Bloodrite

THE FALL OF VALEMORRA

Darius Severin Del’Mortia had spent the first twenty-three years of his life certain that he would one day become king.

As the firstborn son of House Del’Mortia, he had been raised for the throne from the moment he was old enough to understand what it meant. His education had been extensive, covering everything from military strategy and diplomacy to the ancient treaties that had preserved Valemorra through centuries of war.

He excelled at nearly everything put before him. His tutors praised his intelligence, his instructors admired his discipline, and even his father acknowledged that Darius possessed an exceptional mind.

His younger brother, Alaric, admired him most of all.

Five years separated them, though Alaric had never allowed the difference to discourage him. As children, he followed Darius everywhere, pestering him for sword lessons and insisting on joining his studies. Darius could scarcely sit down to a game of strategy without Alaric appearing at his shoulder, full of questions and thoroughly convinced he knew a better way to win.

More often than not, Darius threatened to throw the board at him.

Alaric only laughed.

They fought, competed, and argued as brothers often did, but there had never been any rivalry over the throne. Alaric understood that the crown belonged to his elder brother, and Darius had never imagined otherwise.

Neither had considered that their father might have other plans.

The old king summoned them to his private study one afternoon.

Darius arrived promptly, as was his habit. Alaric appeared several minutes later, apologizing for his delay. A servant had dropped a tray in the corridor, and he had stopped to help gather its contents.

Darius rolled his eyes at the explanation.

Their father, standing before the study’s enormous windows, merely smiled.

It was a small exchange, hardly worth remembering. Yet years later, Darius would find himself returning to it, wondering whether he should have recognized the significance of that smile.

The king had grown older in recent years. Although he remained strong, silver had begun to creep through his hair, and the responsibilities of ruling had left their marks upon his face. Discussions of succession, once comfortably distant, had become increasingly frequent.

Darius stood before his father’s desk, hands clasped behind his back, while Alaric settled against a nearby chair, apparently more interested in a loose thread on his sleeve than the reason for their summons.

Their father regarded them for a moment before setting aside the papers on his desk.

“I’ve made my decision regarding the succession.”

Darius straightened.

“Alaric will succeed me.”

Darius frowned, waiting for his father to explain himself. Surely he’d misunderstood.

“What?” Alaric asked, looking up.

“You heard me,” their father replied.

“I did,” Alaric said, straightening. “I simply assumed I’d heard incorrectly.”

“You did,” Darius snapped.

Their father looked at him. “No, Darius. You didn’t.”

Darius gave a bitter laugh. “I am your eldest son.”

“I am aware.”

“Father,” Alaric interrupted, stepping forward, “I don’t want the throne.”

“That,” the king replied, turning toward his younger son, “is precisely one of the reasons I’ve chosen you.”

Alaric opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked at Darius, who had gone very still.

Their father came around the desk, stopping in front of his eldest son.

“You are both exceptionally intelligent men. I have never doubted that. But intelligence alone does not make a good ruler. You understand power, Darius. You understand how to command armies, negotiate treaties, and defend our borders. Those are valuable qualities, and I am proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Yet apparently not proud enough to name me your successor.”

“Darius...”

“No, I’d like to understand.” Darius looked from his father to Alaric. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this. You’ve seen to that yourself. And now you’re giving the throne to my younger brother?”

“Alaric understands something you have yet to learn.”

“And what might that be?”

“People.”

Darius stared at his father. “So I am to lose my birthright because my brother is pleasant?”

“You cannot lose something that was never yours to begin with.”

Darius looked away, clenching his jaw. Every lesson, every military exercise, every tedious afternoon listening to councillors argue over trade agreements had been preparation for the day he would succeed his father.

His father watched him for a moment. “Tradition deserves respect, Darius, but it should never excuse a poor decision.”

Darius turned back to him. “And you believe choosing Alaric over me is the right decision?”

“I do. Because a king must understand the people he rules, not simply how to rule them.” His father glanced toward Alaric before continuing. “You speak of Valemorra as something you will inherit. Your brother speaks of the people he will be responsible for. That difference matters.”

Darius turned toward Alaric, who looked thoroughly miserable.

