The throne room smelled of old wine and blood.
King Edmund sat slumped on the Black Throne, crown tilted crooked on his head, eyes red from lack of sleep and too much drink. Around him stood his lords, silent and pale. Beyond the tall arched doors, the sound of war drums echoed from the northern hills. The vampire legion was three days out.
And in the center of the room, on her knees, was Catherine.
She was seventeen now. Too old to be ignored, too dangerous to keep. Her dark hair hung loose and unbound, a tangled curtain that hid the defiance in her eyes. Her dress was torn at the shoulder from where a guard had dragged her here. She didn't cry. She hadn't cried for her father in ten years.
"Stand up, girl," Edmund said. His voice was hoarse, like gravel dragged over stone.
Catherine didn't move.
"Stand up," he repeated, louder. "When I speak to you, you stand."
The captain of the guard shifted behind her, hand moving toward his sword hilt. Catherine felt the air shift and rose slowly, deliberately. She would not be made to scramble. If this was the end, she would meet it on her feet.
"Look at me," Edmund said.
She did.
His face was a map of the man who had once loved her mother. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, eyes the same storm-gray as hers. But where Eliza's eyes had been warm, his were cold and dead. Every time he looked at her, he saw the moment she'd killed her mother. Or so he told himself. It was easier than blaming the fever, the incompetent midwife, the gods.
"You are the reason she's dead," he said. The words were automatic now, a prayer of hate he'd said for seventeen years. "You are the reason this kingdom is dying."
Catherine's jaw tightened. "The vampires are at the gates because you sent our army south to die for your pride, Father. Not because I was born."
A murmur ran through the lords. Someone gasped. No one spoke to the king like that and lived.
Edmund's hand clenched on the arm of the throne. For a second, Catherine thought he'd strike her. He'd done it before. Once, when she was twelve, he'd backhanded her for speaking her mother's name. The scar was still under her hairline.
Instead, he laughed. Ugly and hollow.
"Spirited to the end," he said. "Good. The Blood Prince likes his brides with fire. Makes the drinking sweeter."
The room went quiet.
Catherine's stomach dropped. "What?"
"The offer came last night," Edmund said, sitting forward now, a cruel satisfaction sharpening his face. "Prince Lucian of House Nocturne. He'll spare the capital. He'll withdraw his legion back beyond the Black River. All for one thing."
He stood, descending the three steps of the dais until he was in front of her. He didn't touch her. He never touched her unless it was to hurt.
"You," he said. "My daughter. The tithe. A bride for the Blood Prince."
Catherine stared at him. She'd expected exile. She'd expected a cell. She'd expected death in some forgotten dungeon so his conscience could be clean.
She had not expected this.
"No," she said.
Edmund's eyes narrowed. "You don't get to say no."
"I am your daughter!" The words tore out of her, raw and ragged. "I am Princess Catherine of House Aurell! You can't just—"
"I can, and I did," he cut her off. "You've been a curse on this house since the day you were born. Every bad harvest, every failed alliance, every plague—it started after you came into the world. The priests say it's your blood. Tainted. Cursed."
"Lies," she whispered.
"Truth," he said. "And now that truth will save us. Lucian wants you. He asked for you by name. Seems he's heard of the girl with the queen's eyes. He wants to see if the rumors are true."
Catherine felt sick. She knew the rumors about Prince Lucian. Three hundred years old. He drank kings dry and left their castles empty. He was called the Blood Prince because he didn't just kill—he unmade people. He took their will, their mind, and left them as husks that obeyed his voice.
She would rather die on the battlefield than kneel to him.
"I won't go," she said, quieter now. Deadly. "Chain me. Lock me in the tower. Kill me here. But I won't go willingly to his bed."
Edmund smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You will," he said. "Because if you don't, I'll hang Annie."
Catherine froze.
Annie. The only person who'd ever called her name without hate. The old maid who'd snuck her bread when she was starving, who'd taught her to read when the tutors refused, who'd told her stories of her mother when no one else would.
Annie, who was now seventy-three and frail, and lived in the servants' quarters on the third floor.
"You wouldn't," Catherine said. But even as she said it, she knew he would. He'd kill Annie and blame the vampires. He'd kill Annie and tell himself it was for the good of the kingdom.
Edmund watched her face fall and nodded. "You have until dawn. The prince's envoy arrives at first light to escort you. You'll wear white. You'll smile. You'll get on that carriage and you'll go to Nocturne Keep."
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
"Then Annie dies screaming," he said simply. "And I tell the city it was her treason that doomed us."
Catherine's hands shook. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab the dagger at the captain's belt and end this now, end it all. But she wouldn't. Not with Annie's life on the line.
Coward, a voice in her head whispered. You're a coward.
Maybe. But Annie had taught her that survival was its own kind of defiance.
"Fine," Catherine said. The word tasted like ash. "I'll go."
"Good girl," Edmund said. There was no affection in it. Only relief. He was rid of her at last.
He turned away, already done with her. Already thinking of how he'd tell the city that he'd saved them with one sacrifice.
Catherine stood alone in the middle of the throne room, surrounded by men who wouldn't meet her eyes.
She thought of Annie. Of the way the old woman's hands shook when she braided Catherine's hair. Of the honey cake she'd snuck her on Frostfall. Of the promise she'd made: _Don't let him make you small._
The king thought he was sending her to her death.
He was wrong.
She would go to Nocturne Keep. She would stand before the Blood Prince with her head high. And if he tried to break her, she would make him bleed first.
Let him think she was unwilling.
Let him think she was weak.
Catherine Aurell had spent seventeen years being hated, starved, and forgotten.
She wasn't going to be forgotten anymore.
That night, she didn't sleep. She sat by Annie's bedside in the servants' quarters, holding the old woman's hand while she slept. She didn't tell her what was happening. Annie didn't need that burden.
At dawn, the carriage came.
Black iron, no crest, drawn by horses with eyes like milk. The envoy was tall, pale, and didn't blink. He didn't speak to her. He just opened the door and waited.
Catherine kissed Annie's forehead one last time. "Stay safe," she whispered. "I'll come back for you."
She didn't know if it was a promise or a lie.
Then she walked out, head high, and got into the carriage that would take her to the monster.
Behind her, the gates of Aurell Palace closed.
In front of her, the road to Nocturne Keep stretched under a sky the color of dried blood.
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