Merrick's voice echoed softly on the modest oaken door of the King's chamber, the sound barely audible over the rhythmic crackle of the hearth within. A pause. Then, with a slow exhale, Merrick pressed his palm flat against his chest, leaning forward to speak, his voice lower than usual, lacking the crisp edge it so often carried in court.
"Forgive the hour," he murmured. His words were heavy, measured, as if weighed down by the consequence they bore. "I know the days you keep are meant for personal rest, for pursuits outside of duty… but this cannot wait."
From beyond the king came the shifting of movement, then silence. A single heartbeat passed. Then two. Until finally, Renauld fully registered Merrick's face—somber, drawn, and uncharacteristically vulnerable— Renauld straightened at once, placing his hand firmly over his chest in a formal salute. He was disheveled but alert, his expression touched by faint concern. His hair hung loosely over his forehead, his shirt untucked, the barest hint of sleep still in his eyes.
"My liege," Renauld said without hesitation, his voice steady despite the hour. "I am never too busy to be of service to my king." He searched Merrick's face with gentle concern, brows furrowing slightly. "What troubles you, Majesty? How may I be of aid?"
Merrick stood silent for a long moment. He shifted, stepping aside with the grace of a man reluctant to expose what lay behind him. And then, like a dark tide parting to reveal a shipwreck, Caralee came into view.
Renauld's breath hitched softly in his throat.
She sat there in the dim torch light, a pale wraith of herself, trembling, fragile, her long copper hair tangled and unkempt as though she had fled through brambles. Her cheeks were blotched crimson, her lashes heavy with unshed tears, though so many had already spilled that her skin glistened from the salt of them. Her lips quivered, parted slightly in shallow, uneven breaths. Fangs still protruded from beneath her upper lip, their tips stained faintly pink, betraying the turmoil raging within her.
Her arms were wrapped tight around herself as though trying to hold her breaking soul together. Her shoulders trembled as silent sobs wracked her slight frame. Wide, hollow eyes locked onto Renauld's the moment she noticed him—eyes that once sparkled with curiosity and life now glassy with terror and confusion.
Renauld's heart clenched painfully in his chest, an almost audible snap in the silence between them. His hand shot instinctively to his sternum, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as though to contain the ache that bloomed there. It felt like a blade had pierced him, seeing her like this—so lost, so wrecked by sorrow that she seemed scarcely able to stand.
He moved without thinking, a step forward, almost a lunge, ready to close the distance, to gather her into his arms where she might feel safe. But something in the air, or perhaps the centuries of protocol and unspoken restraint hammered into his very marrow, caught him mid-step. He froze, jaw tightening, hands trembling at his sides. His head dipped in deference, his lips parting again, though this time the words faltered on his tongue.
"My king," he whispered, barely daring to hope, "please… may I?"
Merrick, who had not once removed his eyes from Caralee, broke his vigil just long enough to meet Renauld's gaze. His shoulders slackened, and something vulnerable flickered across his face—relief, perhaps, or quiet desperation. His voice cracked softly, rich with unspoken pleading.
"Yes, Renauld," he breathed. "Please."
The moment the permission was granted, Renauld was at her side in a breath's time, dropping low into a deep bow before her. His voice softened, trembling with emotion.
"My lady," he asked, barely above a whisper, "may I join you here where you sit?"
Caralee could not speak. Her throat burned, raw and closed from hours of silent weeping. She managed only a small, broken nod, her arms tightening around herself as though she feared she might dissolve into nothingness if she let go.
Renauld lowered himself beside her with careful reverence, taking her cold, shaking hands gently into his own. His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear as though she might shatter at his touch. Before he could speak again, she collapsed into him without warning, her frail body folding against his chest like a crumpled parchment in the rain.
Her sobs returned, violent and unrelenting, muffled against the fabric of his shirt. Renauld's arms enveloped her without hesitation, cradling her as though she were the most precious thing in existence. His voice quivered with raw, aching tenderness.
"Shhhh… hush, my lady… I am here. You are safe. Your king is here. You are guarded well, you are cherished. Nothing shall harm you." He pressed his lips softly to her temple, rocking her slightly in his arms. "All is well… all is well, my sweet lady."
Across the chamber, Merrick exhaled quietly, the tension in his frame slackening ever so slightly as he watched them. The sight of Renauld cradling her with such care soothed something jagged in him. Silently, he retreated to the writing desk on the far side of the chamber, lowering himself into the high-backed chair with deliberate grace. He pulled a ledger toward him, unfurling a scroll as if to busy his hands. But his eyes never left them—not truly. He watched, silent as a stone sentinel, listening to every breath, every word, every heartbeat.
Caralee's trembling began to still beneath Renauld's touch. She sniffled, her breath hitching as she leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. He smiled softly, his palm lifting to cradle her jaw, tilting her face upward. He leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to her fevered brow.
Then, with steady purpose, he bared his throat to her.
His hands slid once more around her trembling frame, guiding her to him with infinite care. One hand pressed lightly to the nape of her neck, his thumb tracing circles along her skin to calm her as he drew her closer.
Caralee hesitated only for a heartbeat. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder first, seeking a moment's solace in his warmth. Then, with fragile reverence, she pressed the faintest kiss to his neck, her lips trembling as they brushed over the sensitive skin. Renauld's breath hitched, a shiver coursing through him.
She felt the hunger rising again, a dark tide swelling beneath her skin, but this time it did not terrify her. No—this time, it felt— grounding. Right.
With a slow, measured breath, she licked delicately over the pulse that fluttered beneath his skin, tasting him before her fangs slid effortlessly into place. She sank them in with care, her lips sealing around the wound as his blood rushed onto her tongue like molten wine.
Renauld's soft gasp filled the air, followed by a low, shuddering moan as his arms tightened around her. His fingers threaded through her hair, his body arching slightly into her. The connection between them flared like a star reborn, lighting every nerve in their bodies with liquid fire. Yet they held back, both acutely aware of Merrick's watchful presence.
Caralee drank deeply but slowly, savoring each mouthful without letting herself drown in it. She pressed herself closer, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, her body curling into his lap as though she might melt into him entirely.
When she felt the edge of her hunger dull at last, she pulled back with care. With a final, tender swipe of her tongue over the twin punctures, she kissed the fading marks and let herself rest against him once more, breathless, trembling in the afterglow.
Renauld cradled her silently, their foreheads pressed together as they breathed in tandem. Caralee's mind, now clear and sharp in the wake of her sating, finally dared to reflect.
And the truth settled over her like a solemn shroud.
She had been running—grasping at the threads of a life already gone. But here, in this chamber, in the arms of the man who had fed her, comforted her, and held her without judgment— she saw it plainly.
She no longer belonged to the life she had left behind. The mortal girl who had once clung to a forbidden love, who had fled from the truth of what she was, no longer existed.
She was vampire now. And not just any vampire—she was to be queen. Claimed by and to be married to the king, hopefully bonded to a loyal feeder, standing on the precipice of a future far greater than she had ever dared imagine.
And in that moment, with the copper taste of Renauld's blood still lingering on her tongue, Caralee knew.
It was time to let go.
Time to step fully, irrevocably, into the life that had been written for her long before she had drawn her first mortal breath.
She was no longer human. She was born for more.
No longer a servant, but a sovereign.
Not Caralee the orphan… but Caralee, Queen of the Vampires.
And this—this was only the beginning.