From Shadows, Light
The darkness was absolute.
Veronica’s breath came rapid, uneven, sharp with fear as she stumbled through the tangled woods, the damp earth sinking slightly beneath her feet. Every shadow seemed alive, pressing in around her, whispering secrets she could not decipher. The night was unnaturally still, suffocating, the kind of silence that swallowed every sound before it had a chance to echo.
Her thoughts churned relentlessly, as they had for days. She had turned to everyone—the palace advisors, the physicians, even Eli’s own parents—but their answers were always the same: nothing more could be done. Their helplessness gnawed at her, stoking the fire of her vivid, horrible imaginings. With every hour, she could picture Eli—injured, alone, cold, starving—or worse, enduring horrors too cruel to speak aloud.
It was in her father’s private library that her resolve was born. Her gaze had landed on an old mystery vampire novel, its pages whispering of daring escapes and hidden truths. An idea took root—wild, dangerous, but irresistible. Under the guise of visiting Nordhaven to console Eli’s family, she had traveled to the mainland, only to slip away from the palace under cover of night.
She hailed a cab to take her as far as the driver was willing to go. At first she thought he would just kick her out when she told him where she wanted to go, then handed him a large bill, telling him she’d pay more upon arrival, which changed his mind.
But he had uncomfortable questions about her motives. She hesitated, scrambling for an excuse that wouldn’t raise too many questions. “I’m… uh, an art student,” she said quickly, gripping her bag tightly. “I’m working on a project for my art portfolio, which could really help me out with my future. You see, there’s this… really rare bird I’m hoping to capture.”
The driver raised an eyebrow as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “A rare bird?” he echoed, skepticism dripping from his tone.
“Yes!” she blurted, rushing now. “The, uh… spotted and striped upper forest conure. It’s nocturnal. Only comes out in these parts and only at night. Extremely elusive.” She nodded for emphasis, though her cheeks flushed at the absurdity of her own lie.
The driver let out a dry chuckle. “Never heard of it,” he muttered.
“That’s how rare it is! Most people haven’t.” She forced a confident smile, then glanced away, biting back a giggle. Not surprising, considering I just invented this nonsense on the spot.
His smirk lingered, and for a moment, she thought she might have successfully piqued his curiosity—or at least distracted him from asking further questions.
They drove in silence as the road twisted and narrowed, the woods closing in around them. Finally, the driver broke the quiet, his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial. “You know, these parts have their own strange creatures. Not birds, though. More like night predators. Some say they walk on two legs but aren’t human.”
Veronica froze, her pulse quickening. His words hung in the air like smoke, curling around her thoughts. For a brief moment, the facade of calm she’d built threatened to crack. She forced a shaky laugh, her voice bright and dismissive as she said, “Old wives’ tales. I don’t believe in that stuff.”
The driver, a gruff man with an air of quiet curiosity, navigated the narrowing road as trees crowded the path. Their gnarled branches arched over the vehicle like skeletal fingers. “How much farther are you trying to go?” he asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
“Not much farther,” she replied quickly, a practiced calm in her tone. Her grip on her bag tightened as she glanced at her phone. “Just where the road ends.”
He nodded, though his lips pressed into a thin line. The road turned to gravel as they climbed higher into the wilderness, the headlights casting fragmented shadows that seemed to shift unnaturally. Finally, he slowed the car to a stop, his hands lingering on the wheel. “This far enough?” he asked, voice edged with quiet finality, as though he’d decided this was where his involvement ended.
Veronica hesitated before nodding. “Yes, this is perfect,” she said, handing him another large money bill, before opening the door. The cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine and damp earth. She stepped out quickly, clutching her bag as if it were a shield. “Thanks for the ride,” she added, her voice overly bright, as if to counteract the unease lingering in the air.
Using the GPS on her phone, she began the trek on foot. At first, the woods were just woods—trees crowding together, the air cold and damp, the sounds of her footsteps muted by the soft earth. But as she ventured deeper, the atmosphere shifted. Strange noises began to rise, faint and unidentifiable—a rhythmic tapping, like claws on bark; whispers too low to make out; the sound of leaves rustling when no wind stirred them.
She stopped abruptly, her flashlight beam trembling in her hand. Her heart quickened, the sounds pressing in closer, blending into a dissonant chorus that grated against her nerves. She glanced at her phone, her lifeline to navigation, and froze.
The screen flickered once, then went dark. No reception. No signal. No waypoints left to guide her. Panic bubbled in her chest as she tapped the screen desperately, but the device refused to comply, as if the forest itself had swallowed the technology whole.
Time twisted and lost meaning. Her breaths came in shallow bursts, the muffled sound of leaves crunching underfoot her only company. The flashlight’s weak beam seemed to waver against the encroaching darkness, casting jagged shadows that felt alive. How long had she been walking? Half an hour? An hour? Two? Time seemed to melt into a blob here. All she knew was that she was alone, in the dark, in a deep forest, at night.
Or so she had thought.
Then—hands.