“Darius...” his younger brother began.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not asking for this.”

“I said don’t.”

Alaric fell silent.

Darius faced his father again. “You will regret this.”

The king regarded him for a moment before answering. “Perhaps. Though I sincerely hope that one day you give me reason to.”

Darius left without another word. Alaric followed him, catching up halfway down the corridor.

“Darius, wait.”

His brother continued walking.

“Darius!”

Darius stopped but kept his back to him.

Alaric caught up. “You know I had nothing to do with this.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you angry with me?”

Darius turned to face him. His brother looked genuinely hurt, and despite his anger, Darius couldn’t bring himself to blame him for their father’s decision.

“I’m not angry with you, Alaric.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Darius sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just need some time.”

Alaric studied him for a moment. “This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

Darius wished he could agree. He still loved his brother, but after spending his entire life preparing for the throne, he couldn’t simply pretend the decision hadn’t happened.

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

Alaric nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.

Darius gave his brother one last look before continuing down the corridor.

Darius understood the political value of marriage when his father arranged his betrothal to Victoria Vix Strigori.

Victoria was beautiful, intelligent, and well-mannered, the daughter of one of Valemorra’s most influential noble families. House Strigori had maintained a complicated relationship with the royal family for generations. Its ancestors had once laid claim to the throne, and although the dispute had long since been settled, the family had never entirely accepted the outcome.

Marriage offered them something rebellion could not: a place within the royal household.

Darius married Victoria at twenty. She was welcomed into the palace with all the ceremony befitting a royal bride, and her family soon became familiar faces at court.

Darius initially found his new relatives agreeable. They praised his accomplishments, respected his opinions, and took a particular interest in his understanding of politics. They also knew better than to criticize Alaric openly.

Lord Strigori preferred a more careful approach.

“Does it not trouble you that tradition could be discarded so easily?” he asked one evening over wine.

Darius glanced at him. “What tradition?”

“Succession, of course. Your father must have had his reasons, though I confess I struggle to understand them.”

Darius said nothing.

“A dangerous precedent, wouldn’t you agree?” Lord Strigori continued. “A king deciding inheritance according to personal preference rather than established law.”

“My father is the king.”

“Indeed he is. And naturally, it is not my place to question his judgment.”

Lord Strigori bowed his head respectfully and changed the subject.

Such conversations became increasingly common. His relatives never openly challenged the king’s decision, but their sympathy was difficult to miss.

Victoria was more discreet. She listened when Darius spoke of his father, occasionally offering an opinion but rarely pressing the matter herself.

Several years into their marriage, on the eve of Alaric’s coronation, Darius stood on a balcony overlooking the palace courtyard. Servants and craftsmen were making their final preparations, hanging banners and arranging decorations for the following day’s celebrations.

Victoria joined him, slipping her hand around his arm.

“You should be down there.”

“I will be. The ceremony isn’t until tomorrow.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Darius turned toward her.

She watched the preparations for a moment. “You would have been a great king.”

He gave a bitter smile. “My father disagrees.”

“Your father is one man, Darius.”

“He is the king.”

“Yes, but even kings are capable of making mistakes.”

Darius looked back toward the courtyard.

“One man made one decision,” she continued. “It doesn’t change what you were born to be.”

She kissed his cheek before returning inside, leaving him alone on the balcony.

Darius remained there long after the servants had finished their work.

His resentment had begun long before Victoria entered his life, but her family had given it room to grow.

Alaric’s marriage had also been arranged, though his experience proved rather different from his brother’s.

Seraphina came from a respected vampire family whose alliance with House Del’Mortia strengthened the royal family’s standing among the nobility. It was a politically advantageous match, but no one had expected Alaric to fall so completely in love with his bride.

Seraphina was intelligent, stubborn, and entirely unimpressed by her husband’s royal title. She challenged him when they disagreed and had little patience for his attempts to charm his way out of trouble. Alaric, for his part, seemed to enjoy giving her reasons to scold him.

Darius witnessed one such exchange when Seraphina caught her husband reaching for a tray of pastries shortly before dinner. She slapped his hand away before he could take one.

“I am the king,” Alaric protested, looking thoroughly offended.

