The moon hung like a pale coin over the Vire Estate, cold light slipping through the tall windows of the abandoned east wing. Elowen Vire stood alone, her fingers brushing the silk of her black gown, tracing the seams as if counting the hours until her life would break. The hallways were silent, but not empty. Shadows clung to the corners like quiet witnesses, whispering her name in the hush between candle flames.
She had been summoned. Always summoned. But tonight, the summons carried a weight heavier than fear. It carried inevitability.
A bell rang—deep, resonant, a sound that scraped the marrow of her bones. It had only rung for the Night Covenant before. She did not flinch. She did not cry. She only straightened her spine and let the chill creep up her arms, steadying herself as the servants stepped aside, eyes downcast.
Her father waited in the Great Hall, draped in the customary black and crimson, the lines of his face carved sharp by duty, not emotion. The nobles present bowed, murmured polite acknowledgments, but none dared meet her gaze. They knew what she did not yet fully understand: Elowen was no longer theirs to shelter, no longer theirs to control.
"The Night Covenant has demanded renewal," her father announced, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "You are chosen."
Elowen's stomach coiled. She had anticipated this—knew it was inevitable—but it was different to hear it aloud. The words landed on her skin like ice. She had been trained to endure, to be grateful, to survive. And yet, she dared one question, quiet as a whisper, though loud enough to pierce the tense silence:
"Will it hurt?"
No one answered. The silence thickened, pressing into her chest. Her father's eyes flickered, but he did not soften. The nobles shifted uncomfortably. A servant, who should have helped her, looked away.
The ceremonial table in front of her was laid with the tools of binding: a crimson blade, ancient parchment, ink made from shadow itself. Elowen's heart beat, steady despite the terror. She knelt as instructed, dipping her finger into the blade's edge, drawing a line of scarlet across her palm. The blood did not fall as expected. It curled, dark as ink, wisping into the air before dissolving into shadow.
The air thickened. She was compatible. She should not have been. The servants did not notice. But she did. And so did the night itself.
"He will come before dawn," her father said, breaking the spell of her observation.
Elowen rose, leaving the blood-stained ceremonial blade behind. She removed her family's sigil necklace, placing it carefully on the table. She would not take it with her. She would not carry their claim anymore.
She returned to her room. The corridors felt narrower, the shadows closer. The moonlight, pale and accusing, cut across the floor like a blade. She did not pack, she did not cry. She only waited.
For him. For the darkness. For the inevitable moment when the night itself would step into the room and claim her.
Elowen Vire sat in silence, waiting to be claimed—not by a man, but by the night itself.