?"
Christin's hand tightened around her locket. "I have to, Adrian. There's nothing here for me but whispers and duty that isn't mine to bear."
He looked down, the flicker of candlelight in his eyes. "Then promise me you'll be safe."
She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I always am."
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
A fanfare of trumpets silenced the hall. The herald's voice rang out over the crowd.
"Announcing His Majesty, King Leroy Donovan of the Vampyric Dominion!"
Every head turned as the great doors opened.
The moment he entered, the air changed.
King Leroy moved like a shadow woven from silk and power. His dark hair framed a pale, sculpted face, and his eyes — gray, deep, unreadable — swept across the room with quiet authority. His attire was midnight black trimmed in silver, no jewels, no crown — only a ring of obsidian on his gloved hand.
Whispers rippled through the court. The vampire king… the immortal one…
Isabella stood near the Queen, radiant in her rose-pink gown, her smile blooming like a flower desperate for sunlight. "He's perfect," she whispered to her mother. "Absolutely perfect."
Queen Eleanor's reply was smooth and sharp. "Then make sure he notices you."
Christin remained still, her hands clasped before her, half-hidden by the crowd. She didn't mean to stare — but when Leroy's gaze swept across the hall, it found her.
For one fleeting heartbeat, the world fell silent.
It wasn't the way men usually looked at her — there was no lust, no curiosity. His eyes held recognition. As though he had seen her before, in another lifetime, in another dream.
Christin's breath caught. The air thickened, humming softly in her ears.
A flicker of something — warmth? memory? — passed between them, so brief she might have imagined it. Then he blinked, and the moment was gone.
"Did you see that?" Isabella hissed to her companion, her fan snapping open. "He looked this way."
"Of course he did," her friend whispered back. "You're the brightest thing in the room."
But Isabella's eyes had followed the same path as the king's, and now they narrowed when she saw who stood in his line of sight.
Christin.
Her smile froze. A spark of fury glinted behind her painted calm.
The waltz began again, and couples drifted toward the dance floor. Christin lingered near the edge, her heart still unsteady. It was just a glance, she told herself. A coincidence.
Still, her chest felt strange — like something inside her was awakening after a long sleep.
A servant brushed past her, offering a tray of wine. She took a glass, if only to steady her hands. The sound of violins filled the air. Laughter rose, golden and brittle.
"Princess Christin?"
The voice was low, rich — smooth as velvet.
She turned.
King Leroy Donovan stood before her, tall and composed, the candlelight casting faint shadows across his sharp features. His eyes — impossibly gray — seemed softer now, curious. Dangerous in their calm.
"Your Majesty," she managed, bowing her head slightly. "I did not expect—"
"To be spoken to?" His tone carried a hint of amusement. "Forgive me. I wasn't certain you were real."
Christin blinked. "Real?"
"Most beauty in this place is crafted," he said quietly, his gaze steady. "Yours seems… born of something else."
Color rose to her cheeks. "You flatter me, my lord."
He inclined his head. "I do not flatter. I observe."
Her heart thudded. The way he said it — not cruel, not charming, simply honest — disarmed her more than any sweet word could have.
They stood in silence for a moment, the music swirling around them like a spell. She could feel the faint coldness of his presence — not unpleasant, but sharp, like winter air.
"You don't dance," he noted.
"I don't belong among those who do," she replied softly.
His lips curved slightly. "You sound certain of that."
"I've been reminded often enough," she said, and immediately wished she hadn't.
He tilted his head, studying her. "Then they remind you wrongly."
Her eyes met his, startled by the quiet conviction in his voice. Something about him — the steadiness, the sadness behind his composure — felt achingly familiar.
Before she could reply, a shrill voice broke through the music.
"There you are, Your Majesty!"
Isabella swept toward them, her gown glittering with pearls, her smile bright and practiced. "What a joy to finally meet you," she said, curtsying low. "I've heard so much of your greatness."
Leroy's expression did not change. "Your Highness." He gave her a polite nod, then turned back to Christin. "You must excuse me. I was enjoying my conversation."
Isabella's smile faltered for just a breath before she caught herself. "Of course," she said sweetly. But her eyes, when they flicked toward Christin, burned like fire.
Christin set her glass aside, her pulse unsteady. She didn't understand what had just happened — only that something had shifted, deep and irrevocable.
She wanted to flee — to run to her room, to her hidden satchel, to her plan of escape. But her feet refused to move. Leroy was still looking at her, his expression unreadable, and yet in his gaze there was something… searching.
As if he were listening to something only he could hear.
Later, when the music swelled once more and the crowd turned their attention to the next dance, Christin slipped quietly from the ballroom. The corridors beyond were dim and hushed, the echo of her steps the only sound.
Her thoughts tangled with fear and wonder. She should be thinking of escape, of the path that would take her far from the palace — yet all she could think of were his eyes, the strange warmth that lingered in her chest, and the sense that fate had just whispered her name.