Vaelora's chest tightened, a whisperless gasp caught in her throat. Strong, and warm hands pressed against her shoulders, while a distant, familiar voice murmured, low and grounding: "V… wake."
The nightmare loosened its grip, threads of terror unspooling. "Come to me, V. I'm right here," the deep voice called, as warm, callused hands gently stroked her back.
Her eyes fluttered open. Moonlight spilled across the fur-lined bed, painting the lines of worry and exhaustion on her face. She blinked, disoriented, before the weight of presence pressed her gently against reality.
"Was I loud?" she asked, voice rough with lingering dream-fragments.
Thalric's gaze softened, moonlight catching in his steel-colored eyes as he traced her face with an almost reverent steadiness. "You were suffering," he said softly, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "You are not alone, V. Never alone."
Thalric shifted closer, his arms wrapping protectively around Vaelora. She sank into him, allowing herself a few more moments of warmth and respite. The chill of the northern night and the lingering remnants of her nightmare were held at bay by the grounding press of his body and the deep, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a while, the world outside—politics, truce negotiations, and the fragile balance of power—ceased to exist.
When dawn crept through the frost-laden windows, the northern sun painting silver across the fur-lined bed, Vaelora rose with quiet anticipation. Thalric remained behind a moment longer, his presence a tangible reassurance, before he finally followed her into the preparation chambers.
The northern court had been fractured over the prospect of the truce. Whispers and debates had echoed through the halls for days. The oracle's vision convinced some that temporary unity with the vampires was necessary. They saw strength in alignment, a gathering of forces to meet the Draken threat that loomed from the icy north.
Others scoffed at omens and prophecies, calling the faithful overzealous, accusing them of bending the realm to visions that may never come to pass.
"Omens again?" one elder scoffed, folding arms. "The oracle speaks in riddles. How do we know we are reading it correctly? Steel and strategy have kept us safe far longer than visions ever will."
"And yet," another countered, voice calm, eyes on the council, "the signs point to great upheaval. To ignore them is to gamble with more than our lives—it is to gamble with the realm itself."
The court was sharply divided, and King Thalric found himself weighing counsel that seemed to pull him in impossible directions.
Then word reached him: Eva—the human daughter of Queen Vaelora—was entwined with the vampire crown prince in the marking process. The queen herself had written, pleading with the king.
"You know who she is," the letter had said. "I am the only one strong enough to oppose her. If it must be done, it will fall to me, but I cannot guarantee that I will not resent you. She is my child. My baby. I am loyal to you, my King, my mate—but do not ask me to destroy my own daughter. My heart cannot bear it. To force me so would unravel the balance of the realm itself."
When the court presented this plea to the Lunar Priesthood, they weighed the matter with grave care. Even under the Moonkeeper's guidance, Queen Vaelora's loyalty would remain, but the act would shatter her heart. A weakened Moonbound Queen meant diminished connection to the source of their power—a risk none could ignore.
For King Thalric, this revelation offered a potent argument. The king called the divided council together and, with measured gravity, explained the stakes: unity with the vampires was not only a chance to honor a truce but a way to preserve the Northern Clans' strength. Forcing their queen against her daughter risked fracturing the realm's very foundation. No advisor, no elder, could argue against the preservation of power itself.
The balance of the northern lands had shifted. The Truce was no longer merely a matter of diplomacy; it was a necessity born of blood, love, and the stark reality of what might come from defying both heart and fate.
As the Queen donned ceremonial leathers trimmed with black fur, King Thalric placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "The islands are neutral, but our vigilance must be complete," he murmured. Queen Vaelora nodded, her jaw set. The nightmare from the night past lingered faintly at the edge of her thoughts, a reminder of the unseen dangers. The thought of her daughter—a Spear now entwined in immortal rites—sharpened her heartbeat. Eva wielded her strength without knowing how far it reached—and soon, all would see. She allowed herself to breathe in the steadiness of her mate's presence, letting it anchor her.