Cold as iron. Strong as steel clamps. They appeared out of nowhere, tightening so fast, so violently, that her body barely had time to react. She screamed, loud and sharp, the sound tearing through the quiet and hitting nothing but the void.
Her flashlight clattered to the ground, its beam fractured against the underbrush. The figures were shadows given form, their movements impossibly fluid, their grasp unrelenting. She kicked, struggled, her pulse hammering so wildly she thought it might burst through her ribs. The grasp did not falter, did not waver.
Then—movement.
Fast. Too fast.
The world blurred, trees melted into black shapes, shadows warped together in an unnatural streak. It felt wrong, impossible, like she had left the constraints of reality itself—because no human could move like this, no mortal could drag her through the night with effortless silence.
She had known the risks.
Forgotten Hollow wasn’t on any map, wasn’t marked by roads, wasn’t meant for mortal eyes—and yet, she had found it.
Or rather—it had found her.
Audience with the Vampire
When they finally stopped, the grip loosened, but her knees buckled beneath the force of the sudden halt, the world still spinning.
Before she could gather herself, she was thrown to the ground, forced to her knees, the weight of unseen gazes pressing upon her. She remained on her knees, afraid.
The room? Silent.
The shadows curled thickly around the stone chamber, swallowing what little light flickered from the sparse candles lining the walls.
She could feel his presence; just knew he was there.
He did not speak right away.
He stayed in the shadows, unseen. Watching. Waiting.
The weight of the vampire’s gaze pressed heavily upon her. Bound by circumstance rather than force, Veronica’s pulse thundered as she fought to steady herself.
Before she could react, his hand—ice-cold, its chill sinking deep into her bones—tilted her chin upward, slow, deliberate, inevitable. His face surfaced from the shadows, stark against the void, while the rest of him lingered at the threshold, still partially claimed by the darkness, as if reluctant to fully step into existence. But his touch was undeniably real. For a moment, his silver eyes locked onto hers—piercing, unwavering, carrying an unfathomable depth, as if she stood at the edge of eternity itself.
Then, he moved forward.
With the grace of centuries refined, Cesare extended his other hand toward her, palm up, steady, an invitation as much as a command. His touch was cool, but his gesture radiated an unexpected warmth, the kind born not of fire but of unyielding civility.
“Rise, Your Highness,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying the polished weight of an old Florentine dialect layered beneath perfect English. “It would be improper for a lady of your standing to remain so low before me. I assume you know who I am.”
Veronica swallowed, then nodded. Cesare Vannucci, Grand Master Elder of the vampires, needed no introduction.
“I thought you might. That’s why you’re here, to see me, isn’t it? A young lady of your upbringing wouldn’t have come here at this hour without a purpose.”
There was nothing hurried in his words or movements, nothing unkind—only the quiet expectation of royalty engaging royalty.
Veronica hesitated, her pulse quickening as her trembling fingers hovered briefly above his. But his silver eyes never wavered, holding hers with a calm assurance that compelled her to comply.
Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to guide her to her feet. Cesare’s movements were fluid and deliberate, his strength tempered by elegance.
“Forgive my unorthodox introduction,” he said, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment, his tone polite yet tinged with amusement. “We rarely receive mortals in Forgotten Hollow, much less one of your rank. You must excuse any roughness from my men—they are… not accustomed to receiving royal guests.”
Veronica steadied herself, though her heart still raced. “I—I don’t think anyone expected me to come here. Not even myself, really,” she managed, her voice faltering slightly as she found herself standing before him.
Cesare’s lips curved faintly, an almost imperceptible smile. “No one ever expects the brave, child,” he remarked, his voice soft, rich with the wisdom of someone who had seen too much of humanity’s contradictions. “But here you are. And now, as is proper, allow me to greet you properly.”
Straightening his posture with effortless refinement, Cesare bowed—not deeply, but enough to honor her status—his hand held lightly over his heart.
“Welcome, Mylady Veronica Annabelle Cromwell, Princess of Henfordshire, third in line to the throne—ah, now fifth, my apologies, for it briefly slipped my mind that your dear brother William has already secured two heirs,” he intoned, his voice calm yet resonant, each syllable carrying the refined nobility of Florence, weaving through the quiet chamber. “A daughter of my blood, and after my own heart—a lady of courage and conviction. You honor me with your presence. Welcome to my humble abode.”
Veronica’s breath caught ever so slightly. It was not the elegant words nor the reverence in his tone that unsettled her—it was the precision. He spoke of her lineage, her standing, the shifting ranks of succession, as if he had been quietly watching from the shadows all these years. And yet, she knew next to nothing about him, this distant figure draped in secrecy.
As he rose, his gaze met hers again, silver against blue, timeless against mortal. And for a moment, the air between them seemed to still, weighty and charged with something unspoken.
“Now,” Cesare continued, his tone softening slightly, “tell me why you have come. My time is yours—for as long as you require.”
Veronica hesitated, her fingers brushing nervously against the embroidered edge of her sleeve. Cesare’s calm, penetrating gaze held her firmly in place, compelling her to speak.
“I came here because… I need your help,” she said, her voice faltering slightly.
