Ruby looks up at the right throne. Dion Lancaster sits there, his beauty sharp enough to draw blood. He is younger than his brother, with black hair and eyes like polished rubies—deeper and more vibrant than Brian's.

Dion's gaze is a cold weight. In Châtelet, a blood slave never meets a royal's eyes. He scans her, noting the messy way she holds her skirts.

His nostrils flare. A scent hits him—sweet, warm, and entirely too alive. The hunger hits like a physical blow.

Dion's pupils dilate. He leans forward, his gaze locking on the pulse jumping in her throat. He shuts his eyes, listening to the heavy, rhythmic thrum of her heart. Under the chandelier's light, his fangs slide past his lips.

"Dion," the Queen's voice cuts through the hall.

He snaps back. He stands, towering over her, and takes her hand. His lips linger on the white silk glove.

Her hand is small and radiator-warm. Ruby watches him, her head tilted; he seems slow, a bit too fond of showing off his teeth.

He drops her hand and jerks his face away. His mind races with a single thought: he needs to taste her. Even if she belongs to Brian. He looks back, his pupils blooming into wide, dark pools of red.

Châtelet knows no true sun. Ruby checks her pocket chronometer to tell day from night. She stays in her suite, eating meals delivered by silent, spectral maids.

She spends days in the massive bed. No mothers, no Andrew Blackwood, no forced tea parties. It's the peace she always wanted.

Then the boredom sets in. Ruby traces the patterns on the ceiling for the tenth time. She tosses. She turns.

She forces herself back down. She has a lifetime to spend here; she has to learn to be lazy.

The silence of the room starts to itch. She eventually sits up and stalks through her suite—the parlor, the bedroom, the study.

She finds a walnut desk. A silver key sits in a glass pen holder. She fits it into the locked drawer and pulls it open.

Seven thick journals sit inside. She grabs the newest one: Ronal's Diary, Year xx39-xx89.

"Year xx39. Brian is the most beautiful man I've ever seen," the entry reads. "He kissed my hand and I forgot how to breathe. I'm in love".

"Year xx40. Brian hasn't visited in weeks," the ink smears on the page. "The maids won't talk. I'm bored. I've started writing stories about the Prince to pass the time".

"Wedding Day. The moon is blood-red," the handwriting is a frantic scrawl. "I saw Brian with his maid today. I have a new idea. A story about a gentle prince and his domineering servant".

The journals sat in a stack on the walnut desk, left behind by the women who came before. Ruby spent the afternoon turning the thick pages. Every Blood Bride shared the same ghost of a story—meeting Brian Lancaster a handful of times before vanishing into the silence of Châtelet.

The marriage served as a prop for the Crimson Pact. After the wedding night, the human world's representative became a footnote in the palace records. They lived within these four walls until the next century brought a replacement.

But the ink told a different story. Ronal left behind a dozen unfinished romances. Melinda painted the same twilight three hundred times. Morgan filled ledgers with biological notes on the biology of the undead.

Year xx89. Clear. The handwriting on the final page trailed off. "My fingers won't hold the pen much longer. I never finished a single book, but I loved the dreaming. I wanted Brian to love me once. That was a fever that broke. Life here was flat and long, but I'm glad for it".

"I didn't become a breeding mare for some count in Aurelia. In this room, no one expected anything from me. I'm tougher than the soil they planted me in. To the next girl: live well. Be the master of your own pulse. If you're bored... read my books".

Ruby snapped the journal shut. A scoff escaped her. Who recommends a book without an ending? She scanned the shelf. By Ronal was stamped on a row of leather spines.

She stood and paced the rug. The maids mentioned a bell for assistance, but the door didn't have a lock. Ruby gripped the brass handle and stepped out as the light failed.

Châtelet's twilight lasted minutes. The weak sun clung to the edge of the hedges. Ruby ran toward the fading warmth, chest heaving as she inhaled. Her skin prickled.

In Aurelia, she spent her days on horseback under a blistering sun. Three days of shadows made her crave the burn. The shadows swallowed the last of the orange light, turning the garden into a maze of twisted stone and silence.

No guards. No ghosts. Ruby stepped out of the Rose Gallery and followed the path into the dark.

Inside Durell Palace, Dion's eyes snapped from his book to the heavy doors. His nostrils flared. The scent of fresh prey cut through the damp stone and old incense.

"Your Highness?" The professor tapped the desk. "Is there a problem?".

"A human is in my palace," Dion said. His voice was a low vibration.

The professor sighed, adjusted his glasses, and looked at the clock. "You have Bloodbound Servants in the kitchens, Prince Dion. Focus on the text".

"This isn't a servant." Dion stood. His pupils expanded until the red was gone. "The Princess is wandering my halls".

"The human princess?" The professor's glasses slide down his nose. "Impossible. Prince Brian's Blood Bride stays in Solara Palace. Without a guide, she might...".

Dion slams the heavy leather volume onto the walnut desk. He stands, the chair legs screeching against the stone floor.

"Your Highness, the session—where are you going?" The professor fumbles with his notes. "The Royal Ascension Trial is weeks away. You can't afford to be careless".

"Back in a minute." Dion doesn't look back. He throws the double doors open and stalks into the corridor.

He shoulders past a line of guards. They stumble, their armor clanking against the masonry. They snap into stiff bows, too late to catch his eye.

"Bad mood?" one whispers. "The Queen moved his lessons up. I'd be snapping too".

Dion's jaw locks. His fingers curl into white-knuckled fists. It isn't the schedule. It isn't the professor's droning voice.

Brian's bride. Wandering Durell Palace.. If an Elder Vampire catches that scent, she'll be a husk before the bells toll.

He isn't sharing. The image of another noble's fangs in that pulse makes his skin itch. He has no appetite for leftovers.

The sweet scent of warm skin grows thick. The fire in his chest cools into a sharp, predatory focus. His pupils bleed out, turning his eyes into twin pools of dark rubies.