Knock.Once. Twice.A sound so soft it almost blended with the night itself.
I stirred from half-sleep, the faint echo tugging me from dreams of crimson skies and gentle laughter. For a moment, I thought it was the wind—until I heard it again.
Three deliberate knocks.
I sat up, heart quickening. The moonlight pooled across the floor like spilled silver, painting everything in shades of pale blue. The palace was silent; even the enchanted curtains stirred only faintly.
"Carmila?" I called quietly.
No answer.
Curiosity—and something warmer—pushed me to rise. I crossed the room barefoot, the marble cool beneath my feet, and opened the door.
The corridor was empty.
Only the faint scent of roses lingered in the air.
I frowned, stepping forward—and froze.
"Looking for me?"
Her voice came from behind me, soft as the night breeze.
I turned.
Carmila Noctharyn stood by the window, her silhouette traced in moonlight. She wasn't in her formal attire this time—only a flowing black nightgown, thin as mist and edged in silver thread. Her crimson hair cascaded freely down her back, catching the faint light like strands of flame.
"You move quietly," I said, my voice lower than I expected.
She smiled, faint and teasing. "Vampire blood has its uses. Besides"—her eyes glimmered—"you looked so peaceful. I didn't want to wake you."
"You knocked three times."
"I did," she said, tilting her head. "But you didn't answer the first two. I almost thought you were pretending to sleep."
I exhaled, half amused, half unnerved. "If I was, it wouldn't have worked. You'd have just come in anyway."
Carmila's smile deepened. "You know me too well already."
Her bare feet made no sound as she approached. The air seemed to shift around her, colder yet strangely comforting. When she stopped a breath away, I could see the faint blush tinting her pale cheeks.
"I couldn't sleep," she whispered. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face… and the way you looked at me this morning. I kept wondering if you regretted what happened."
I hesitated. "Do you?"
Her lashes lowered. "No."
A pause.
Then she looked up, eyes luminous with quiet intensity. "But I'm afraid you might."
I shook my head slowly. "I don't regret it. I just don't understand you, Carmila. You hide behind teasing and danger—but when you look at me like that…"
"Like what?" she asked softly.
"Like you're afraid I'll disappear."
For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. The words hung between us, fragile as glass. Then Carmila smiled—a trembling, heartbreakingly human smile.
"Maybe I am afraid," she admitted. "You came into my life like sunlight through a crack in a coffin. It's… strange. Beautiful. Terrifying."
She laughed quietly, though it wavered. "Do you know how long it's been since I feared losing someone? Centuries come and go for us. Lovers fade, friends turn to dust. But you…"
Her hand lifted, hovering near my chest before retreating. "You make me feel mortal."
The honesty in her voice struck deeper than any declaration could. I wanted to say something, anything—but words felt clumsy beside her vulnerability.
So I stepped closer.
"Then maybe," I said gently, "it's all right to feel mortal. It means you're alive."
Her eyes widened slightly. Then she smiled again—smaller this time, softer. "You always say things like that. No wonder I can't keep my distance."
Before I could answer, she turned toward the window. "Come with me."
I followed as she opened the balcony doors. The night air flowed in, cool and scented faintly with night-blooming flowers.
The palace stretched beneath us, a city of black marble and silver flame. From this height, the capital of Noctharyn looked almost peaceful. The towers shimmered with mana veins, and the stars reflected in the canals like scattered diamonds.
Carmila leaned against the balustrade, her hair catching the wind. "When I was little, I used to sneak out here," she said. "I thought if I looked hard enough, I'd see my father's spirit watching over me from the stars."
I glanced at her. "You miss him."
She nodded. "Every day. Mother hides her grief behind strength, but I… I was never that strong."
The words came softly, but they carried centuries of ache.
I moved beside her. "Strength isn't pretending not to hurt," I said. "It's living with it and still moving forward."
She turned to me, surprise flickering in her gaze. "You sound like someone who knows."
"I do," I said simply. "Loss changes people. Sometimes it breaks you. Sometimes… it remakes you."
Her eyes softened. "Is that what happened to you, Adrian Kaelthorn?"