Cesare’s silver eyes softened, but the faint curve of his lips hinted at bemusement. “Help,” he repeated, his tone light yet layered with centuries of knowing. “A peculiar thing, to seek aid from my kind—a species your world still considers myth and frightful legend. Pray tell, child, what do you imagine I might offer you that no mortal can?”
Veronica inhaled sharply, steadying her breath. “My fiancé… Crown Prince Elias Gyllenborg of Nordhaven… he’s missing,” she explained, her voice gaining strength with every word. “He was leading a unit near the border, but something went terribly wrong. He hasn’t been seen since. The kingdom says he’s missing in action.” Her throat tightened. “But I know—he’s still alive. I’ve tried everything. I’ve spoken until my voice went hoarse pleading with his parents. I even invited myself to Iverstad Palace in Nordhaven just to be able to come and see you now because you’re my very last hope.” For a fleeting moment, Cesare’s gaze darkened, the light reflecting in his silver eyes shifting like ripples across still water.
“And what proof do you have of this, Your Highness?” he asked, his voice smooth, yet carrying the faintest undercurrent of challenge.
She bit her lip, glancing downward, before lifting her head with defiance. “I don’t have proof,” she admitted. “But I feel it. In my heart. He promised me he’d come back—and I know he will. I just need to find him first, I just know he needs help.”
Cesare tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Ah, a promise. Lovers’ hearts are curious things, bound by intangible vows. You and your heart trust his words, even in the face of uncertainty?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, her amber eyes meeting his silver ones. “I love him. So much. I know I would feel if he were really gone. That’s my proof.”
His smile deepened—not mocking, but thoughtful, as if she had surprised him. “Love,” he murmured, the word lingering on his tongue as though it was both familiar and foreign. “The most fragile of forces, yet capable of shaping worlds and empires. Very well, child, you have my attention. And my assistance.”
He turned slightly, his movement fluid and deliberate as his gaze shifted toward the silent figure hidden from her view beside them.
“Caelan,” Cesare said softly, his tone carrying the weight of centuries, steeped in quiet authority that demanded reverence. “Lead your men. The war shall conclude as I have willed it, and you know what must be done to make it so. But heed me well—His Royal Highness, Prince Elias Gyllenborg, is to be safeguarded above all. Let no harm befall him, my son.”
The dark-haired vampire stepped forward and came into view, his silver eyes cold and unyielding. With a single nod, he accepted the task, his presence radiating quiet power. “Yes father,” And then he was gone. Didn’t leave, just was … gone.
Veronica’s breath hitched at the sheer command Cesare held, the way his words carried weight that felt undeniable, absolute.
“But doesn’t he need—I don’t know—proof? Details? A map? The military is very vague on where he went missing, just something about near the border. But maybe something of Elias’ will help? I—I have his handkerchief,” she offered, her fingers fumbling at the edge of her sleeve.
Cesare chuckled softly, shaking his head. “We are vampires, not hounds,” he replied, his tone carrying a faint trace of amusement. “We need no details. I have seen and partaken in many a war, at the core, they are all the same. You cannot hide from Caelan. Not even in a warzone. He and his men will make short process of finding your beloved. Vampires are masters at hiding and at finding. How do you think we have survived millennia of persecution?”
Veronica swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the embroidered edge of her sleeve. “Oh, I see. And how long will it take?”
“I foresee it being brief,” Cesare replied, his words carrying quiet confidence. “You might as well remain here—for I believe we must discuss the cover story.”
She blinked, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Cover story?”
Cesare inclined his head slightly, his expression calm. “Obviously, it will not be us taking the credit, for we are but myths and frightful tales. And neither can you. You are but a sweet, innocent princess who believes vampires are but mere folklore, remember? You were never here.”
His words settled over her, heavy with implication. Veronica remained silent, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to comprehend the depths of his machinations.
Cesare shifted his attention, his gaze flickering toward the shadows behind her.
“I think we shall keep it in the family, though,” he said smoothly, exhaling with the ease of centuries. “What say you, Riordan?”
Behind her—a voice sounded. Warm. Polished. Yet it carried a faint edge of wit. “Agreed, Uncle.”
Veronica startled, turning sharply to see the figure emerging from the shadows. Riordan was handsome, with sharp features that mirrored Cesare’s, though there was something sharper about his charm—something deliberately refined, like a polished weapon.
“Princess Veronica,” Cesare said, unbothered by her reaction, his tone steady. “This is Riordan, my nephew and right hand. In your circles, he would likely be referred to as my Formal Secretary—or, more aptly, my architect of public perception. Nothing is ever as it seems, especially not when my kind is involved. Another weapon of ours. Smoke and mirrors, we wield them well.”
Riordan bowed politely, his lips curving into a practiced smile that was neither mocking nor cold, but steeped in confidence.
“Your Highness,” Riordan greeted, his voice smooth as velvet. “An honor.”
