Chapter Two: The Eve of Ruin
Cold wind howled through the tall arched window of Princess Valyia Dracaria's chamber, sweeping in without mercy, flaring her nightgown like a wraith's veil. The lace clung to her full curves, transparent in places where moonlight kissed the fabric, revealing the sensual outline of a body carved like poetry. Her golden hair, impossibly long, rippled behind her like liquid starlight, the strands dancing wildly with the gusts.
She stood motionless, a creature of unbearable beauty—ravissant, otherworldly, more dream than flesh. There was a grace to her, but it wasn't fragile. It was decadent. Powerful. Her voluptuous figure was shaped with divine indulgence, hips curving generously, waist narrowing like the stem of a chalice, her breasts full and high beneath the gossamer of her gown. A vision sculpted not for modesty, but majesty. Ethereal, yet ruinously sensual.
And yet, behind that breathtaking splendor, her silken cheeks were streaked with tears. The salt glistened on her skin, catching the starlight. Her hands gripped the windowsill as if anchoring herself to the moment.
Six full moons had passed.
And still, her soul could not climb out of the night her mother died.
Valyia did not move, did not blink. Her lashes were wet, her breath shallow. Time had hardened around her, a fortress of memory and rage.
That night lived in her bones. In her nightmares. In the mirror.
She could still feel the warmth of her mother's hands trembling over her shoulders, smell the floral musk that always clung to Queen Lorres. Hear the crack in her mother's voice.
"Valyia. We must leave. Now."
It had been sudden. Violent in its urgency. The Queen had burst into her room near midnight, her silver-blonde hair loose around her face, her jeweled robe undone. There had been no crown, no servants. Only panic.
At first, Valyia had thought her mother was sleepwalking. She'd tried to calm her, to laugh it off—until Lorres seized the thickest fur cloak from the wardrobe and began wrapping it around her daughter, her fingers fumbling.
"Mother, what's happening?"
"I will explain later," she whispered. "Right now, we run."
The weight of the coat had fallen over Valyia like a question she couldn't answer. Then her mother took her hand and pulled her into the hallway.
One of the Queen's elite guards joined them. A woman with no name, cloaked in crimson, eyes sharp as glass. The three of them moved swiftly, disappearing through the hidden corridors of the palace.
The trees met them like watchers, ancient and unmoved. The forest welcomed no one, not even queens. They moved fast, vampire-fast, through twisted roots and branches heavy with frost. The wind howled louder the deeper they ran, as if trying to warn them.
They thought they had escaped.
They were wrong.
Black cloaks dropped from the trees. Figures emerged from the shadows like living smoke. Tall. Silent. Their movements impossibly fluid. And they were not vampires. Nor witches. They were something else entirely.
Darklings.
Valyia remembered the scream her mother didn't have time to voice. The sound of the guard falling, her skull cracked against stone. The sting of a blow across Valyia's temple as she tried to protect her mother.
They pinned her down.
She remembered the ground. Cold. Rough. The weight on her back. Her limbs twisted beneath strange hands. She had struggled. Gods, she had fought until her nails tore. But they were too strong.
And then, he appeared.
The fiend.
The one they called Di Vael. The Devil. The Outcast.
He did not walk. He glided. Emerged from the trees like the forest had given birth to him. Cloaked in darkness, a silver mask over his face. But not just a mask—his eyes were blindfolded with a strip of black cloth, fastened behind his skull. Even sightless, he moved like a beast that did not need eyes to see.
He stood over Queen Lorres, silent.
Valyia had screamed. Or maybe it was only in her mind.
The fiend raised his blade. It glowed faintly with blue sigils. He placed one gloved hand beneath Lorres' chin, tilted her face up. He whispered something—low, ancient words no one else could hear.
Then, with no more effort than snapping a flower stem, he slit her throat.
Valyia's scream died in her chest.
Her mother's body arched once, then sagged.
But it wasn't over. The dagger plunged into her chest. Again. Then again.
Blood sprayed like red silk across the snow.
Valyia watched, wide-eyed, throat raw, every part of her soul breaking. The queen's blood soaked her gown. Her white dress stained red. And all she could do was lie there, pinned by shadows, her tears hot against the cold earth.
Then, without a word, the fiend turned to her.
But he did not kill her.
He knelt.
Touched her face.
And with one sudden, precise twist, snapped her neck.
Not to kill. Just to silence.
She fell into darkness.
Later, when she awoke, it was Prince Victor who had saved her. His arms around her, her head resting against his chest. He told her he had arrived too late to save the queen. The guard was still alive, barely. But her mother was gone. Taken.
The Darkling Prince had vanished with her corpse.
Why? No one knew.
But Valyia did not cry in front of Victor.
She saved her tears for the cold moonlight and the solitude of her chambers.
Now, six moons later, the gown she wore was the same one from that night. Cleaned, yes. But haunted.
She had grown more silent since then. More unreadable. Her beauty remained, more startling by the day—but colder now. Like a goddess whose heart had been buried beneath ice. Her lips, always red as wine, never smiled. Her gaze, silver-grey, saw too much.
She stared into the dark horizon.
And in her heart, a storm was building.
The wind pulled at her again. But this time, she did not flinch.
Let it come, she thought.
Let the cold take me.
I will rise colder.