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Pale Thrones and Scarlet Vows
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The silence was deafening.

Blood continued its slow descent from the torn sinews of the floating head’s neck, plopping rhythmically onto the ruined floorboards like the tolling of some ungodly bell. Each drop landed with a wet splat, sizzling faintly against the remnants of the silver shield’s energy. And then—the air shifted.

A faded pink mist, soft and almost delicate in appearance, began to seep into the room, curling from the corners like ghostly fingers. It held a cloying sweetness in the scent—rotting roses, or perhaps corpses drenched in perfume. It blanketed the floor, slithered up the walls, coiling like smoke around the shattered remains of Rostin’s home.

He stood trembling, spine stiff but knees quaking, the book pressed to his chest as though it were a crucifix. His breath came in panicked huffs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But even as his body begged for escape, he was rooted by the grotesque beauty unfolding before him.

The mist parted.

And from it, she emerged.

A woman. No—a vision, a spectre, a nightmare given flesh.

Tall, impossibly so, with legs that moved like liquid shadow beneath a gown of darkest silk, slit so high it defied decency. Her red hair cascaded down her back like blood spilled in slow motion, gleaming in the dead light of the rotting house. Her skin was flawless, glowing like the surface of marble soaked in moonlight. Her eyes were rubies—glistening, intelligent, cruel.

She smiled.

Rostin shivered.

The dome of silver light still held, but it felt laughable now. Weak. Pathetic. Her presence made it look like a child’s barrier made of dreams and hope.

She walked—glided really, every step the embodiment of sin and royalty. Her hips swayed with intentional seduction, her posture poised as though she stood before a court of kings. One hand rested across her chest in elegance; the other lazily reached forward, brushing her fingers against the silver dome.

A hiss. The light recoiled.

Then she tapped it.

With a sound like shattered glass and a scream that echoed from the very wood, the dome imploded. Shards of silver light scattered like dying stars, fading into dust.

Rostin gasped. No more shield. Only her.

He stumbled backward, his feet dragging across debris. Panic took him whole. He wanted to speak, to plead, but his lips only parted in dry gasps.

She tilted her head slightly, the smile growing wider. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance in my true form, human," she said, voice like velvet soaked in poison. "I am Virellia Nocthra. Member of the highest noble house."

Her words were music, but every note carried a dagger. Her pronunciation was precise, her tongue regal, shaped by centuries of cruelty and superiority.

Rostin said nothing.

He turned.

And ran.

The door—the damned door—just there.

He sprinted toward it, heart lurching, hope like a spark in his chest. But just as he reached for the handle, the air glitched. Reality bent.

She was there.

In front of him.

Appeared like a thought too fast to perceive.

"Oh, dear," she cooed, voice still gentle. "Do not attempt to flee. I am merely here to ask a question. Who is your contractor?"

He stumbled backward, his heel catching on loose wood. He almost fell.

"I... I don’t know what you're talking about..." he stammered, voice quivering, thick with restrained sobs. His accent wavered but remained British, clipped and polite despite the fear. He sniffled, blinking fast. Her beauty was undeniable. Her face held the symmetry of angels, her body the temptation of every sin.

But something within him screamed. Not her. Not her. Stay away.

Virellia's smile slowly fell.

She sighed.

"Pity."

Before he could react, her hand was around his throat. Thin fingers, cold as the grave, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Rostin clawed at her wrist, eyes bulging as her nails punctured his skin.

"Just tell me," she whispered, breath sweet and rotting. "I have to kill you both."

The book slipped from his grasp, thudding dully to the floor.

"XENELOV!" he screamed, voice hoarse and raw.

As if summoned by the name, the book flashed. One last burst of silver.

And then—nothing.

Virellia scoffed, baring her teeth. "Xenelov is your contractor? But Yurellion is also here in Cambridge... hmm... oh well. I'll kill you first and get Xenelov--"

A crack.

A burst of violet light.

A beam shot across the room, slicing past her cheek.

Her ear split open. A line of blood slithered down her jawline.

She didn’t flinch.

But Rostin’s vision swam. Her grip tightened. He twitched, body jerking, limbs struggling.

Then a voice echoed. Cold. Refined. Beautiful in its disdain.

"Such vulgar magic," it said. "No wonder the vampire community disdains you, despite your noble title."

The laughter in Virellia's throat died.

Her head turned.

Eyes narrowed.

Toward the staircase.

Where the voice had come from.