“Riordan,” Cesare continued, gesturing toward him, “we must ensure the kingdom of Nordhaven remains untouched—yet utterly unaware of our involvement. Perhaps a bloodied battleground will suffice? Weaken the opposition, force them to surrender under the weight of their own ruin, and put this tiresome conflict to rest. Wars, including this one, serve no purpose beyond enriching the powerful while dooming the powerless to misery. I have seen too many, and I will see many more—always new pretenses, yet always the same.
This one, however, threatens to grow inconvenient. Should we allow it to fester, it may inch toward our borders, pulling unwanted eyes into places best left unseen. I prefer quiet obscurity, not the blundering of mortals with their reckless cannons and petty disputes. The illusion of peace serves us far better than chaos.
And before you suggest otherwise, no, the witches and werewolves will not lift a finger—at least, not in any way that doesn’t involve foolish brawling or hexes that fizzle out when met with real strategy. They’ll lurk in their pitiful little towns, waiting for someone else to clean up the mess. It always falls to us to bring order, to wield power with precision instead of brute force and superstition.
And so, for that purpose alone, I have decided—the war will end. Tonight. The mortals will believe their fate is their own doing. And none will ever suspect the hand that guided it.”
Riordan stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “It will be as you command, Uncle,” he replied, his words laced with precision. Turning to Veronica, his gaze softened—just slightly. “We will ensure the Henfordian troops awaken in chaos and triumph, their memories crafted to perfection believing their involvement decided the war in Nordhaven’s favor. The Crown Prince shall return, unscathed yet forged anew by the fire of war, and his family shall be eternally grateful to yours, dear Princess.”
Veronica hesitated, her mind reeling as Riordan’s words settled like stones in her chest. The plan was seamless, too seamless, as though they had orchestrated such charades countless times before. Yet, the idea of Elias returning—not just alive, but celebrated—brought a flicker of hope that steadied her trembling resolve.
Cesare observed her closely, his silver eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, though his voice, when he spoke, was calm and measured. “Does the arrangement please you, Your Highness?”
Veronica exhaled, struggling to find her voice. Riordan’s gaze rested on her, deep and dark as coals, unblinking, unreadable—a contrast to Cesare’s sharp, silver-eyed scrutiny.
“Yes,” she said softly, then, with more certainty, “Yes, but there’s one thing… I don’t want Henfordshire’s troops to take the glory.”
Cesare raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”
She straightened, drawing on the poise instilled in her by a lifetime of royal training. “My father would not want to be celebrated for winning wars, especially ones we had no rightful place in, he is a great advocate of peace. Elias deserves recognition, not just for the kingdom, but for himself. He joined this war to prove his worth as a leader. If he returns thinking he single-handedly saved his people, perhaps he’ll find the peace he needs to leave war behind. And all that other thrill-seeking nonsense he constantly gets himself hurt in.”
Cesare’s expression softened, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed his amusement. “Ah, love’s sweet selflessness. A young maiden quietly saving her beloved. Admirable, if not a touch naive. But it shall be as you wish, my dear.”
Riordan’s practiced smile deepened, his voice smooth and unwavering. “A truly noble sentiment, Princess. We shall see it done.”
Cesare inclined his head slightly toward his nephew. “Riordan, inform Caelan of the revised narrative. Our brave Prince Elias and his army shall rise victoriously as the hero of the hour. But make sure the Henfordian troops all return home safely as well.”
With a faint bow, Riordan stepped back into the shadows, his movements so fluid and silent that he seemed to vanish rather than leave.
Cesare’s attention returned to Veronica, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze felt less intimidating, almost warm. “Now,” he said, his tone softening, “while my dear nephew handles the specifics, let us adjourn for tea. You must be weary after your… adventure.”
Before she could respond, a silent servant entered, carrying a tray laden with an ornate porcelain teapot and cups. Cesare motioned gracefully toward a seat near the flickering hearth, his movements effortless, his demeanor unerringly polite.
Veronica hesitated but nodded, allowing herself to sink into the plush chair. The warmth of the fire was a welcome reprieve from the chill that still clung to her skin.
Cesare poured the tea himself, his hands steady and precise, the soft clink of porcelain against porcelain the only sound in the room. He set a delicate cup before her, the faint aroma of spiced black tea wafting upward.
“Allow me,” he said, his voice quiet yet commanding.
Veronica accepted the cup with a murmured “Thank you,” her fingers brushing against the intricate silver filigree that adorned its surface. “This is exquisite,” she remarked, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “It looks… ancient.”
Cesare’s lips curved faintly, his silver eyes gleaming with a glimmer of nostalgia. “It belonged to my father, Giovanni Lorenzo Vannucci,” he said smoothly. “A gift from Cosimo de’ Medici himself—the famed architect of Florence’s Golden Age.”
Her eyes widened, curiosity sparking. “Medici? As in the Medici?”
He inclined his head slightly, his expression calm. “The very same. My father and Cosimo shared many dealings, though their ambitions often clashed. This teaset was an olive branch—a gesture of goodwill after one such disagreement.”
Veronica studied him, her gaze softening. “And you kept it all this time?”
“For centuries,” Cesare replied, his voice steady yet carrying a note of shadowed memory. “It is one of the few possessions I retained after my family was… lost.”
