The pale moonlight filtered through the intricate stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the marble floors. The chamber was vast, luxurious, but impersonal, its beauty stark and cold. Sianna sat motionless in a cushioned chair by the window, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. But her eyes were distant, unfocused, as if she were looking past the world, searching for something that could bring her peace.
She glanced down at her wrist, where fresh bandages stood out sharply against her pale skin. "Damn it, how ugly…" she muttered, her voice trembling just enough to crack the illusion of confidence she had so carefully cultivated. To the world, Sianna was the epitome of royal grace and beauty. But behind closed doors, she was just a girl drowning in her own insecurities, haunted by a truth no one could see.
In the silence of her chamber, she allowed herself to remember the person she had been in her former life—the girl with a sharp eye for fashion, the one who could put together an outfit that made people stop and stare. Nothing about the restrictive, formal gown she wore now felt right. It wasn't her. It wasn't her style. The layers of expensive fabric and intricate embroidery felt like a cage, suffocating and foreign.
She stood abruptly, the silken hem of her dress brushing against the cold floor as she moved. Turning toward the mirror, she regarded her reflection with a mixture of frustration and disdain. The gown was exquisite—crafted from the finest materials, delicate in design—but it felt wrong. It wasn't the free-flowing, comfortable elegance she had once adored. There was no flair, no individuality. It was simply what was expected of a princess.
"Fuck this," she muttered under her breath, her voice heavy with bitterness. Her fingers tightened into fists, the frustration building to a boiling point.
With a swift motion, she marched to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. Inside, rows of lavish dresses waited, each one a version of the same monotonous formality. No creativity. "Urgh!" She slammed the doors shut, her chest rising and falling with distaste.
"Larina!" she called, her voice sharp and commanding.
A maid entered quickly, bowing her head. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Brinng me a pen and paper," Sianna ordered, her tone clipped.
Larina hesitated for a moment, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Excuse me? A pen and a..?"
"Ugh. Something to write with!" Sianna snapped, rolling her eyes in irritation.
"Oh, you mean a parchment and a quill." the maid clapped realizing what her master is asking for. "Of course, Your Highness, I'll prepare it for you" Larina replied, bowing again before retreating to fulfill the request.
Meanwhile, far away from the noise of the royal halls, in a dimly lit chamber, King Azram Sebastian Eldoria sat alone at a small, polished table. His regal cloak draped carelessly over the back of his chair, as though he no longer cared for the pomp of his title. A goblet, filled with dark wine, sat before him. He lifted it to his lips, his eyes vacant and lost, as he drank away the sharp pain that had plagued him since his wife's passing.
The once-proud king—whose strength had been the backbone of the kingdom—now seemed like a shadow of his former self. His face was drawn, his sharp features softened by exhaustion, the weight of grief pressing heavily on his shoulders. The empty goblet in his hand had become his only companion, the drink that numbed the hollow ache in his chest. Azram had not been the same since Kezira had died. The kingdom had tried to move forward, but he couldn't. His heart had been shattered, and now, every corner of the palace seemed to echo her absence.
His thoughts drifted to his daughter, Sianna. He hadn't seen her in days. A part of him wanted to check on her, to see how she was faring in the palace, but another part of him couldn't bring himself to face her. There was a deep, unspoken resentment buried in his heart, a belief that she was somehow responsible for the death of her mother. He couldn't look at her without being reminded of the tragedy that had shattered his life. The pain of losing Kezira was still raw, and he couldn't bear the thought of confronting the child who, in his mind, had taken her away from him. The once grand halls of the palace, now draped in sorrow, mirrored the cold emptiness in his heart.
A knock at the door stirred him from his dark thoughts. "Your Majesty, it's Rahil," came the voice of the butler.
"Enter," Azram muttered, his voice thick with weariness.
Rahil stepped inside and bowed low, his eyes cautious as he took in the sight of the king. "Reporting, Your Majesty. The princess has arrived safely. She also mentioned that her friends will be coming to the palace library in three days' time."
Azram stared at the floor, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his goblet. "What has the princess been doing since her return?"
"Ah, Sire, you must be concerned, as she hasn't come to greet you," Rahil began, his voice carefully measured. "The princess has confined herself to her chambers as usual. Oh! Earlier today, she requested parchment and a quill. Perhaps she intends to draw or write."
Azram said nothing for a long moment. His gaze fixed on the dark wine in his glass, his mind distant. "I see. You may go."
Rahil hesitated for a moment before bowing and exiting the room, leaving Azram alone once again. The king stared at the empty goblet in front of him, his hand shaking slightly as he reached for the bottle and refilled it. He swallowed another mouthful, as if trying to drown the unspoken fears and regrets that had haunted him for so long.
Azram's eyes flickered toward the family crest on the wall—the symbol of his lineage—and he wondered, with a sinking feeling, whether he was truly fit to lead the kingdom, or if he, too, was just a man drowning in his own sorrow.
.
.
.
.
.