In the grotesquely twisted remnants of what had once been a peaceful home, the air quivered like a taut string about to snap. From the swirling vortex of shadows and mist along the staircase, a figure emerged, tall and poised, with an otherworldly grace. It was Xenelov.

His alabaster skin gleamed like the surface of a moonlit tomb, and though his form appeared slightly drained, perhaps weary, there was no denying the regal authority in the way he held his head high, like a prince from a cursed lineage. Each step he took echoed with silent command, his long coat billowing slightly, whispering secrets of forgotten graves.

He descended the staircase and paused—then, with a fluid, almost inhuman grace, he leapt, landing without a sound upon the floorboards slick with spilled blood and anguish. In an instant—no blur, no movement, only a reality changed—he appeared beside Virellia.

His hand seized her wrist—the one clutching Rostin—and squeezed.

There was a grotesque snap, and a spray of blood burst outward as bone shattered beneath his grip. Virellia’s hand burst open like a ripe fruit, flesh and sinew unraveling in gory threads. The crimson rain pattered down like a macabre blessing. Rostin dropped with a gasp, caught at the waist by Xenelov’s other hand, and was gently lowered to the floor, quaking.

The vampire lord now stood between Rostin and Virellia, shielding the boy with his broad back. Behind him, Rostin trembled and clutched the edges of his coat, his mind teetering between horror and incomprehension. Where was Callum? Had that demon-woman possessed him, or worse—become him?

Virellia’s mutilated arm regenerated with hideous elegance. Skin and muscle re-knitted like coiling worms, veins glimmered silver before sinking beneath the surface. A new hand bloomed from the ruin.

She smiled, her red eyes burning like dying stars.

“How dare you place yourself between us?” she said, her voice smooth like aged wine and thick with venom. “I would’ve feasted well tonight.”

Xenelov did not flinch. His expression remained sculpted from ancient stone.

“He is my contractee.”

Virellia folded both arms across her voluptuous chest, the slit in her gown parting wider to reveal bare thigh marred by fine scars. “Oh? Strange, then. According to our sacred law, a vampire must remain beside their human contract while feeding from five fresh kills. And yet…” She smirked, trailing her words like poison silk. “Not a single death reported. How quaint.”

“That does not concern you,” Xenelov replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets as though they stood in court, not a battlefield.

Virellia’s laugh rang out, elegant and shrill, like broken windchimes in a hurricane. “The council has judged your inaction. They have sent me to erase both you and your contractee, and pass the rite to another more… suitable vampire.”

Xenelov’s jaw clenched.

With a flick of her fingers, she wove the air like a symphony conductor. Waves of her clawed hand shimmered, and pink mist rose around them, curdling into sharp luminous threads. The mist hardened into hundreds of crystalline arrows—tangible, radiant, and deadly.

Xenelov floated upwards, his body rising with ease. A gust of violet energy formed beneath Rostin, lifting him onto a cloud of ethereal smoke. He dared not open his eyes. The space no longer resembled his house—above him was endless night, beneath him an abyss.

He curled up on the cloud, trembling violently.

“Stay still,” Xenelov commanded without turning.

Then, the storm began.

Virellia launched the arrows.

They burst forward like screaming banshees—trails of light curved and twisted in the air. Xenelov blurred. He spun midair, coat trailing like black fire, deflecting some arrows with bare fingers, each touch erupting in sparks. He somersaulted between volleys, his movements a cruel dance—elegant, fluid, impossibly precise.

One arrow came close; he grabbed it mid-flight and snapped it in two, hurling the glowing halves back toward Virellia. She giggled and dissolved into a mist, reappearing above him, sending another wave of pink death.

Xenelov clicked his tongue. His eyes glowed violet. A shield erupted from his chest—glassy, translucent, shaped like a raven’s wings. It blocked five arrows before shattering like ice.

He shot forward, becoming a streak of indigo light. Virellia extended her leg and twisted midair, dodging with effortless grace. Her gown flared like bloodied petals.

He reached her, swinging his fist—a fist wrapped in ancient runes. It collided with her gut.

She gasped, air—and blood—spurting from her mouth. The impact cracked the very air around them, sound warping like crushed metal.

But she didn’t fall.

She grinned with red-stained teeth, wrapped her arms around him like a lover—and drove her sharpened nails into his back.

He growled, and they both plummeted.

The battlefield roared with supernatural fury, and beneath them, on his trembling cloud, Rostin opened his eyes and screamed.

The duel had only just begun.