Her breath caught, the weight of his words sinking in. “Lost?” she echoed softly.
His silver eyes darkened, though his composure remained unbroken. “Assassinated,” he said simply, the word cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Adversaries, jealous and ruthless, sought to destroy all we had built. My parents, my brothers… all taken in one night.”
Veronica felt her chest tighten, her fingers trembling slightly around the teacup. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice trembling with sincerity.
Cesare offered a faint smile, though it carried the weight of his past. “Loss, child, is the crucible that forges us. It sharpens, it defines. My sister, Caterina, and I escaped, but survival came at a cost. In the days that followed, the world sought to break us further—highwaymen, thieves, cruelty. And then… there was the vampire.”
Her pulse quickened, though she remained silent, captivated by the gravity of his words.
“He turned us,” Cesare continued, his voice quiet but resolute. “Not out of kindness, but malice. He left us to fend for ourselves, without guidance, without understanding. Freshly turned, we were nothing more than prey. Yet we survived—out of sheer will, out of desperation. Luckily, our parents had bestowed upon us names that still allow us to blend in now throughout time. Cesare. Ironically, mine fits—Cesare means faithful, wholehearted. Yet, it carries more than simple devotion. There is power in it, an expectation of duty, of unwavering will. A name befitting one who commands, whether he desires it or not.” He chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm despite the darkness of his tale. “You may ask my wife, of a very, very long time, if I have ever given her reason to doubt my dedication.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Veronica’s shocked expression, and his amusement deepened, evident in the faint curl of his lips. “But my sister? Caterina means pure, which is endlessly ironic. She has always been anything but—born of legend, shaped by rebellion. Her first name, Caterina, is a name meant for innocence, refinement. Yet with her, it is nothing more than a mask. Purity was never her calling; power, however, always was. Amusing how siblings spring from the same womb, yet often could not be more different. Same with my own children.”
She blinked, startled by his sudden levity, and Cesare chuckled again, low and knowing. “Ah, the look on your face. Did you really think I have always been… this?” He gestured to himself, his silver eyes glinting. “No, sweet girl, I was mortal once—a promising young nobleman, destined for greatness in the Florentine banking halls. A gilded life stretched before me—wealth, power, a beautiful betrothed. All taken from me in one night.”
He paused, his gaze dropping briefly to the tea in his hands. “It is why my rules now are absolute,” he said, his tone steady but charged with unrelenting resolve. “Vampires without control are chaos incarnate. I will not see others suffer as we did.”
The air between them grew heavier, his words sinking deep into the space, yet his dangerous charm remained as captivating as ever, blending gravitas with the faintest flicker of sardonic amusement.
Veronica swallowed hard, her heart aching at the quiet pain behind his words. “You endured so much,” she said softly. “And yet… here you are, helping me.”
Cesare’s lips curved again, though his smile was fleeting. “Endurance teaches us many things, child. Chief among them is the value of choice. I choose to honor the blood we share, for your courage in coming here speaks to the strength of our lineage.”
The air between them shifted, the firelight casting flickering shadows across Cesare’s sharp features.
“What do you want in return for your help?” Veronica asked suddenly, her voice both firm and hesitant.
Cesare’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, his silver eyes gleaming with something between mischief and quiet intrigue. He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers as though savoring the question before answering.
“What do I want?” he repeated, his tone carrying the practiced elegance of a man who had once debated politics with Florentine merchants and nobles. “An excellent question, Your Highness. Few mortals dare ask it aloud.”
His gaze lingered on her for a moment, weighing her as though she were a piece of rare art—a masterpiece just shy of completion. Then, he leaned forward, his tone softening to something almost conspiratorial.
“How about your firstborn?” he offered casually, his words slipping into the room like shadows.
Veronica’s face drained of color, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief.
Cesare’s laughter was a low, rich sound, filling the room like the notes of a harpsichord. It was both amused and indulgent, velvet in its cadence. “Oh, how delightful,” he murmured, shaking his head as if thoroughly entertained. “Your reaction was priceless, my dear. But no, I jest. Rest assured, I have no use for such archaic bargains.”
Veronica exhaled sharply, one hand pressing to her chest as she fixed him with a pointed glare. “That wasn’t funny.”
“My deepest apologies,” Cesare replied, though the faint amusement in his voice betrayed a lack of regret. He raised his hand slightly, forestalling any further protest. “But in my defense, humor has often been a tool of disarmament, particularly when faced with tense negotiations. Allow me to amend my request to something far less dramatic.”
He leaned back, his expression softening as he tilted his head thoughtfully. “A hug, perhaps?”
Veronica blinked, caught entirely off guard. “A… hug?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Indeed.” His smile widened, his tone light but sincere. “You are, after all, my great-great-granddaughter—blood of my blood. Surely that is not too steep a price for the life of your beloved fiancé?”
Despite herself, Veronica let out a soft laugh, uncertain but genuine. “No, of course not,” she murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “I just didn’t think your kind would… enjoy such things.”