“Then demonstrate some leadership.”

“By starving?”

“By waiting twenty minutes.”

Alaric turned toward Darius, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Very much,” Darius admitted with a laugh.

“Wonderful. Betrayed by my wife and my own brother.” Alaric shook his head, though the grin tugging at his lips rather spoiled his attempt at looking offended.

“You’ll survive,” Seraphina assured him.

“At this rate, I’m beginning to doubt it.”

Darius laughed again, earning an indignant look from his younger brother.

Despite the succession dispute, the brothers remained close for several years. Darius attended family gatherings, shared meals with Alaric, and occasionally found himself forgetting the crown that stood between them.

When Victoria gave birth to their son, Sebastian, Alaric was among the first to visit. He stood beside the bed, cradling his newborn nephew as Sebastian curled his tiny fingers around his uncle’s hand.

“He’s going to be trouble,” Alaric announced with a grin.

“He’s been alive for three hours,” Darius replied.

“And already has your expression.”

Victoria laughed from the bed, and Darius couldn’t help smiling.

Years later, news of Seraphina’s pregnancy brought fresh excitement to the palace, particularly when the royal physicians confirmed she was expecting twins. Alaric was beside himself with excitement, much to the amusement of everyone around him.

Prince Maven Lucien Del’Mortia and Princess Korina Evelyne Del’Mortia arrived healthy and considerably louder than their father had anticipated. Celebrations were held throughout Valemorra, with nobles travelling from across the kingdom to congratulate the royal family.

Darius attended with Victoria and Sebastian, offering his congratulations before Alaric insisted he hold the twins.

“Careful with this one,” Alaric warned as he passed Kora into his brother’s arms. “She’s already developed a rather impressive grip.”

“She’s a baby, Alaric.”

“A very determined baby.”

As though to prove her father’s point, Kora caught Darius’s thumb in her tiny fist and refused to release it.

Alaric grinned. “See?”

Darius chuckled, gently freeing his hand before returning his niece to Seraphina.

He was fond of the children. Still, their arrival meant that Alaric now had heirs of his own.

Later that evening, Lord Strigori approached Darius with two glasses of wine.

“Your brother must be very pleased,” he remarked, offering him one.

“He is.” Darius accepted the glass.

“Two healthy children. A remarkable blessing.”

“Indeed.”

Lord Strigori glanced toward the royal family as he took a sip of wine. “First a crown. Now a dynasty.”

Darius turned toward him.

“Forgive me,” the older vampire said, lowering his glass. “That was thoughtless.”

He offered a polite bow before returning to the other guests.

Darius watched him go before turning back to his brother.

Alaric stood beside Seraphina, laughing as she struggled to settle the twins. Maven had apparently taken exception to something, and Kora was making her displeasure equally well known.

Darius almost smiled, but Lord Strigori’s words lingered. He took another drink and turned his attention to the other guests.

Darius had never been a particularly restless sleeper, but lately he found himself lying awake long after Victoria had drifted off. His duties at court kept him occupied during the day, yet once the palace grew quiet, his thoughts inevitably returned to his brother and the succession.

It was during one of those sleepless nights that he first heard someone whisper his name.

“Darius.”

Thinking Victoria had spoken, he turned toward her, only to find her fast asleep. He sat up and glanced around the chamber. The doors were closed, the curtains hung motionless beside the windows, and the fire had burned down to a few glowing embers.

He listened for a while, but when the voice didn’t return, he eventually lay back down.

The following night, he heard it again.

Over the next several weeks, the whispers became more frequent. They came only when he was alone or Victoria was sleeping, sometimes from somewhere across the chamber, sometimes so close that he turned, expecting to find someone standing beside him. On other nights, he couldn’t have said whether he had heard anything at all or merely imagined it.

What troubled him most was what the voice chose to speak about.

His father. The succession. The years he had spent preparing for a throne that had been handed to his younger brother.

You deserved more.

Darius had told himself the same thing often enough. Hearing it from an unseen stranger should have frightened him, yet he found himself listening, particularly on nights when sleep refused to come.

Several nights before the twins’ birthday, he finally lost patience.

