Chapter 2 A Body Brought in Chains
The hall had not yet recovered from the whispers of prophecy when the heavy iron doors slammed open again—this time, not with ceremony, but with brute force. The sound cracked through the chamber like a lightning strike.
Every noble in the room stiffened.
Every torch guttered.
Every shadow leaned forward as if hungry.
Two guards dragged a figure between them, his boots scraping against the marble floor, leaving a trail of dust and streaks of blood. He did not stumble, even though his wrists were shackled, his arms pulled taut between the guards’ grips. His head remained high, dark hair falling in wild strands over his brow.
A mortal.
But not an ordinary one.
Lyrathia straightened subtly on her throne.
The guards halted at the foot of the steps. “Your Eternity,” the elder guard said, “we bring the intruder found beyond the western cliffs. He resisted capture.”
“Resisted?” Lyrathia repeated, voice flat.
The guard swallowed. “He killed four of ours before we subdued him.”
Gasps erupted from the court.
A mortal killing vampires was… rare. Extremely.
Lyrathia’s gaze drifted over the prisoner with analytical precision.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscles defined by years of harsh training, not courtly posing. A faint smear of blood adorned his split lip; his jaw was sharp enough to cut stone. Chains clattered softly as he shifted, but his stance did not tremble.
The man lifted his eyes to the queen.
And Lyrathia’s world… paused.
Not because of desire—she could not feel desire.
Not because of fear—she could not feel fear.
Not because of surprise—cursed blood allowed no such reaction.
But because…
He looked at her without flinching. Without awe. Without that brittle fear that usually melted mortals the moment they felt her gaze.
His eyes—storm-gray, unsettling—held a steady, simmering defiance.
She rose from her throne with the silent, lethal grace of a predator.
The court parted around her like water fleeing fire.
She stepped down the obsidian stairs, her gown trailing behind her like living blood. Every footfall echoed in the vast chamber as she approached the chained warrior.
“Name,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
The guard beside him elbowed him hard, shoving his head downward. “Kneel before the queen.”
The mortal didn’t budge.
Instead, he looked straight at Lyrathia—and slowly lowered himself to one knee. But not the way mortals knelt before her in terror or reverence.
He knelt by choice.
His head high.
His gaze locked on hers.
A gesture of defiance wrapped in obedience.
Lyrathia studied him, her expression a blank mask carved from moonlight.
“Interesting,” she murmured.
The guard spoke again, desperation in his voice. “He refused to kneel for any of us, Your Eternity.”
“Of course he did,” Lyrathia replied. Her tone shifted, just a fraction—an almost imperceptible drift toward something sharper.
She descended the last remaining step and stood before the kneeling mortal. The scent of blood and steel clung to him, mixing with something else—earth, ash, danger.
Closer now, she saw the subtle tremor of exhaustion in his arms, but the fire in his eyes burned steady.
“Mortal,” she said. “I will ask again. Your name.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Kael.”
The word slid through the chamber, heavy, resonant.
Kael.
It tasted strange in her mind. Unimportant. Yet… not.
Lyrathia circled him. Slowly. Predatory. Studying the cut of muscle along his shoulders, the scars littering his arms, the strange symbol burned faintly beneath the dirt along his collarbone—a mark she had never seen on a mortal.
She could hear his heartbeat—strong, steady, unafraid.
“How did you cross my borders?” she asked.
“Walked,” he said.
A ripple of shock traveled through the court. Mortals didn’t walk into vampire lands. They died before taking ten steps past the barrier spells.
“You expect me to believe that?” Lyrathia asked.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Kael replied.
Gasps swallowed the room.
A mortal who dared speak like that to her was either suicidal… or something else entirely.
Lyrathia crouched, bringing her face to his level. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath brush her cheek.
“Defiance is common,” she whispered. “But defiance without fear? That is rare.”
Kael met her gaze without blinking. “Fear is a luxury.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know where you are?”
“A throne room,” he said dryly.
“Do you know who stands before you?”
“A queen,” he said. “Or a monster in a pretty dress.”
The murmurs exploded, horrified and breathless.
The guards moved instantly, drawing blades to cut the insolence from his throat, but Lyrathia lifted a single pale hand.
“Stop.”
Her voice froze the room. The guards halted mid-step.
Kael watched her with a wary glint. Not fear. Not reverence. Calculating.
“What do you want here, Kael?” she asked.
His answer came without hesitation.
“Something stolen from me.”
“A foolish lie,” a noble snapped. “Humans have nothing the queen desires.”
Kael didn’t look at the noble. He looked only at Lyrathia. “It wasn’t taken by you.”
“Yet you trespass in my realm.”
“Your realm sits on top of the ruins of mine,” he said simply.
The air turned thick—tense enough to snap.
Lyrathia’s expression remained still, but inside her chest… something flickered. A sensation like an echo trying to find its source.
An emotion.
She crushed it instantly.
“Your arrogance is impressive,” she said.
Kael shrugged, chains rattling. “You dragged me here in chains. I might as well be memorable.”
“Dragged?” She stepped even closer. “You fought my guards. You killed four.”
“They came at me with blades,” Kael said. “I returned the courtesy.”
His voice was maddeningly calm.
Lyrathia stood to her full height, her gown pooling around her like blood filling a hollow. “Why resist?”
“Would you let yourself be taken?” he countered.
“I cannot be taken,” Lyrathia said.
“And I won’t allow myself to be.” His gaze dipped down her form briefly—assessing, not admiring—before meeting her eyes again. “You and I are not so different.”
The court’s outrage filled the room, thunderous and sharp.
But Lyrathia… for the first time in centuries… paused.
She had no emotion to respond with. But the statement was strange. Intrusive. And it scraped at something inside her.
“Bring him closer,” she said.
The guards jerked, startled. “Your Eternity—?”
“Do not question me.”
They obeyed, pulling Kael to his feet. He winced slightly—his ribs were bruised, likely cracked—but he stood tall. A line of blood trickled from his lip, but he made no effort to wipe it.
Lyrathia stepped forward until only inches separated them.
“Mortal,” she whispered. “What makes you think you can stand before me without fear?”
Kael leaned slightly closer. “I’ve seen horrors that make your kind look like children hiding behind shadows.”
A murmur of rage surged through the nobles.
Lyrathia’s eyes, ancient and crimson, held Kael’s storm-gray ones.
“Let me see,” she said.
Before he could react, she reached out and touched his cheek with her fingertips.
The contact should have meant nothing. She had touched a thousand mortals before. Had drained them, commanded them, broken them.
But Kael—
Kael’s skin was warm.
Too warm.
Lyrathia’s breath hitched.
For the first time in five centuries, her breath hitched.
A sharp sensation shot up her fingers, racing along her veins like liquid fire. Not pain. Not pleasure. But something… alive.
Her hand jerked back involuntarily.
The court froze.
Kael tilted his head slightly, as though reading something on her face. “Something wrong, Your Majesty?”
She didn’t answer.
Because she couldn’t.
The curse in her blood stirred—cracked—like an old lock shifting.
Impossible.
Lyrathia’s voice finally emerged, colder than stone dipped in winter’s heart. “Take him to the dungeon. Do not harm him further.”
The guards grabbed Kael’s arms.
He didn’t resist. But he didn’t look away from her, even as they pulled him backward.
And as the doors slammed shut behind him, Lyrathia remained standing at the foot of her throne, staring at the space where he’d been.
Her fingers still burned.
Her mind screamed that it was nothing. A fluke. A trick of her senses.
Her heart—
Her silent, cursed heart—
trembled.
Just once.
Too faint to matter.
Too soft to be real.
Too dangerous to ignore.