Cesare’s laughter returned, warm and unhurried. “Ah, dear child,” he said, shaking his head slightly, “humans are far too fond of their caricatures. Vampires are not the soulless monsters you imagine us to be. We feel—perhaps more deeply than you, for time sharpens the blade of every emotion.”
He rose from his chair with the grace of a courtly dance, extending his arms toward her. “Come now, Your Highness,” he said, his voice softer. “I have lost a daughter, as you know. For a moment, indulge me in remembering what it is to hold my own blood close.”
Veronica hesitated for only a moment before setting down her cup and rising. Cesare’s embrace was firm yet strangely comforting, his presence enveloping her with a quiet strength that felt as timeless as the man himself.
“You remind me of my darling Scarlett,” Cesare murmured, his voice low. “She used to hug me like this, as though the world might fall away if she let go.”
Veronica closed her eyes briefly, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his tone. “I know, I heard,” she said quietly. “Great-Grandfather Blaine nearly lost his mind without her. My condolences to you.”
“Thank you,” Cesare replied, releasing her slowly. “Yes, her death nearly broke me. Mistakes were made, my dear child. Grave ones, reminding me that no matter how powerful one might seem, every vampire is still only human at their core. And to err, as they say, is decidedly human.”
He stepped back slightly, his silver eyes meeting hers with renewed resolve. “Helping you,” he continued, “it feels as though I inch closer to atoning for that great debt to your family. You owe me nothing. Your betrothed shall be found and returned, safe and sound. He is alive. Of that, I am certain. If he were not, we would have heard otherwise by now.”
Veronica’s breath hitched, tears welling in her eyes as she fought to keep her composure. Cesare, ever perceptive, reached into his pocket and produced a delicately embroidered handkerchief, offering it to her with quiet grace.
She accepted it, dabbing at her eyes. “You must come to our wedding,” she said, her voice trembling but sincere. “As a guest of honor. I didn’t want to marry so young, but if Elias comes back, I’d marry him the very next day if that were possible, just so we’d never have to be apart again.”
Cesare’s smile was faint but genuine. “While I appreciate the sentiment, my dear flower, I must decline. Our paths are best kept parallel, rather than crossing too publicly. It is better for all involved.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of unspoken fears lingering in the air like smoke.
Then, the door opened, and Riordan entered with his ever-practiced smile. His presence was calm, measured—a soothing contrast to the room’s intensity, untouched by the violence that had unfolded. As always, he remained immaculate, letting others dirty their hands while he observed from a distance.
Caelan followed close behind, his imposing figure cutting a stark silhouette in the flickering light. His black attire was pristine—except for the dark streak of blood across his jawline, the splatter on his collar, and the deep red smearing the length of his blade.
“It is done,” Caelan announced, his voice low and gravelly as he dipped his head toward Cesare. A single droplet of blood slid from the tip of his sword, splattering onto the stone floor with a quiet finality.
“Executed to perfection, Uncle,” Riordan added, offering Veronica a small, reassuring smile.
Cesare turned his attention back to Veronica, his gaze steady and kind. “Well, there you have it, sweet princess. Your future groom is safe and will soon be celebrated as a hero.”
Veronica gasped softly, tears of relief spilling over as she clung to Cesare, her emotions finally spilling out in trembling sobs.
“There, now, child,” Cesare said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You have done all that could be done. Let your heart rest.”
When her tears began to subside, she lifted her gaze to meet Cesare’s. Her breath hitched as she realized the scenery around them had changed. Gone were the elegant shadows of Cesare’s domain, replaced by the familiar surroundings of Elias’ home kingdom of Nordhaven, more specifically, the palace gardens.
The cold air brushed against her skin, faint voices of patrolling guards drifted nearby, though she remained hidden, standing in the concealed shadows of the garden.
Cesare stepped back, his silver eyes softening. “This is as far as I can take you,” he said, his voice calm but final, “seeing how nobody here seems alarmed about your absence, I will assume you know how to get yourself back inside unnoticed without my help. So I bid you farewell here, sweet princess. And when you reach your room, know you will soon receive very relieving news. Try to act surprised.”
Veronica’s lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she stepped forward and kissed his cheek, whispering, “Thank you.”
Cesare inclined his head slightly, his silver eyes catching the faint light as they met hers one last time. Without another word, his figure dissipated into a dark cloud, the shadowy mist curling and twisting before disappearing entirely.
Veronica stood still, the garden quiet around her as she gathered herself. Then, with renewed resolve, she turned toward the palace, stepping out of the shadows and walking toward safety to digest her adventure.
Where Shadows Lead
The woods stretched out before him, an endless, suffocating expanse of white. Snow clung to the barren trees, muffling the world around him as Elias stumbled forward, each step unsteady and strained. His battered body screamed for relief, every breath catching painfully in his ribs, but he pressed on, more from instinct than conscious thought. His mind was a shattered mosaic—fragments of memories flashing in and out of focus.
