Blood Between the Stars

I never thought I'd come this far. Not really.

Not when I took the oath at sixteen, hands shaking, voice barely louder than the wind through the altar stones.

They said it would get easier. The silencing of softness. The cutting away of fear.

It never did. Not for me.

Maybe that's what makes me dangerous.

I obeyed the Elders. I wore the mask. I said the words. But I never stopped dreaming. I never stopped asking why.

And still, none of them ever made it this far.

Rain falls like a curse as I reach the edge of the forest.

Cold, relentless, soaking through my cloak and into my bones. My braid clings to my neck. My boots squelch through the leaves. Every step is an effort. Still, I press forward.

The Elders can't see this place. The Seers go blind when they try.

Lucien Valak's land is shielded. Veiled. Cursed.

Even scrying bowls show only static.

Whatever lives here is beyond their reach.

Which means, for the first time, I am alone.

I crouch beneath a gnarled yew, swallowed by the autumn woods like a secret.

The air tastes of woodsmoke and loam. Rain beads down my face, cold against fevered skin. The dying leaves muffle sound, blanketing the forest in quiet.

The manor rises beyond the trees.

Three stories of pale stone, veiled in ivy and illusion. Its silhouette is elegant, ghostlike behind the iron gates, as if it were drawn in charcoal and left in the rain.

You wouldn't find it unless it wanted to be found.

But I was trained to find monsters.

And Lucien Valak is the oldest one we've ever named.

They say the land here devours time. That travelers vanish. That ghosts walk the halls and never remember their names.

They aren't wrong.

Now is the only time it's safe. The sun bleeds gold through the clouds. Shadows stretch. Night unfurls, curling through the branches like a warning.

Soon, they'll stir. Soon, this place will remember what it is.

I close my hand over the iron cross at my breast, the other resting on my dagger.

Steady now, Lyra. Just breathe.

The gate opens without a sound.

The path is clean. Too clean. No puddles, no mud. Just straight tiles, lined hedges, perfect roses in full bloom. The rain doesn't seem to touch it.

That's the first warning.

This place isn't abandoned.

It's preserved.

The manor rises behind it, grand and symmetrical. The ivy is sculpted. The windows gleam like obsidian. Curtains drawn with unnatural precision.

Beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Like a memory someone refuses to let rot.

The side entrance opens with a soft click.

Inside, the air is colder. Scented with lavender and ash. My soaked cloak drips onto white marble floors. Rain trails behind me in silent footprints.

The chandelier above glitters in moonlight, refracted through crystals like droplets. Everything is gold-trimmed, mirror-polished. Silent.

Too silent.

This isn't a home.

It's a stage.

Then I see them.

The vampires.

They're everywhere - draped over fainting couches, curled along bannisters, sprawled on divans like discarded gods. Some are alone. Others in pairs. Their bodies tangle with careless grace, as if they'd fallen mid-performance.

Their beauty is unbearable.

Skin like carved alabaster. Lips soft and stained faintly red. Hair loose and shining, clinging damply to temples or fanned across silk cushions. Their clothing - suggestive, undone - exposes the curve of collarbones, the shadow of hips, a throat bared just so.

It looks like the aftermath of a celebration.

Or an orgy.

Laughter still seems to linger in the air, though none of them move. It's all frozen. Posed.

Even in sleep, they seduce.

I know what they are. I was trained to resist the lure. To see through it.

But knowledge doesn't stop the way heat coils low in my stomach.

My eyes betray me - lingering on a bare chest, a parted mouth, a glimpse of something private beneath sheer fabric. Magic hums in the air, thick and sweet.

I tell myself it's instinct.

But something in me is burning.

I count thirteen before I stop.

And then I feel it - a pull. Quiet. Specific. Like a string inside me has been hooked and begun to reel me in.

I move without meaning to.

Up the staircase. Past oil portraits with watching eyes. Past a harpsichord untouched. A mirror that doesn't reflect the chandelier.

The corridor narrows. The air shifts. Colder. More aware.

Something is waiting.

And it knows I'm here.

The hall ends at a door.

Not ornate. Just black. Smooth. Unmarked.

Like it grew here.

I press my palm to it. It's cold - colder than anything in the house. My blade is ready. My magic bristles.

Lucien Valak is behind this door.

I don't know how I know.

But I do.

And I hate that I do.