Chapter 13 She Saves Him
The throne hall had not known true silence in centuries. Even during judgment sessions, even during executions, even in the hush after her darkest decrees—there had always been murmurs, rustles, the subtle quiver of fear that lived in the bones of every vampire who knelt before her.
But now?
Silence reigned like a living creature.
It coiled around the obsidian pillars…
hung like frost from the vaulted ceiling…
pressed against every throat in the room.
Lyrathia entered through the grand doors with the same cold grace she always possessed—but something was different. The scent of scorched magic still clung to her. A thin line of dried blood traced her cheek like a crimson whisper. And behind her, six guards carried the remains of the assassins who had dared infiltrate her dungeon.
The court stared at the bodies. Then at her.
And then—at Kael.
He was escorted in chains, but with a new guard shift, flanked by elite sentinels who looked uncertain in their own armor. His step was slower than usual—exhausted and still recovering from the bloodfire’s near destruction—but he was alive.
Alive because she chose it.
Lyrathia’s advisors watched her with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and fear.
No one spoke.
Until Lord Varos broke.
“My Queen… forgive me—but is it true?” His voice shook despite his attempts to steady it. “You personally intervened in the mortal’s defense?”
The question wasn’t truly a question.
Rumors had already spread like wildfire.
She had torn apart assassins for the human.
She had bent iron bars.
She had touched bloodfire with her bare hand.
The Queen of Silence—the woman cursed to feel nothing—had acted like someone whose emotions were waking.
She took her throne, the obsidian surface reflecting her pale skin like polished night. Her cape spilled across the steps like a pool of living shadow. When she spoke, her voice was calm, steady, absolute.
“Yes,” she said. “I saved him.”
Gasps echoed.
Kael stiffened, shooting her a sharp look filled with conflicting emotions—gratitude, suspicion, the faintest edge of awe.
Lord Mavros bowed stiffly. “Your Majesty, with utmost respect… the court requires an explanation.”
“You require nothing,” she said coldly.
Mavros swallowed. “The court fears what this means. You have executed mortals for far less. And yet this one—”
“This one,” she interrupted, “is under my protection. You will not speak his name with disdain again.”
A ripple of shock spread through the hall. Protection. It was not a word she used. Not for mortals. Not for anyone.
Lady Seraxa stepped forward, face pale beneath her ink-black hair. “Your Majesty… the last queen who protected a mortal was—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Lyrathia warned softly.
The last queen had died for that mistake. Betrayed by the mortal she loved.
Seraxa bowed deeply, trembling.
The room felt heavier. Too full of judgment.
Lyrathia flashed a glance toward Kael. He stood straighter, meeting her eyes boldly. The defiance she was used to was still there—but something had changed. A connection neither of them wanted, neither of them understood, and neither of them could deny.
Lyrathia forced her attention away.
“The assassins,” she said, gesturing to the bodies. “Bore symbols of the Silent Heir. Someone seeks to destabilize my reign.”
Lord Varos frowned. “But to target the mortal instead of you—why?”
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Mavros stepped closer, lowering his voice. “My Queen… forgive my boldness, but the court whispers that you felt something. During the attack.”
Her gaze snapped to him.
The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
“They whisper incorrectly,” she lied smoothly.
But they didn’t believe her.
She could feel the tension thickening—fear, suspicion, hunger. Not for blood, but for answers. Answers she could not give, because she barely understood them herself.
Why had she gone to the dungeon instead of dismissing the dream?
Why did Kael’s survival matter so much?
Why did the curse fracture more each time she touched him?
She stood abruptly. “Bring him forward.”
Kael was pushed one step closer. He glared at the guards for touching him, then at her for ordering it.
“What now, Queen?” he asked, voice low and edged.
Her court flinched at his tone. Speaking to her like that would have cost anyone else their life.
But she… did nothing.
She descended from her throne with slow, measured steps. Each movement was enough to make the room shudder with power.
Kael watched her closely, wary.
She approached until she stood directly in front of him. Close enough to see the faint pulse at his throat. Close enough to smell his exhaustion. Close enough to remember the dream of him dying.
She lifted her burned hand.
The court collectively inhaled.
Kael tensed. “Don’t—”
She brushed her fingers against his jaw anyway.
Heat sparked up her arm. A jolt that made her breath stutter. His skin was warm. Real. Alive. And she felt it—all of it.
Her curse cracked further, like shattered ice spreading from a single point of impact.
The court gasped.
Lyrathia jerked her hand back, shaken by the raw force of the sensation. By how much she wanted it. Needed it.
Kael watched her with something like awe and disbelief. “Why did you do that?”
“To confirm a suspicion,” she said quietly.
“And?” he pushed.
She didn’t answer.
Because the truth was dangerous.
She turned to her court, her voice thundering:
“From this moment forward, Kael of the Mortal Realms is under royal guard. Any attempt to harm him will be considered treason.”
Dozens of vampires flinched as if struck.
“Treason punishable,” she continued, “by death.”
The hall erupted—shocked voices, frantic speculation, whispering that bordered on panic. Her guards struggled to maintain order. Old nobles argued while young vampires pressed closer, eager to witness the scandal.
She raised a hand.
Silence fell instantly.
“Dismissed,” she commanded.
One by one, they bowed, though many cast furtive glances toward Kael. Their fear lingered in the air, thick and electric. The story would spread before nightfall—across the court, the city, and eventually the entire kingdom.
The Queen of Silence had saved a mortal.
When the last adviser retreated, the doors closed with a heavy boom.
Only she and Kael remained.
He let out a long breath. “You just painted a target on my back the size of your entire empire.”
“You had one already,” she countered. “I only clarified its ownership.”
His brow furrowed. “Why? Why save me? Why claim me as anything at all?”
She walked past him, toward the shadows pooling beneath a pillar. “Because someone wants you dead. And I do not appreciate others touching what I intend to unravel myself.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She paused. Her voice dropped to a whisper she rarely allowed.
“I do not have the answer yet.”
Their eyes met again—his burning with questions, hers hiding truths she didn't dare speak aloud.
For the first time in centuries, Lyrathia had chosen to protect someone.
Not out of duty, or strategy, or cruelty.
But out of something she should not be capable of feeling.
Fear.
Fear of losing him.
Fear of what he meant.
And fear of what she was becoming.