“What do you want?” he demanded into the darkness.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then he heard a faint metallic clink from the table opposite the bed.

Darius turned toward the sound.

A medallion lay on the polished wood, its blackened silver surface catching the last of the firelight. He stared at it, trying to remember whether he had seen it earlier that evening. He was certain he hadn’t.

He glanced at Victoria, but she hadn’t stirred.

Careful not to wake her, Darius slipped out of bed and crossed the chamber. The medallion was marked with unfamiliar symbols, so worn in places that he could barely distinguish one from another. He picked it up, surprised by its weight, and immediately felt a coldness spread through his fingers.

Before he could set it down, words began forming in his mind.

Darius frowned. He recognized the rhythm of an incantation, though the language was older than anything he had encountered in his studies. He couldn’t have translated a single line, yet somehow he understood what was being asked of him.

The final instruction was particularly clear.

Blood freely given.

He turned the medallion over, examining the markings again. Any sensible man would have called for the palace scholars, or at the very least demanded an explanation before doing anything further.

Darius considered it. Then he looked toward the bed, where a small knife rested on the bedside table.

He fetched it and returned to the medallion. For a moment, he hesitated, the blade poised above his palm. Whatever had been whispering to him for weeks had finally offered something more than words, and he wanted to know what it was.

He drew the knife across his skin.

Blood welled from the cut, and he pressed the medallion against his palm. Almost immediately, a dull red glow appeared beneath his fingers. He lifted it slightly and watched the light spread through the engraved markings, illuminating lines that had been all but invisible before.

Darius stared, his pulse quickening.

The incantation returned to his thoughts, and this time he spoke it aloud.

He stumbled over the first few words, unused to the strange sounds, but when he began again, they came more easily. He had barely finished the final syllable when the candles went out.

A moment later, the fire died as well.

Darius froze. He could still make out the bed in the faint moonlight, but the rest of the chamber had fallen into darkness. Victoria slept on, apparently undisturbed.

He looked down at the medallion. The glow had faded, and when he ran his thumb across its surface, he found no trace of the blood he had smeared there.

A faint rustle came from behind him.

Darius turned.

Someone was standing near the far wall.

He hadn’t heard the door open. The stranger was tall, dressed entirely in black, with long garments that concealed everything from neck to floor. A smooth golden mask covered its face, the narrow openings around the eyes revealing nothing beneath.

Darius’s gaze flicked toward the sword resting near his bed. He was close enough to reach it, but something about the stranger’s stillness made him hesitate.

“Are you the one who’s been speaking to me?”

The figure gave no outward response, but the familiar voice answered inside his head.

Darius tightened his grip on the medallion. He had spent weeks listening to its promises, and now that he was standing before the source of them, he found himself wanting answers.

“You said you could give me what was taken from me.”

The masked figure inclined its head.

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Again, the voice entered his thoughts. Darius listened without moving, his eyes fixed on the golden mask.

His father and the council had long since considered the matter settled. This stranger, whatever it was, offered him something they never would.

Darius looked down at the medallion resting against his wounded palm. He could still turn away, wake Victoria, and have the palace guards search every corner of the chamber.

Instead, he closed his fingers around it.

“Then show me.”

The figure stepped backward into the shadows. Darius moved forward, but before he could reach the wall, the stranger had vanished.

He stood staring at the empty space until a sudden crackle from the hearth made him turn. The fire had returned, and one by one the candles began to burn again.

Victoria shifted beneath the blankets, murmured something in her sleep, and rolled onto her side.

Darius looked at the medallion, then at the blood still running from his palm. He found a cloth and wrapped it around the cut before returning to the table.

He examined the blackened silver once more, running his thumb over the markings.

Whatever had answered his summons knew what he wanted.

And for the first time in years, Darius thought he might actually get it.

A few days later, Valemorra gathered to celebrate the first birthday of its royal heirs.

Blue and silver banners hung from the upper galleries of the palace, and fresh flowers decorated the grand hall. Musicians played throughout the afternoon while servants moved between the guests with trays of food and wine. Nobles from across the kingdom had come to offer their congratulations, though the two guests of honour were far more interested in the remains of their birthday cake.

