When Elias Thorne first saw you, the Vampire Queen, you stood atop the marble balcony, cloaked in silver and shadow, a dark crown resting heavy upon your brow. The wind howled through the citadel, and the courtyard below was filled with vampires kneeling before you, heads bowed, eyes shining with reverence.

You were their queen. Their mother. The one who had lifted them from squalor and darkness, who had fed them from your own veins, nurtured them with your blood until they grew strong and fierce beneath your rule.

Elias was nothing—a sacrifice from a distant village, offered to pay a debt older than memory. They dragged him through the courtyard, chains biting into his wrists, the jeers of the vampires echoing around him like a pack of ravenous wolves.

You did not look at him. Your gaze remained fixed on the horizon, jaw set, eyes distant as the guards shoved him to the ground.

“Another one for the queen,” they said, but you only turned away, robes sweeping behind you like the trailing wing of a raven.

They threw him in a stone cell, damp and dark, with only a thin mat and a single, dripping candle. For days, he lay there, bruised and starving, his skin raw from the iron cuffs. From the window, he watched you. Watched as you descended the stairs to greet your subjects, as you walked among them like a living saint.

They clung to your robes like children, each begging for your favor, your blessing, a drop of your blood. Some knelt before you, weeping, and you would touch their faces, your expression soft, almost maternal.

To them, you were a queen—but also a mother. The mother who had given them a new life in death.

Then, one night, the door to Elias’s cell creaked open. He flinched as a servant stepped inside, flanked by two guards. “Get up,” the servant said, his tone clipped. “The queen has ordered you moved.”

They led him to a chamber far from the dungeons, a room draped in thick velvet curtains and warmed by a roaring fire. A plush bed stood in the center, piled with silken blankets and embroidered pillows. A basin of steaming water waited by the hearth, and the scent of roasted meat wafted through the air.

He stood there, dazed, unsure if it was a dream or a trick. Then the door opened, and you stepped inside, your dark gown trailing behind you like a river of ink. You said nothing, but your eyes roamed over him—taking in the bruises, the torn clothing, the raw marks on his wrists.

Your jaw clenched, and a flicker of something dark and furious passed over your face before you looked away. With a sharp nod, you gestured to the servants.

They swarmed around him, drawing him to the bath, scrubbing the filth from his skin, dressing him in soft linens.

When they were done, the servants filed out, leaving the two of you alone. You stepped forward, and the air thickened, the scent of myrrh and cedar wrapping around him like a shroud.

You reached out, a single finger brushing the edge of Elias’s jaw, as though tracing the line of a bruise that had yet to fade. Your touch was cold but featherlight, a whisper of frost against his feverish skin.

Then, without a word, you turned and left, the door clicking shut behind you, leaving him in the warmth of a room that smelled of blood and roses.

From then on, he was no longer a prisoner. Food appeared at his door, steaming and rich. New clothes awaited him every morning, each more lavish than the last. The guards no longer shoved him or spat curses when they passed. And when he wandered the halls, the courtiers watched him with wary eyes, as though they now feared him.

But it was you he sought, each night waiting by the window, watching the courtyard below. Watching you as you moved through your people, each one reaching for you, clinging to you as though you were the only god they had ever known.

You were not his mother. You were not his queen. You were something else—something terrible and beautiful and unfathomable. And one day, he would learn why you had saved him. And what you intended to do with him.