Bullets tearing through the air. The panicked cries of his men. The ambush—Vasterland’s soldiers overwhelming them in a ruthless tide. He remembered fighting back, his body moving on sheer desperation, fists swinging and boots pounding against the frozen ground. He could still feel the bruising grip of hands dragging him down, the searing pain of boots and fists breaking his resistance. Then came the cold confines of a cell, the harsh whispers of triumph when they discovered his identity. Hours of interrogation blurred into a cacophony of pain, until at last, the haze swallowed him.
But there was more. Fleeting, haunting glimpses lingered on the edges of his thoughts. Blood—an endless sea of crimson pooling in scorched earth. The ruins of what might’ve been a Vasterland stronghold smoldering against a pale horizon. The grotesque, mangled bodies of enemy soldiers scattered like broken dolls, the acrid stench of smoke and iron clinging to the air. He remembered seeing Nordhaven’s men staggering through the wreckage, their faces pale with confusion, their weapons hanging limp at their sides. None of it made sense. And then came the darkness again, swallowing him whole.
The next thing he knew, he was in motion. A military vehicle rumbled beneath him, the vibration rattling his aching ribs. His head leaned against the cool glass of the window, the world outside a muted blur of snow-laden trees and frosted roads. He blinked sluggishly, his reflection staring back at him in the glass—pale, bruised, and unfamiliar. Fragments of conversation reached his ears, soldiers speaking in low, reverent tones, their words muffled by the fog in his mind.
“…Prince Elias… alive…” “…the Hero Prince…” “Unbelievable…”
Their voices blended with the steady hum of the engine, a surreal soundtrack to the dream-like haze. Elias shifted slightly, the movement drawing a sharp flare of pain from his shoulder and ribs. He grimaced, but the ache anchored him, grounding him in the present even as his mind refused to fill in the gaps.
The convoy reached the outskirts of Iverstad Palace as the city came alive in a deafening chorus. The streets of Nordhaven were thronged with people, their cheers echoing against the snowy facades of the buildings. Royal flags fluttered in the crisp winter air, a sea of Nordhaven’s light blue and silver stretching as far as the eye could see. Faces blurred together, mouths forming the same chant over and over: “Prince Elias! Our hero!”
The vehicle rolled to a halt before the palace steps. The door opened, and the icy air bit into his skin, jolting him from his stupor. Hands reached to assist him, but Elias brushed them off, summoning what strength he had to step out on his own. The pain was relentless, every muscle and bone in his body protesting, but he straightened his posture, his movements deliberate as he descended to meet the jubilant crowd. The roar of voices was almost unbearable, washing over him like a tidal wave, but he forced himself to keep moving.
At the top of the stairs stood his family: King Sven, tall and imposing, his expression a mixture of pride and relief; Queen Ingrid, her hands clasped tightly as though afraid to let go of her composure; and Magnus, his younger brother, his face alight with admiration and concern. Elias climbed the stairs slowly, each step feeling like a monumental effort. When he reached the top, his father embraced him briefly, the grip firm but warm.
King Sven turned to the crowd, his voice rising above the din. “Citizens of Nordhaven! Our Crown Prince has returned, victorious in the face of impossible odds. His courage and strength have not only saved the city-state of Aldenmark but also safeguarded the future of our kingdom. Let us honor him for his bravery!”
The crowd erupted again, their cheers deafening. Elias stood there, his body aching, his mind clouded. He nodded faintly, acknowledging their adoration, but the weight of their expectations bore down on him, adding to the fog in his mind. Moments passed in a blur—his family’s embraces, the warmth of their hands guiding him inside the palace.
The noise of the crowd faded behind the heavy doors. Elias barely registered the intricate decor of the grand hall or the murmured words of the palace staff. His body moved on autopilot, each step taking him closer to the sanctuary of his chambers. When he finally reached his room, he sank into the familiar softness of his bed, the weight of exhaustion dragging him down.
The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was the faint glow of the firelight dancing across the walls. Then, darkness.
The Reluctant Hero
A soft knock broke the stillness of the room.
Elias’s head jerked up, his ice-blue eyes refocusing from the haze he had been staring into. Weariness lingered in his expression, but it faded the moment he heard the knock, replaced by something brighter—hope.
The door opened slightly, and a guard stepped in, standing at rigid attention. His voice was crisp and formal. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Veronica Cromwell of Henfordshire.”
At once, the exhaustion in Elias’s eyes lifted, replaced with warmth and unmistakable affection. A smile broke across his face, faint but growing as he straightened, despite the ache in his body. His light blonde hair caught the warm glow of the firelight as he pushed back against the pillows. “Send her in,” he said, his tone soft but urgent, laced with longing.
The guard stepped aside, and Veronica entered. For a moment, she lingered just inside the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The firelight illuminated her delicate features—the smooth, pale platinum waves of her hair framing her face and tumbling loose over her shoulders, and the sharp clarity of her sky-blue eyes shimmering as they met his gaze. Her dress, simple yet elegant, caught the light with a subtle gleam, her movements deliberate and graceful despite the nervous tension in her posture.
Elias’s smile softened into something more tender. “Vero,” he murmured, his voice teasing, but underpinned with the unmistakable weight of longing. “What are you doing all the way over there? Come here.”he said, his voice laced with urgency and an unmistakable affection.