Together, they stepped into the waiting cold of the northern morning, their shadows long against the frost. Beyond, the Silent Sea awaited—its still waters a mirror between enemies, a test of trust and restraint. Across that expanse, her daughter would walk into a gathering that could shape the fate of all immortal and mortal alike.
—
Eva's chest tightened, a whisperless gasp escaping as the remnants of her nightmare clung to her. A familiar, steady presence pressed against her back, and a low, gentle voice murmured, "Eva… wake."
Warm hands traced her shoulders, guiding her out of the lingering shadows of fear. "It's me," Lucarion's voice murmured, grounding and calm. "You're safe."
Her eyes fluttered open, meeting the soft dawn spilling through the chamber windows. She blinked, letting the golden light settle on her vision, and looked up at him. The sun caught his silver hair, highlighting the quiet strength in his gaze, the steady calm she had come to trust.
"Good morning," she whispered, her voice rough from sleep and lingering tension.
"Good morning," he replied, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. "How do you feel?"
Her body ached, but not as sharply as before; the pounding headache had softened, and the insatiable thirst receded to a dull hum. She hummed softly, attempting to stretch, wincing at the soreness in her limbs. "It's… getting easier," she rasped.
"You're very strong," he said, his thumb lingering lightly against her cheek. "And probably hungry too. Come with me—I want to show you something I think you'll like."
He stood and offered his hand. She took it, and he led her to the annexed solar. The table was already set for breakfast. But Lucarion guided her past the table, toward a large planter by the windows.
There, in full bloom, deep purple irises swayed gently in the morning light. Their rich hue seemed almost to glow, catching the sun in a way that made her breath hitch.
"Those are my favorite. How did you—?" she stammered, astonished and wide eyed.
He smiled with an earnest warmth in his eyes. "When your mother wrote to you… I took the liberty of replying. I asked for advice and she answered swiftly."
Eva blinked, speechless. She had never imagined such a sentimental side to him.
Her lips curved into a genuine, unguarded smile. Lucarion's gaze lingered, mesmerized, and he lifted his hand, gently pressing his little finger to the dimples forming in her cheeks.
"You look… radiant," his voice low, reverent, as if afraid to break the delicate moment.
Eva's laughter, soft and warm, echoed through the sunlit chamber, mingling with the quiet sway of the irises. For the first time in days, she felt a sense of ease and belonging—the ache of the marking softened, the shadow of nightmares lifting, replaced by the gentle certainty of his presence.
Lucarion guided her toward the breakfast table, the sunlight catching faint motes of dust that shimmered in the air. The spread was simple but warm—freshly baked bread, soft cheese, a bowl of berries glistening with morning dew, and a silver carafe of steaming hibiscus tea.
Eva sank into the loveseat with a quiet sigh, muscles still tender. "You planned all this?" she asked, glancing at the food, then at him.
He poured her a cup of tea, the crimson-violet liquid catching the light. "You deserve a morning that isn't ruled by pain."
Her smile faltered, then softened again. She took the cup and sipped—it was faintly sweet, the warmth easing the dull ache in her veins. "I feel much better," she admitted quietly. "Not as heavy."
"Good." Lucarion leaned back, one arm draped lazily behind her. "You're adapting."
They ate in near silence, broken only by the soft clink of silver and the distant song of gulls beyond the tower windows. There was no need for grand words—only the quiet recognition of something shifting between them, fragile but undeniable.
When she finally set down her cup, Lucarion's gaze lingered—not on her face, but on her throat. The open wound from the night before, once raw and crimson, was now closing with a duller color. Only the smallest trace of silvery skin appeared beneath it.
Eva noticed his silence and followed his gaze. "What?" she asked, fingertips brushing her neck. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Lucarion hesitated. "It's changing," he said finally. "Healing faster than I expected. The mark… it's already beginning to take."
Her hand froze. "Already?"