Meanwhile, Sianna waiting for her Larina,
"I used to think I was smart!
But you made me look so naive!
The way you sold me for parts!
As you sunk your teeth into me, ohhhh!
Bloodsucker!
Famefucker!
Bleedin' me dry, like a goddamn vampire!"
The maids outside; "L-Larina, hurry up already…"
_____
Rish returned to the manor, her footsteps heavy as she crossed the threshold. The familiar coldness of the grand hall seemed to weigh down on her, but she barely acknowledged it. Her mind was still swirling with everything that had happened, and the silence of the manor only deepened her unease. As she reached the door to her chambers, she was met by the butler, who stood at attention, his face as stoic as ever.
"Young Lady," he said, bowing slightly. "His Grace requests your presence in the basement."
Rish's stomach clenched at the words. She didn't need to be told what that summons meant. Her father's calls to the basement were never for anything good. With a silent nod, she turned, her heart already sinking as she made her way to the stairs. Whatever awaited her down there, she knew it wouldn't be pleasant.
Rish descended the winding staircase, each step echoing ominously in the hollow silence of the manor. The air grew colder as she neared the basement, the dim light from the sconces casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. She could feel her pulse quickening, her body instinctively bracing for what was to come.
At the bottom of the staircase, the heavy iron door to the basement loomed before her. She paused, taking a deep breath to steady herself before pushing it open. The door creaked on its hinges, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond. The air was damp and carried the faint metallic tang of blood—an all-too-familiar scent in this part of the house.
Her father, Duke Rigor Vanzkov Elvaine, stood in the center of the room. His towering figure was draped in a long black coat, and his piercing gaze was fixed on a table covered in various vials and instruments. The flickering light of the lanterns made his shadow stretch unnaturally, giving him an even more menacing presence.
"You're late," he said without turning to look at her, his voice as cold and sharp as the air in the room.
"My apologies, Your Grace," Rish replied, keeping her tone measured and devoid of emotion. Showing weakness was not an option here.
"Come closer," he commanded.
Rish obeyed, stepping into the room and stopping a few feet away from him. Her eyes darted to the table, taking in the array of tools that looked more suited for a laboratory than a nobleman's estate. Her heart sank further.
"You've been wasting your potential," he said, finally turning to face her. His dark eyes bore into hers, a mixture of disappointment and frustration etched into his features. "Do you think the power in your blood is a gift to squander?"
Rish clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She knew where this conversation was heading, and the thought of it made her skin crawl.
"I've done everything you've asked of me," she said, her voice low but steady. "Isn't that enough?"
"Enough?" His voice rose, and he took a step closer to her. "You call this… mediocrity enough? You're weak, Rishanon. Weakness is a luxury you cannot afford."
Before she could respond, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the table. She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. He pushed her down into the cold metal chair beside the table, securing her arm into a clamp attached to its surface.
"Your Grace, stop!" she protested, panic creeping into her voice.
"This is for your own good," he said, his tone devoid of any warmth. He reached for a syringe filled with a glowing, viscous liquid. "You will thank me when you finally unlock your full potential."
Rish's breath hitched as he brought the syringe closer to her arm. The sharp tip gleamed in the dim light, and she felt her body tense in anticipation of the pain. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let him see her fear.
"You're a monster," she spat, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.
The Duke paused for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a cold smile, he said, "Monsters are what this world needs to survive."
The needle pierced her skin, and Rish bit down hard to stifle a scream as the liquid burned its way into her veins.
Rish clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as the burning sensation spread through her veins. The pain was unbearable.
She glanced up at the Duke, his face a mask of cold determination as he watched the liquid from the syringe disappear into her arm. His expression was void of remorse, of empathy—of anything remotely human. It was as though she were nothing more than a tool to him, a means to an end.
Her throat tightened, and her vision blurred with unshed tears. What did I do to deserve this?
Her lips trembled, but she forced herself to speak, her voice low and trembling. "Why… why do you do this to me?"
The Duke didn't respond immediately. He merely adjusted the clamps on her arm, ensuring she couldn't move. When he finally spoke, his voice was devoid of any hint of affection. "Because weakness is unacceptable. You were born into this bloodline, and that comes with expectations. You will not tarnish the legacy I've built."
Rish's teeth ground together, her anger and sorrow clashing in a storm inside her. "A legacy built on suffering? On destroying your own child? Is that all you care about?"
Her words hung in the air, but her father didn't falter. He leaned down, meeting her gaze with cold, unyielding eyes. "Care is a luxury I cannot afford, and neither can you. Stop wasting time with these questions and accept the truth of your existence."
Rish's head fell back against the chair, her breaths ragged. Her mind screamed at her to fight back, to lash out, but her body was frozen in place, held captive by the pain and the suffocating weight of despair.
She closed her eyes, the faintest tear slipping down her cheek. What kind of father does this?
Deep inside her, beneath the pain and anger, a spark ignited. A whisper of defiance. If the Duke thought he could break her, he would have to try much harder than this. Let's see who wins in the end.