She stepped forward, her movements quick but careful, her hands smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Your parents and mine said it’s okay for me to be here,” she began, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Unchaperoned. I mean, in your personal quarters. Given the circumstances, I mean. But I—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupted, already shifting to pull the blanket off as he swung his legs to the side. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. You’ve no concept of how much I missed you.”
“Elias!” she exclaimed, crossing the room in an instant as he tried to stand. Her hands found his arms, steadying him as his knees wavered under the effort. “Your parents said you’re not supposed to get up!”
“They’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, sinking back onto the bed with a soft groan. His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. “I’m pathetic. If I were a horse, I’d have been sent to the glue factory already. But hey,” he added, his grin turning impish, “at least I got you over here quick, didn’t I?”
Veronica blinked, momentarily stunned, before laughter bubbled out of her, light and relieved. “You’re ridiculous,” she chided, shaking her head. “Still impossible, as always.”
“Just making sure you don’t change your mind,” he teased, though his tone carried an undercurrent of vulnerability.
Her smile softened, and she reached to adjust the blankets around him with careful hands, ensuring he was comfortable. As she stepped back, Elias reached out, his fingers brushing hers.
“Stay,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and unyielding. He slid over slightly, patting the space beside him. “Please. Let’s forget royal conduct and etiquette—just for tonight.”
Veronica hesitated, her eyes flicking briefly toward the door before meeting his again. The weight of the moment hung between them, unspoken but profound. Finally, she nodded, slipping off her shoes and perching carefully on the bed’s edge. She stayed atop the covers, her posture deliberate, but the closeness between them was palpable.
Her gaze flickered over him, catching the bruises along his jaw and the faint scratches on his cheek. Her breath hitched, and she reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing his face with feather-light care. “My poor darling,” she whispered, her voice trembling as her thumb traced the edge of a bruise. “What have they done to you?”
Elias’s smile faltered, his expression softening into something more vulnerable. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “Argh, whom am I kidding? It is as bad as it looks. Every inch of me hurts, there is no comfortable position, and that is with the pain meds the palace doc already gave me. I shudder to imagine what it will feel like when it wears off, and the doc said something about PTSD. But hey, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Veronica’s eyes glistened, her hand lingering on his cheek before moving to adjust the blankets around him. “You shouldn’t even be sitting up,” she chided gently, her tone a mixture of worry and affection. “You need rest.”
“I need you,” Elias countered, his voice low but steady. He caught her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile, though the concern in her gaze didn’t waver. “You scared me,” she admitted softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “When they said you were missing, I—I thought I’d lost you. I couldn’t—” She broke off, her voice catching.
Elias squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in quiet reassurance. “It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I don’t remember much. Just flashes—pain, blood, shouting, bullets, screams of pain. It’s a blur. They tell me I’m a hero, that I took down an entire stronghold, but… I don’t remember how. I remember nothing, really, they say it’s amnesia and will come back to me, but I don’t even know if I want that, because the few things I do recall are gruesome, and that is putting it mildly.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Some hero,” he added bitterly.
Veronica’s heart ached at the weight of his words. Without hesitation, she leaned closer, her voice steady and resolute. “You are my hero,” she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not because of what they say you’ve done, but because of who you are. The way you care. The way you’d give everything—for your people, your family, and…” She hesitated, her voice softening. “For me.”
Her words settled over him like a balm, filling the cracks of his doubt. Slowly, his lips curved into a faint smile—a real one. “You make me believe it,” he whispered.
Veronica smiled through the tears slipping down her cheeks. She leaned forward, and their lips met in a kiss that was soft, unhurried, and filled with quiet, unspoken promises.
Much later, the door creaked open again. King Sven, Queen Ingrid, and Veronica’s parents—King Maximilian and Queen Aria-Grace—stepped quietly inside, followed by a nurse carrying a tray of medications. The scene that met them gave them pause: Elias and Veronica, curled together on the bed. Her head rested gently against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around her.
The nurse raised an eyebrow, her voice dry and amused. “Well, I suppose he won’t need the sedatives tonight.”
Queen Aria-Grace frowned lightly, glancing at her daughter. “Max,” she whispered, nudging her husband, “do you think you could move her without waking Elias?”
King Sven raised a hand to stop her, shaking his head gently. His voice was low but certain. “Let them sleep. They’ve both been through enough of late to last a lifetime. I say to hell with royal codex if it’s all the same to you, Max and AG.”
Queen Ingrid smiled faintly, her voice soft with affection. “I agree with my husband. I am all for keeping things proper but they both deserve this. They’re engaged. And it’s clear how much they mean to each other. Let them be.”
King Maximilian and Queen Aria-Grace traded a glance, a smile and a shrug, before AG looked back. “Works for us.”
The families exchanged a knowing glance before stepping quietly out, leaving the door slightly ajar as the warm glow of the fire flickered softly in the room. The two slept soundly, their breaths even and steady, wrapped in the safety of each other’s presence.
EchoesOfLegacy 