Maven had discovered that cake was considerably more entertaining when smeared across the table, and his sister was only too happy to follow his example.

Seraphina watched Kora plunge both hands into her dessert before turning to her husband.

“They’re yours.”

Alaric looked up from the frosting-covered boy in his arms. “They look exactly like you.”

Kora slapped the cake again, scattering crumbs across her mother’s gown.

Seraphina closed her eyes for a moment. “Your children.”

Alaric grinned, entirely unrepentant.

Across the room, Captain Malcolm Stracolmb made the unfortunate mistake of smiling. Alaric caught him at once.

“Careful, Malcolm.”

The captain straightened, adopting an expression of perfect innocence. “Your Majesty?”

“I saw that.”

“I have no idea what you mean, sire.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Seraphina laughed as she attempted to clean Kora’s hands, and Malcolm finally gave up trying to hide his amusement.

Malcolm had seen his friend wounded in battle, exhausted by negotiations, and furious enough to silence seasoned commanders. Watching him struggle to keep his son from eating his sleeve was a rather different experience.

Alaric noticed him laughing. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much, Your Majesty.”

“Traitor.”

Malcolm bowed his head, still smiling. “As you say, sire.”

The festivities continued well into the evening. As the younger guests began to tire, the musicians turned to quieter melodies and servants cleared away the ruined cakes. Seraphina settled into a cushioned chair with both children, Kora resting sleepily against her side while Maven occupied himself with a silver ribbon he’d managed to pull from one of the decorations.

Alaric leaned against the back of her chair, watching his son attempt to stuff the ribbon into his mouth.

“Do you know what story my mother told me on my first birthday?” Seraphina asked.

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You remember your first birthday?”

“No.”

“Then this story already has credibility problems.”

“Go away.”

He smiled and stayed exactly where he was.

Seraphina shook her head before turning her attention to the twins. “Long ago, before our kingdoms looked anything like they do today, the Shadows crossed the mountains.”

Maven continued chewing the ribbon while Kora made an unsuccessful attempt to steal it from him. Seraphina confiscated it before either child could swallow it.

“The Vampires blamed the Lycans, and the Lycans blamed the Vampires. The Humans closed their gates, while the Gin warned everyone that arguing wasn’t going to stop the darkness.”

Malcolm, who stood nearby, glanced toward Alaric.

“That part sounds historically accurate,” the king remarked.

Seraphina ignored him and continued.

“Then a wise Magistrate came from the East. He warned the Four Peoples that the Shadows would swallow every kingdom unless they stopped fighting amongst themselves.”

She adjusted Kora against her shoulder, gently brushing a few dark strands of hair away from her daughter’s face.

“So the Vampires, Lycans, Gin, and Humans finally joined forces. Together, their armies drove back the darkness and closed the last door. Four guardians carried pieces of their victory home so that their people would never forget what they had accomplished together.”

Kora gave a tremendous yawn, making her mother smile.

“And the world was safe again,” Seraphina finished, kissing the top of her daughter’s head.

Alaric looked down at Maven, who had somehow managed to retrieve the ribbon.

“He appears deeply moved.”

“He can be culturally educated and eat ribbon at the same time.”

“A gifted child.”

Seraphina laughed, and Malcolm joined her as Alaric reached down to rescue the ribbon from his son’s mouth.

Then a scream cut through the music.

Alaric straightened, his smile disappearing as the musicians faltered. Around them, conversations died away and guests began turning toward the doors.

Another scream followed, closer this time, accompanied by the unmistakable clash of steel somewhere beyond the hall. A heavy crash rattled the windows, and someone shouted from the corridor.

“Attack!”

Malcolm had his sword drawn before the warning had finished echoing through the room.

Alaric immediately lifted Maven from Seraphina’s lap and placed him in her arms. “Take them.”

She looked up at him, tightening her hold on the twins. “Alaric...”

The doors burst inward with a deafening crash.

A royal guard was thrown through the opening, striking the floor hard enough to slide across the polished stone. He lay motionless as something stepped over his body.

Malcolm moved in front of the royal family, his sword raised.