I didn't answer immediately. The memory of betrayal, of cold halls and colder words, stirred in the back of my mind. "Maybe," I said at last. "Maybe I was broken first."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The moonlight wrapped around us like silk, and the world felt very far away.
Then Carmila reached out—hesitant at first—until her fingers brushed mine. "You speak of pain like it's something beautiful," she murmured.
"It isn't," I said. "But sometimes, it leads to things that are."
Her fingers tightened around mine. "Like this?"
I looked at her then—really looked. The proud, terrifying princess who ruled over night itself… trembling slightly as though afraid of the answer.
"Yes," I said. "Exactly like this."
She drew a slow breath. The faint smile that curved her lips was nothing like her usual smirk—it was gentle, vulnerable, real.
"Then let me be selfish just this once," she whispered. "Stay with me tonight. Not as a guest, not as a noble… just as you."
Something in her voice—quiet pleading beneath the grace—undid me.
I nodded.
She exhaled softly, relief washing over her face. Then she guided me to sit on the stone bench near the balcony's edge. The night stretched infinite before us, stars flickering like distant candles.
Carmila rested her head on my shoulder. For a moment, I thought she might speak again—but she simply closed her eyes, breathing slowly.
"Your heartbeat," she murmured after a while, "it's… warm."
"I didn't think vampires liked warmth."
"We don't," she said, smiling faintly. "But I think I'll make an exception."
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of roses and something faintly metallic. I realized she was trembling. Not from cold, but from emotion she didn't know how to contain.
Without thinking, I placed my arm around her. She stilled, then leaned closer, her hair brushing against my neck.
Time blurred.
We sat there as the moon traced its slow path across the sky. She spoke of her childhood, of how her father taught her to conjure light from darkness. I told her about Nova Academy, about the long year I'd vanished and what little I remembered of it—careful to hide the truth of the seal beneath my skin.
She listened in silence, her eyes reflecting the stars.
When I faltered, she took my hand again, as if to anchor me. "You don't have to carry everything alone," she said quietly. "Even monsters need someone to hold them sometimes."
"You're not a monster," I replied.
"Everyone says I am."
"I'm not everyone."
Her lips parted slightly. Then, without warning, she laughed—a sound bright and utterly unlike her usual composure. "You have a terrible habit of saying exactly what my heart isn't ready for."
"Then maybe your heart should learn faster."
She looked at me, eyes wide—and then, softly, she smiled.
The silence that followed was different now—no longer awkward, but full of everything unspoken. The night wind whispered through the garden. The moonlight wrapped her in silver, and for the first time, she looked less like a princess and more like the lonely girl she'd been before the world demanded strength.
She reached up, hesitated, then brushed a strand of hair from my face. "You're dangerous, Adrian Kaelthorn."
"So are you."
"Perhaps that's why…" She stopped, voice faltering.
"Why what?"
"Why I'm falling in love with you."
The words hit like a pulse of light through the darkness. I didn't breathe for a heartbeat.
She tried to smile it away—tried to turn her face, to hide the trembling in her hands—but I caught them gently.
"Then you're not falling alone," I said quietly.
Her eyes met mine—startled, searching—and then something inside her gave way.
Carmila leaned forward until our foreheads touched. "If I lose you," she whispered, "I'll destroy the world."
"Then don't lose me."
She laughed, breath catching, and I realized she was crying—silent, shimmering tears that glowed faintly under the moonlight. I brushed them away with my thumb.
"Why are you crying?"
"Because for once," she said, voice trembling, "I don't want the night to end."
So we stayed like that—two hearts caught between dawn and darkness. No vows, no promises of forever. Just warmth, closeness, and the fragile certainty that in that moment, we were real.
When the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Carmila stirred. "You should rest," she said softly. "The palace wakes soon, and Mother will notice if you look too happy."
I laughed quietly. "Wouldn't want that."
She rose, her hair catching the pale gold of morning. At the door, she looked back once. Her smile was small, shy. "Goodnight, Adrian."
"Goodnight, Carmila."
She slipped away like a shadow dissolving into light.
I stood there for a long time, watching the horizon brighten, the air warming with the promise of day.
And though I didn't know what tomorrow would bring—the politics, the danger, the awakening power beneath my skin—I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
In the kingdom of night, I had found something brighter than the sun.