Darkness. It wrapped Emilia like a shroud, suffocating her senses. The iron chains that had once bound her to the dungeon walls were gone, but their weight lingered like a phantom ache on her wrists and neck. She had lost count of the years spent in that silent tomb, waiting for death to finally claim her. Fifty years. Fifty years locked away like a forgotten relic, awaiting the execution her husband had promised. And he had delivered, as coldly as he had once vowed eternal love.
When the blade fell, she welcomed it. She welcomed the end.
But the end never came. Perhaps she didn't deserve it.
Instead, Emilia's eyes shot open to the glitter of chandeliers, the hum of music, and the vibrant clinking of champagne glasses. The suffocating stench of damp stone was replaced with a sweet, floral perfume. She blinked, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing.
She wasn't dead.
She was… at the ball.
The birthday ball of the King, no, Prince Darius Lysander. The one that had changed everything.
Her heart hammered as she scanned the fancy ballroom. Crimson silk draped the windows, and polished marble floors gleamed underfoot. A gathering of vampire nobility, dressed in their finest, beautiful couple swirled across the floor in a passionate waltz. Emilia caught a glimpse of herself in a gilded mirror on the far wall. She was clean again, her pale skin flawless, her lips red, her legs still intact. There were no bruises, no scars, no chains. She was alive.
And she wasn't the queen anymore.
Her eyes landed on him.
Standing at the far end of the ballroom, with his golden eyes cold and detached, was Darius Lysander, the prince who would one day become the king of the vampire. Her husband. The man who had locked her in a dungeon for years and personally ensured her execution. He was waiting by the door.
She knew this moment. She knew exactly where she was in time. It was the ball where Darius publicly demanded their divorce, his desire to marry Rosalia, the sweet and seemingly innocent hybrid vampire who had stolen his heart. It was the moment that had unraveled her life, the first thread pulled from the delicate web of her existence.
Emilia's blood turned cold as she saw her.
Rosalia.
Dressed in a flowing lavender gown that making her angelic features glow, Rosalia clumsily fell into Darius' arms, her wide blue eyes sparkling with innocence. Her blonde hair framed her soft face like a halo. She was everything Emilia was not, delicate and gentle. And yet, beneath that pure, unassuming exterior, Emilia now knew the truth.
Emilia's fingers clenched the stem of her wine glass as memories from her past life flooded her mind. The sacrifices she had made to keep the vampire covens united. The sleepless nights negotiating peace treaties between the vampires, werewolves, and human. Only for her to realize she had led them into a death trap. Her husband took advantage of other sides' trust in her to kill them all.
They, understandably, hated her. They called her callous and evil, the scum of the Earth. King Darius let her being hunted by the werewolves and the hunters without any care.
She had innocently trusted his words, that the other sides were the one who betrayed them first, that she only needed to bear it for a little while till he won the war.
And for what?
For her husband to betray her.
For Rosalia to play the victim, crying her way into the throne that Emilia had bled to protect.
And in the end, Darius had chosen Rosalia. He had cast Emilia aside like a pawn in his grand game, blaming her for betraying the werewolves and the hunter organization. He accused her of violating the ethics of peace ambassadors, sentencing her to fifty years in a dungeon for before finally ending her life. All to avenge the tears of his precious Rosalia.
Not this time, Emilia thought, her grip on the glass tightening until it almost cracked.
The waltz ended, applause erupting around the room as the couples stepped apart and bowed. Emilia stood still, gracefully, her mind already racing ahead. She had been at this very moment in her past life, too naïve to see the storm brewing. But this time, it was different.
It was about to happen. The moment where everything fell apart.
Her chest tightened with anticipation as she caught sight of Darius, striding toward the center of the ballroom. His golden eyes, so striking and sharp, scanned the room with an authority that demanded silence. The hum of conversation faded as the guests turned their attention to him, their whispers dying mid-sentence.
And there she was, right at the edge of his gaze. Rosalia, the hybrid vampire with her shy, delicate smile and her hands clasped in front of her lavender gown. She looked like a fragile angel, a damsel in need of protection. The sight made Emilia's stomach churn.
Darius extended a hand to Rosalia, who hesitated for only a fraction of a second before accepting it with a blush that sent murmurs rippling through the crowd. Emilia didn't need to hear their words to know what they were saying. How bold! How improper! A prince holding the hand of a woman who wasn't his wife? Scandalous.
But this was what Darius wanted. A spectacle. Emilia recognized that look in his eyes. Obsession. Devotion. Foolishness. Her chest burned with the memory of how she had fought for his love, how she had believed that devotion was something sacred. How wrong she had been.