The creature entering the hall was unlike anything he had encountered in all his years of service. Its pale body was horribly misshapen, with limbs far too long for its torso and a jaw that hung open at an impossible angle. It moved with a series of violent, jerking motions, its head twitching as it surveyed the terrified guests.

A second creature appeared behind it, then a third. This one moved on all fours, crossing the threshold with frightening speed.

Malcolm tightened his grip on his sword as the first screams erupted from the crowd.

More creatures poured through the ruined doors, followed by armoured soldiers. Some wore the familiar colours of Valemorra, and Malcolm recognized several of the men beneath their helmets. They were royal soldiers, men who had sworn to defend the very family they were now attacking.

“ROYAL GUARD!” he roared, raising his sword.

His men responded immediately, drawing their weapons and closing ranks around the royal family as the guests scrambled to escape.

A nobleman fell beneath the claws of the first creature through the doors, while another guest was cut down by a soldier near the banquet tables. Glass shattered, chairs overturned, and wine spilled across the marble as the hall descended into chaos.

Alaric drew his sword and turned to his wife. “Seraphina, go!”

She gathered the twins against her chest, struggling to keep hold of both as Maven began crying. Kora joined him a moment later, their frightened wails nearly lost beneath the screams around them. Seraphina backed toward the royal passage, searching for a way through the fleeing guests.

Then Alaric caught sight of his elder brother entering through the shattered doors. Darius walked among the invading soldiers with a bloodied sword in his hand. A dark medallion hung against his chest, but it was the sight of Darius standing alongside the attackers that stopped Alaric in his tracks.

“Darius?”

His brother looked toward him.

Alaric took in the soldiers fighting his guards and the bodies scattered across the marble.

“What have you done?”

Darius answered evenly. “What should have been done years ago.”

“No.” Alaric shook his head.

Darius stepped farther into the hall, his sword hanging loosely at his side. “You sit on my throne.”

“Is that what this is about?” Alaric demanded.

A shriek interrupted them as one of the creatures lunged at a fleeing servant. A royal guard intercepted it, driving his sword through its chest, but the creature barely faltered. It twisted toward him, snapping its jaws as he struggled to wrench his blade free.

“Look around you!” Alaric shouted, gesturing toward the fighting around them. “These are our people!”

Darius surveyed the overturned tables and the bodies among them.

“They’ll have a king by morning.”

“They already have one!”

Darius lunged without warning.

Alaric barely managed to raise his sword before their blades collided, the force of the blow sending a painful jolt through his arm. He stumbled back, caught his footing, and blocked a second strike before Darius could drive him farther toward the banquet tables.

They had trained together since childhood, and Alaric knew his brother’s fighting style almost as well as his own. He recognized the slight shift of Darius’s weight before a feint and the way he favoured his right side when pressing an attack. Unfortunately, Darius knew all his habits too.

Alaric twisted away from another blow. “Darius, stop!”

“You should have refused him!” Darius snarled, advancing again.

“Refused what?”

“The crown!”

Their swords locked, and Darius shoved him backward with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet.

“You knew it was mine!”

“I was eighteen years old!” Alaric protested, ducking beneath another swing. “I didn’t take anything from you!”

“You accepted it!”

Their blades met again, the clash of steel nearly drowned out by the screams and fighting around them.

Alaric pushed his brother away and risked a glance toward Seraphina. She was still several yards from the royal passage, struggling to make her way through the panicked guests with both children in her arms. Beyond her, more of the creatures were forcing their way through the corridor.

“Seraphina!” he shouted.

She turned toward him, her face pale with fear.

“Run!”

“Alaric...”

“Take them and run!”

Malcolm reached her just as Darius attacked again. Alaric caught the blow and forced his brother’s sword aside.

“Your Majesty!” Malcolm called.

“Get them out of here!”

The captain hesitated, looking from the queen and her crying children to the king fighting for his life only a few yards away.

“That’s an order, Captain!”

Malcolm’s jaw tightened, but he gave a sharp nod before turning to Seraphina.

“This way, Your Majesty!”

He took the lead toward the royal passage, cutting down a soldier who tried to block their path. Seraphina hurried after him, clutching the twins tightly against her chest, while two royal guards fell in behind them to cover their retreat.

