Chapter 11: 11

I couldn’t even fake calm.

My body trembled uncontrollably, despite the deceptively warm breeze whispering against my skin. Two members of what they called the Night Council whatever the hell that meant yanked the chain from my cuffs like I was some mangy mutt being led to its pen.

And honestly? The kennel comparison wasn’t far off.

The moment we crossed onto the castle grounds, they dragged me down a flight of cold stone steps that led to the dungeons. The air turned cruel then, its warmth giving way to a biting chill that wrapped around my bones and shook me to the core. Panic clawed at my throat until sobs broke loose, soaking my cheeks and collarbone in silent despair. Dread squeezed my insides tight, and I gulped down shallow breaths, tilting my chin upward as if I could keep myself from drowning in it all.

"Silence, mortal!" barked the brown-haired man, his voice thundering through the corridor. "Keep quiet, or we’ll ensure it by means you won’t enjoy."

I bit down on my cries, muffling the sounds into strangled gasps. But I couldn’t stop them entirely. It was too much. Too unreal. I had only just learned that vampires weren’t fictional monsters, but living ones and now I was somewhere in a realm called the Underworld, completely powerless.

I should have felt shame at how fragile I was. But I didn’t. Because this was the truth I was weak. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t run. My physical strength barely met the human average.

And what little I knew of vampire powers came from watching Fosco just one vampire. I had no illusions. Against these two? I wouldn’t survive ten seconds. And if by some miracle I escaped, where would I go? I had no map, no ally, no idea how to leave this world behind.

I forced the panic down far enough to catch a breath. My legs steadied, though my soul felt like it was unraveling. The stairwell ended abruptly, and they hauled me into a low, dim corridor lined with heavy steel doors. The stench hit me first thick and unforgiving.

Blood. Decay. Death.

The air reeked of it. Saturated in it. The scent made me gag, made my eyes sting. I didn’t need to be told what this place was. These walls had seen agony. These cells held it.

Door after door passed us by. The corridor twisted once, and there, stationed like some medieval executioner, stood another man. Bigger. Broader. His chest was shielded in worn leather armor, a crest engraved above his heart. He looked less ceremonial than the others more practical. More brutal.

"I wasn’t told of a new prisoner," he grunted.

"This mortal is set to face trial tomorrow," said the black-haired councilman. He glanced at me with a curl of disgust. Then turned back to the man Zaccaria, apparently. "She needs to stay alive until then."

Zaccaria let out a guttural laugh. "Are you serious, Dante? If she’s just a human, that trial’s a waste of everyone’s time. You should’ve drained her dry or snapped her neck. Why bring her here?"

Dante sighed. "She served Lord Santini. He’s requested a trial."

Zaccaria snarled like an animal, and I flinched, my breath catching.

"Fucking royals," he spat. "Break more laws than anyone in this cursed realm, and still cling to formality to make our lives hell."

Dante gave him a wicked grin. "Let Santini have his fun. Her fate’s already written."

My legs shook again. The fear was no longer panic it was something colder. Something final. My mind started slipping into denial, rewriting reality into something safer, something less real.

They passed my chain off to Zaccaria, who dragged me to the corridor’s end and shoved me into a cell. Everything blurred after that the heavy slam of the door, the echo of footsteps retreating, the absolute dark swallowing me whole. The walls were filthy and wet with things I didn’t want to identify. The lightbulb above barely flickered.

A broken breath slipped out of me.

This was where it ended. This was where I died.

I didn’t even know what crime I’d committed. I didn’t understand why Gosto had allowed this why he didn’t stop it. Somewhere deep in my chest, something cracked. I’d hoped, foolishly, that he might have protected me. That he’d hide me. Speak for me.

But all he did was grant me a trial… which, by their own admission, meant nothing.

I slid down the wall, refusing to care what my skin touched. My knees drew to my chest. This time, my bad luck might actually finish the job.

"I’m innocent," I whispered, voice cracking. "Why am I even here?"

A hoarse chuckle drifted through the stone.

"Everyone here says that, sweetheart," rasped a man's voice from the other side of the wall.

I twisted toward the sound. "Are you… a prisoner too?"

He laughed rough, cynical. "What else would I be? Free men don’t rot in holes like this."

"I guess not," I murmured.

"Were you a servant?" he asked, voice thick with smoke and shadows.

"I was a waitress. Past tense."

"Did you insult a royal?"

A humorless breath escaped me. "Does refusing to be bitten count?"

Silence.

"You’re human," he said, his tone rising with an edge of fascination.

"Yes," I replied hollowly.

His laugh grated on me. "Well, if you were marked and denied your master, they should’ve killed you on the spot. This is… interesting. Now I really want to hear your story."

Maybe it was the fear, maybe the loneliness, but I told him. I talked about the bar, about the vampires, about the moment everything cracked open. He listened without interruption.

When I finished, he said, "Trial or not… they’re going to kill you."

I went cold. "But… why?"

He sighed. "Because of their own contradictions. Long ago, the Night Council made laws to keep a balance between the Underworld and mortal world. Rule number one: our existence must remain hidden. Mortals outside the Underworld can’t know."

He paused. I waited.

"But another law says vampires must feed without killing and only from willing donors. That’s why compulsion is used. Mortals have to agree. But you… you can’t be compelled. That makes you dangerous."

I laughed bitterly. "I’m not a danger to anyone. I’m barely surviving."

"The Night Council doesn’t care. If they can’t control you, they’ll eliminate you."

"So it’s true then…" My voice broke. "They’re going to kill me."

A long silence.

"I’m sorry, kid," he said at last. It felt like a nail driven into the last fragile bit of my hope.

"I’ve never heard of anyone immune to compulsion. Not from royals. Their power… it’s not just physical. It’s in your head. Most mortals crumble. But you didn’t. That makes you either extraordinary or cursed."

"Definitely cursed," I muttered. "People used to call me Miss Bad Luck."

There was real sadness in his voice when he said, "For once… I hope I’m wrong."

"Thanks," I whispered, eyes drifting shut.

I must’ve passed out.

When I woke, I was still in the same cell, curled on the filth-slick floor. The door swung open. Zaccaria loomed, frowning maybe surprised I was alive. The chains on my wrists felt heavier than ever.

They dragged me up into blinding daylight, and I flinched hard. My thoughts flicked to every vampire myth I'd ever heard sunlight, burning skin, instant death.

Apparently, that was all fiction. Or Zaccaria was something else entirely.

The courtyard was empty as he marched me toward the castle, its architecture straight out of a Gothic fever dream. We passed endless corridors, like stepping through time, until we reached a set of massive doors guarded by four men. They moved aside without a word.

"Move," Zaccaria barked, shoving me forward.

The doors shut behind me.

I stood in the center of a vast stone arena, encircled by at least a hundred black-mantled figures. The Night Council, I assumed. All except one.

He wore red. And around his neck hung a thick golden chain that glinted like a warning.

"Step forward, Domitilla," he said, voice soft as silk but sharp as a blade.

Terror propelled my feet toward the arena’s center.

"Good," he said, smiling like a snake. "Let the trial begin."