Chapter Seven — Chains of Blood and Choice
The palace hadn't been this loud in years.
Whispers slithered through every corridor — servants gasping, nobles speculating, guards pretending not to listen. The Vampire King's proposal had spread like wildfire.
Half of the court called it an honor.
The other half called it a curse.
And at the center of it all stood Christin, staring out of her chamber window, her reflection warped by the glass. Her emerald-and-brown eyes glimmered in the sunset's faint glow, and for the first time, she didn't recognize the girl staring back.
Her father's words from earlier still burned in her head.
"You have no idea what an alliance with him could mean, Christin. This could change the world."
Change the world.
But at what cost?
She wrapped her shawl tighter, trying to stop her trembling hands.
"Still playing the tragic princess, I see."
The sharp voice came from the doorway. Christin turned, and there stood Isabella, her half-sister, draped in silk the color of blood. Her smile was sugar-coated poison.
Christin's exhaustion hardened into wariness. "What do you want, Isabella?"
"What I deserve," Isabella said, stepping into the room as if she owned it. "An explanation, perhaps? Or better yet — a confession."
Christin frowned. "A confession?"
"Don't pretend you don't know." Isabella's voice rose, sharp as glass. "You've always had this pathetic charm — silent, wide-eyed, so men rush to protect you. But to snare the Vampire King? That's a new low, even for you."
Christin blinked, disbelief turning into anger. "I didn't snare anyone. He made that decision on his own—"
"Don't insult me," Isabella spat. "He looked at you for less than a minute before announcing he wanted to marry you. You must have done something — bewitched him, perhaps. Or maybe he just prefers women with no shame."
The words hit hard, but Christin didn't flinch. "At least I don't hide my cruelty behind perfume and false smiles."
Isabella froze — just for a second — before her lips twisted. "Careful, dear sister. You forget your place."
"I haven't forgotten," Christin said, stepping closer, her voice steady. "I'm reminded of it every day by people like you."
"People like me?"
"Yes. Jealous. Bitter. Afraid that someone born of a maid might shine brighter than a queen's daughter."
The silence that followed was thick, vibrating with fury. Isabella's hand twitched at her side as if she wanted to strike her.
"You ungrateful wretch," she hissed. "You should have been cast out the moment you were born."
Christin's chin lifted. "And yet, here I am — still standing."
The defiance in her tone startled Isabella. For the first time, her sister took a step back. "You think a monster's favor makes you powerful?"
"No," Christin said softly. "But standing up to you does."
Isabella's face twisted in anger, but before she could respond, the air in the corridor shifted — heavy, cold, commanding. The faint sound of boots against marble echoed through the hall.
Every torch flickered.
Christin turned, her pulse jumping.
Leroy Donovan entered the room with his usual measured grace, his cloak trailing behind him like shadowed silk. Beside him walked a tall, broad man with dark auburn hair — Duncan, his second-in-command. His expression was stern but curious, eyes flicking between the two princesses with faint amusement.
"Your Majesty," Isabella breathed, instantly lowering her head.
Leroy's crimson eyes swept over her once — and she fell silent under his gaze. "Your voice carries, Princess Isabella," he said coolly. "Be cautious where you aim it."
Isabella paled, bowing quickly. "Forgive me, I was only—"
"Leaving," Leroy finished for her.
That single word held no anger, only quiet authority — and yet Isabella trembled. Without another glance at Christin, she hurried out, her gown whispering against the marble floor.
When the door closed, silence fell once more.
Christin crossed her arms, glaring at him. "You enjoy intimidating people, don't you?"
Leroy's gaze met hers — calm, unreadable. "I enjoy silence. It's easier to think when others remember their place."
"And what about my place?" she snapped. "Did you decide that for me too?"
Duncan shifted slightly, but Leroy raised a hand — signaling him to stay quiet.
"Your place," Leroy said evenly, "is yet to be determined. But you have a habit of making it difficult to offer you one."
Christin stepped closer, her anger bubbling over. "You made a spectacle of me! You walked into my father's court and claimed me as if I were a prize to be auctioned off!"
Duncan's brow lifted, his expression flickering with surprise at her boldness.
Leroy, however, remained composed. "You mistake intent for arrogance."
"Then enlighten me!" she said, her voice trembling but strong. "Why me? Why any of this?"
He studied her for a long moment before answering. "Because fate doesn't wait for permission. You felt it, didn't you? That night in the forest."
Christin froze.
He took a step forward, and the air grew colder. "When your power answered the darkness — when you healed something that should have stayed dead — I felt it. Across the realms."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "That's impossible."
Duncan's voice cut in, rough and respectful. "Not impossible, my lady. My king doesn't follow whims. If he came here, it's because your magic reached him."
Leroy didn't take his eyes off her. "Your blood carries something ancient, Christin. Something that calls to mine."
She swallowed, her heart hammering. "So this is about magic, not me."
Leroy's tone softened, almost imperceptibly. "You are your magic."
The words left her shaken — half by fear, half by something else she couldn't name.
"I won't be a pawn in your destiny," she whispered.
Leroy's eyes darkened, though his voice stayed calm. "No pawn ever could speak to me like this."
Her defiance faltered just for a breath.
He stepped past her then, brushing the edge of her shoulder as he went. "We will speak again when you've calmed your heart."
She turned after him. "And if I don't?"
Leroy glanced back, his expression unreadable. "Then you'll learn that even rebellion has consequences."
With that, he left the room, Duncan following silently, the faint sound of their boots echoing like thunder.
Christin stood still, her pulse racing, her palms trembling — but her spine straight as steel.
He might command kings, she thought, but he will not command me.