The sounds of battle followed them through the royal wing. Seraphina struggled to keep her footing with a child against each shoulder. Maven screamed, and Kora cried just as loudly.

“It’s all right,” Seraphina whispered, tightening her hold on them. “Mama’s here.”

They had barely rounded the next corner when a window shattered ahead of them.

Malcolm caught Seraphina by the shoulder and hauled her backward as one of the creatures crashed through the opening. Before it could recover, he drove his sword through its neck, sending it sprawling across the floor.

Another appeared from a side corridor, and one of the guards rushed forward to intercept it.

“Go!” Malcolm shouted, ushering Seraphina past him.

They hurried toward the staircase as the sounds of fighting followed them. A terrible scream rang out behind them, abruptly cut short. Malcolm knew the voice belonged to one of his men, but he kept moving. There was nothing he could do for him now.

They descended a narrow staircase into a part of the palace seldom used by the household. Seraphina took the lead, guiding Malcolm through the unfamiliar corridors.

Beneath the royal wing lay an evacuation passage known to only a handful of people. Seraphina prayed they could reach it in time.

Malcolm heard something scrape against the stone above them.

He looked up just as a pale shape moved across the ceiling.

“Seraphina!”

The creature dropped before he could reach her, its claws tearing across her side. Seraphina screamed as the impact threw her against the wall, and Maven slipped from her arms.

Malcolm lunged forward and caught the boy before he struck the floor. He pulled the crying child against his chest, then turned toward the queen.

Seraphina braced herself against the wall, one arm holding Kora while her free hand pressed against her side. Blood seeped through her gown.

“Seraphina, you’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, pushing herself away from the wall.

Malcolm stared at the blood seeping between her fingers. “You can barely stand.”

“Then stop arguing and move!”

The shrieks were growing louder. Malcolm swallowed his protest and followed.

Seraphina pressed on, using the wall for support when her steps faltered. By the time they reached a small office tucked away from the main passage, she was struggling to catch her breath.

She pushed through the doorway and nearly collapsed. Malcolm caught her by the arm as she gestured toward the fireplace.

“Help me over there.”

Malcolm followed her gaze. “The fireplace?”

“Just hurry.”

He guided her across the office, keeping Maven tucked securely against his chest. The hearth had long since gone cold, its blackened stones framed by an elaborate mantel carved from dark marble. At its centre sat the royal crest of Valemorra, worked into the stone.

Seraphina reached for the crest, but her injured side made the movement difficult. Malcolm steadied her while she pressed her palm against the emblem and turned it clockwise.

A heavy click sounded somewhere behind the wall.

Malcolm looked up as a section of the stone panelling beside the fireplace shifted inward, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

He stared at the opening. “How long has that been there?”

“Long enough.” She glanced toward the office door. “We need to hurry.”

Malcolm helped her through the opening and down the stairs, keeping close beside her.

At the bottom stood an ancient Threshold, its stone archway covered in symbols Malcolm recognized from old military records. He had heard of such structures, though he had never expected to find one beneath the royal palace. There was no light within the arch, and he could see no Wayseal nearby.

“How do we open it?” he asked.

Seraphina looked down at the silver ring on her finger. It was an old piece, heavy and engraved with the royal insignia. She pulled it free, leaving a smear of blood across the metal, and pressed it into Malcolm’s palm.

“This. Alaric has the other.”

Malcolm turned the ring over, confused.

“It’s the royal evacuation route,” she explained. “It was built for emergencies. The ring will open the Threshold.”

As he approached the archway, faint lines began to glow along the carved stone. Light spread through the markings until the opening shimmered.

Malcolm turned back toward Seraphina, relieved that they had finally found a way out.

“Come on. We need to get you through.”

But she hadn’t followed him.

Seraphina stood several feet away, holding Kora close with one arm while the other pressed against her wounded side.

She shook her head.

Malcolm stared at her. “No.”

“Captain...”

“Don’t even think about it. You’re coming with us.”

“Malcolm, look at me.”

“I am looking at you!” He shifted Maven against his chest and stepped toward her. “And I’m telling you that you’re coming.”