She didn't need Darius's love anymore. She didn't want it. The man who had betrayed her for a girl who played at being fragile wasn't worth her heart.
On the throne Azrael Lysander looked on, the former vampire king and Darius's father. Or should she say current king? Once a ruler revered for his wisdom and strength, Azrael now observed them with a mix of curiosity and detachment, his dark ember gaze flicking between his son and the wife he was about to humiliate.
Emilia gripped her wine glass tight, her legs trembling beneath her gown. Not from fear. Never fear. But her body betrayed her, her muscles weak, her balance unsteady. Fifty years of chains and darkness had taken their toll, and her body had not yet adjusted to the brightness, to movement, to freedom. The only thing keeping her upright was sheer force of will.
And then he said it.
"Lady Emilia," Darius's voice cut through the room like the devasting stroke of a guillotine. The hum of whispers stilled. The air became heavy, thick with anticipation.
"Come forward."
The crowd parted like a wave, all eyes turning toward her. Emilia knew this moment. She had lived it once before. Back then, she had been unprepared and ashamed, blindsided by the cruelty of the man she had once called her husband. But not this time.
She stepped forward, her head held high despite the weakness in her quivering limbs. Each step was agony, her legs screaming in protest, but she would not falter. She would not let him see her break.
When she reached him, she tilted her head and smiled faintly. "Yes, my prince?" Her voice was steady, smooth. A blade just as sharp as his.
"I have come to a decision," Darius announced, his voice resonating through the hall. "Our union no longer serves the interests of the crown."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, a symphony of scandal and shock.
Emilia arched an elegant brow, her lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh? And what interests would those be?"
Darius's golden eyes narrowed slightly at her composure. He was expecting the enamored woman from his memories, the one who had pleaded and embarrassingly made a scene when he cast her aside.
In the past, she was shocked. Her blind love for him made her discard all her rationality and act like a jealous wife. She reminded Darius of her household and belittled Rosalia's half-blood nature, which only pushed Darius further from her.
She was a noble vampire. The power and position of the vampire came from the purity of their blood. While she was not as strong as the pureblood vampire such as Darius, she came from the Sylvester bloodline, a noble household that had served the pureblood vampires for centuries as the loyal diplomats between the vampires and the other races. The king had every reason to choose her as his son's fiancée, if not for her household's influence and support, then for her connections alone. The Sylvesters were one of the few vampires who could walk freely into the werewolf territory without consequences and paperwork for tea and biscuit. In other words, they tolerated them.
Darius's gaze flicked briefly to Rosalia, who stood just behind him, her hands clasped together in mock humility. She looked down as if embarrassed by the attention, but Emilia saw the faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"Peace," Darius said firmly. "Rosalia represents a brighter future for our society. A future of unity, and compassion. She is kind and talented, who understands what it's like to be between races. Your clan methods, while effective in the past, are no longer what we need."
The audacity of his words nearly made Emilia laugh out loud. Diplomacy? Unity? This was the same Rosalia who had played the role of a helpless lamb while ensuring Emilia's downfall.
"You are unfit for the position of the queen, Emilia. You act arrogant and your callous actions know no bond, bullying poor innocent Rosalia," Darius threw a disgust look at her. "Because of your attitude, our marriage is over. I will petition the High Court for a divorce, effective immediately. I intend to take Rosalia as my bride. She will be a peace ambassador far better than you."
Divorce was rare in vampire society, especially among the royal bloodlines. And a hybrid. There was a reason why hybrid was discriminated by every races.
For a prince to divorce his wife and take a hybrid vampire, a half-blood, as his queen? It was scandal of the highest order. But Emilia was no longer his obedient pawn.
"If that is your will, my prince," she said, her voice calm and composed, "then who am I to stand in your way?"
If Rosalia wanted to play queen, Emilia would give her the crown.
Before he could respond, Azrael's deep, commanding voice cut through the tension.
"Darius."
The king never moved from his spot, his piercing crimson gaze fixed on his son. There was a weight to his presence, a reminder of his unyielding authority that brought Emilia nostalgia.
"You do this now? In front of the entire court?" Azrael's tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Have you truly thought this through?"
"This is a matter of utmost importance, Father," Darius replied, his tone respectful but resolute. "It must be done."
Azrael's gaze shifted to Emilia, his expression unreadable. In her past life, she had wondered if Azrael had pitied her or if he had simply washed his hands of the matter. King Azrael Lysander's long list of human lovers made him indifferent to Rosalia's status.
Now, standing before him again, she wasn't sure that he cared.