He nodded once, his voice a low murmur. "Almost imperceptible, but yes. The bond is forming." His gaze lifted to here. "You're not just enduring it, Eva. You're accepting it. And that changes everything."
She smiled and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder as her eyes drifted toward the blooming irises by the window. The quiet felt sacred. She drew her feet up, hugging her knees. "Does that mean," she asked softly, "we still have a little time before… we have to do it again?"
Lucarion's lips curved in a knowing half-smile. "You sound almost disappointed."
"I wouldn't call it disappointment," a trace of laughter in her voice. "Just… balance. As much as I enjoy it—" she gave him a sidelong glance, "—this is good too. I'd like to keep it a little longer."
He drew her gently onto his lap, his hand resting over her hip. "I'd like that too."
For a long while, neither spoke. His thumb traced the faint line of a claw mark along her thigh, idly, as if memorizing it. After a pause, his voice came softer. "May I ask?" His thumb brushed the mark again. "This one—it seems recent."
Eva followed his gaze, the faint smile fading. "That was the officer," she said quietly. "The one I killed in your dungeon." She exhaled slowly, her tone even. "He said—loud and clear—that he wanted to… commit a war crime against me. Even some of your guards tried to stop him, but he outranked them. It was self-defense." Her hand tightened slightly on his arm.
Lucarion's eyes, usually calm and cold as winter glass, flared faintly. "How did you do it?"
"I broke his neck with my legs," she said. "He tried to claw his way out, but it was too late."
A slow, dangerous smile touched Lucarion's lips—one that held both pride and fury. "Then he was lucky," he murmured. "Had he survived, I would have made certain he suffered for a century before being allowed to die."
Eva let out a low chuckle, unable to help herself. "That's very uncharacteristic of you. You're not impulsive."
He laughed, a deep, dark sound. "That was restraint, little flame. My impulse is to obliterate the entire bloodline of whoever dares touch you."
Eva tilted her head, a small smile curving her lips. "Little flame?" she asked, her tone curious.
He studied her face for a moment, as though weighing her response. "Yes," he said finally. "Do you not like it?"
She shook her head, her expression softening. "No… I don't mind. My mother used to call me that sometimes."
Lucarion's lips curved. "Then I'll take that as permission."
Eva chuckled under her breath. "I suppose that's fair." She leaned her head back against his shoulder, the moment settling into something gentle. Then, teasing, "So what should I call you, then? You've noticed I barely say your name."
His brow lifted. "An oversight I have noticed, yes."
"Well," she said, pretending to think deeply, "Lucarion is a mouthful. It sounds like I should only say it when I'm furious… or lustful."
"And how would I know the difference?"
"Oh. You won't—until it's too late."
A ghost of amusement crossed his features. "And what alternative do you propose, little flame?"
She tilted her head, and studied him. The morning light caught his silver hair, making it look impossibly soft and fluffy, she ran her fingers through it with both hands. "Morning rabbit," she offered with a playful grin as she combed his hair with her fingers.
"Absolutely not," he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"That's not fair," she protested, lips curving in slightly. "No one should get to veto their own term of endearment." She paused, frowning as she thought hard. "I… I'm really bad at giving names." Another sigh escaped her. "I suppose I'll just call you Lucarion."
"I used to not like my name," he admitted, "but on your lips… it sounds much better. Even more now that I know you associate it with fury and desire."
She huffed, warmth pooling in her chest, and rested her head against him. Her fingers wandered from his chest to his shoulder, brushing over a jagged crescent of pale scar tissue.
"What's the story of this one?" she asked, tracing it lightly.
Lucarion's expression barely shifted, though his voice dropped a note lower. "A werewolf bite," he said. "One of the few things that can scar a vampire. Usually, we heal without a trace."
Eva's fingers stilled over the mark, her gaze lifting to his. "Does it still hurt?"
"Not at all," he murmured, his thumb drawing another slow circle on her thigh.
She rested her head once more against him, letting the quiet settle between them—gentle, unforced, a bubble in the chaos of their lives.