Seraphina glanced down at the blood soaking her gown. “I won’t make it.”

“You don’t know that.”

A crash sounded somewhere above them, followed by the distant shriek of one of the creatures. Malcolm glanced toward the staircase, his grip tightening around Maven.

“You have your orders,” Seraphina reminded him.

“My orders were to get all of you out.”

Seraphina glanced toward the staircase. The creatures were getting closer.

She looked at Maven, still crying in Malcolm’s arms, his little face flushed and wet with tears. Kora reached toward her mother, frightened and confused by the blood staining her gown.

Seraphina brushed a tear from her daughter’s cheek. Her hands began to tremble as she drew Kora close and kissed her forehead, then leaned toward Maven to kiss him as well.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Seraphina...” Malcolm began.

She shook her head and carefully placed Kora into his free arm. Malcolm adjusted his hold, gathering both children securely against his chest.

“Don’t let him have them.”

Malcolm met her eyes. “I won’t.”

“And don’t let anyone know who they are.”

Malcolm nodded.

Seraphina touched his arm. The Threshold glowed steadily behind him.

Another crash echoed down the staircase, much closer than before.

“Go, Malcolm.”

“There must be another way,” he said.

“Please.” She reached up and touched Maven’s cheek one last time. “Take care of them.”

Malcolm swallowed hard, unable to bring himself to move.

“Go!” she cried as another shriek sounded above them.

He hesitated only a moment longer before turning toward the Threshold. With both children held tightly against him, Malcolm stepped into the light.

The last thing Captain Malcolm Stracolmb saw was Queen Seraphina Del’Mortia standing at the foot of the staircase, placing herself between the approaching creatures and her children.

The Threshold closed behind him.

Malcolm hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He rolled onto his side, tightening his arms around the twins as they screamed in fright. For one awful moment, he thought Maven might slip from his grasp, but he managed to pull both children securely against his chest before coming to a stop.

He lay there for several seconds, struggling to catch his breath while their cries filled the cold mountain air.

When he finally managed to sit up, he checked them both for injuries. Maven’s little face was red from crying, and Kora was no better, but neither appeared hurt.

Malcolm closed his eyes in relief.

His king might already be dead, the queen had stayed behind, and he had no idea how many of his men had survived. Yet for the moment, all he could think about was keeping two frightened one-year-olds safe in his arms. He had faced armies with steadier nerves.

Malcolm carefully got to his feet. The Threshold had brought them high into the mountains, far beyond the capital, but he recognized the surrounding peaks from old military maps. There was a royal safe house less than a mile away.

With the twins secured against his chest, he set off toward it. His injuries ached, and the uneven terrain forced him to watch every step. He tried to pick up his pace whenever the path allowed, though neither child seemed particularly pleased with the journey.

By the time Malcolm reached the safe house, evening was settling over the mountains.

The building was empty, its supplies untouched. After securing the doors and checking the rooms, he settled the twins beneath a warm blanket. Maven had already cried himself to sleep, but Kora continued fussing until Malcolm placed her beside her brother. She curled against him and eventually drifted off.

Malcolm sank into a nearby chair, grateful for the silence. His hands had begun to tremble, and when he opened his palm, Seraphina’s ring lay against his skin, her dried blood still staining the silver.

Don’t let him have them.

He closed his fingers around it.

After a while, Malcolm rose and stepped outside. From the mountainside, he could see an orange glow on the horizon, beyond the distant ridges.

Valemorra was burning.

Thick smoke rose above the city, darkening the evening sky. Malcolm stood watching, thinking of Alaric fighting his brother in the grand hall and Seraphina standing alone at the foot of the staircase.

He had left them both behind.

He had obeyed their orders, and still he wished he had found another way.

A small cry came from inside the safe house, drawing his attention toward the doorway.

The twins were only a year old. They would never remember their parents or the kingdom that had celebrated their birthday mere hours before its destruction. One day, they would have questions, and Malcolm would have to find the words to answer them.

He looked once more toward the burning capital, remembering Alaric’s final command.

Get them out.

Malcolm tightened his grip around Seraphina’s ring before turning away from Valemorra and returning to the children.

END PROLOGUE