"The Sylvester household has been supporting the pureblooded vampires for centuries. Without their effort, there would have been no peace, no kingdom for you to rule. And now you throw all of that away for… her?"
Darius's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the world tilted.
The room spun around her, the light from the chandeliers becoming a blinding blur. Her legs buckled beneath her, and the wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor.
Gasps erupted from the crowd as Emilia crumpled, her body unable to hold her upright any longer. She wasn't collapsing out of shock, she would never give Darius or Rosalia that satisfaction, but her body was betraying her. Years of malnutrition, of darkness, of amputation and endless pain had left her weak. Too weak to keep standing in the face of this confrontation. She had gone years without her legs, now, she was no longer able to pretend.
The silence in the ballroom was suffocating. All eyes shifted from Emilia's trembling figure on the floor to Darius Lysander, the prince who had demanded the divorce in front of the court.
"Emilia." Azrael's voice was sharp, commanding.
But it was not Darius who stepped toward her. He remained rooted to the spot, his golden eyes narrowing as if unsure whether her collapse was genuine or some kind of act. Rosalia clutched his arm, her face a mask of concern that Emilia knew was as false as her supposed innocence.
Azrael knelt beside her, his crimson eyes studying her pale, quivering form like a broken doll.
"You're unwell," he said, his tone softer now, laced with something that might have been guilt.
Emilia tried to rise, her fingers digging into the cold marble for support, but her legs refused to cooperate. She gritted her teeth, refusing to let her frustration show. "I'm fine," she hissed, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. Around her, people started whispering again, looking at her with pity.
"You're not," Azrael said firmly. He turned to the nearest servant. "Fetch a doctor. Now."
"No need." Emilia's voice was sharp despite her momentary weak moment. She met Azrael's gaze, her eyes blazing with defiance.
Azrael's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue. Instead, he stood and turned to his son, his expression hard and filled with disappointment. "Darius, this is disgraceful."
"She's—" Darius began, but Azrael cut him off with a glare.
"She is your wife," Azrael growled. "And if you intend to cast her aside, you will do so with dignity. Not like this."
Darius hesitated, his grip on Rosalia's arm tightening. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his golden eyes. But it was Rosalia who broke the silence, her soft, angelic voice floating through the tension.
"Your Majesty," she said, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Perhaps it would be best if Lady Emilia were allowed to rest. I'm sure this is all very overwhelming for her."
"I know what I'm doing," Darius replied curtly, his grip tightening on Rosalia's arm. "Rosalia is the future. Emilia is always too harsh, too cold. She—"
"Enough."
Every head turned.
Standing in the entrance, dressed in black suit embroidered with silver threads, was Lord Draven Sylvester, head of the Sylvester household. Nobody had seen him for decades, not since Emilia was old enough to handle the diplomatic tasks. Nobody was more surprised with his appearance more than Emilia.
"…father?"
They never had a good relationship in the past life. He was always cold and absent, from what she remembered. She didn't recall him being at the ball back then, too busying causing tantrum. Oh, did he come and see her and then leave?
Lord Sylvester mistook her mortification for distress and wasted no time. His long, purposeful strides wet across the ballroom, his dark cloak floating behind him. When he reached Emilia, his cold, sharp features softened only slightly.
Without hesitation, he bent down and scooped her into his arms, cradling her as if she were a fragile doll. The gesture was not just protective, it was a statement.
That the head of the Sylvester household had come for his daughter, and no one would stop him.
Holding Emilia close, Draven turned his piercing silver gaze to Darius. His voice, cold and cutting, echoed through the silent room.
"The Sylvester household will accept your rejection, Prince Darius," he said, his tone laced with both venom and pride. "We will not beg for scraps from a man so blinded by his own foolishness that he cannot see the treasure he has discarded. You wish to sever this marriage? Very well. We will take our daughter home where she belongs."
The crowd erupted into gasps and whispers, the implications of his words rippling through like shockwave. For the Sylvesters to withdraw their support was no small matter.
"Draven," Azrael sighed. Even he knew the loyalty of hundred years couldn't salvage what his son had done. "My apologies."
"He has made his choice, my king," Draven said respectfully. "We wish the prince and the future queen the best of luck for the road ahead."
Darius's golden eyes flared with something that might have been doubt, but Rosalia tugged gently on his arm, her voice soft and sweet. "My prince, this is for the best. Lady Emilia will be happier with her family."
Holding Emilia protectively in his arms, Lord Draven turned and strode back toward the ballroom doors. The crowd parted once more, their whispers growing louder as he passed.