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The carriage had no windows.
Catherine sat in the dark, knees pulled to her chest, counting the jolts of the wheels against the road. One. Two. Three. She'd stopped at a thousand somewhere past the Whispering Woods. Now she just counted to keep the panic out, to keep her mind from drifting to Annie's face, to the way the old woman's hands shook when she braided her hair.
The envoy hadn't spoken since they left. He sat opposite her, motionless as a statue, skin pale enough to look like it had never seen the sun. Vampire. She could smell it—cold air, iron, and something sweet and wrong underneath, like rotten fruit hidden beneath clean linen.
Every time the carriage hit a bump, her stomach twisted. Not from fear of him. She'd faced worse in her own father's house. It was the not knowing that ate at her. What kind of monster was Lucian? Would he kill her on sight? Keep her for days before drinking her dry? Or worse—use her, break her, and leave her as an empty shell to send back to Aurell as a warning?
_Annie is safe if I go. Annie is safe if I go._
She repeated it like a prayer, a ward against the terror clawing at her ribs.
Dawn bled through the cracks in the carriage doors when they stopped. Catherine heard the sound of iron gates dragging open, chains groaning, voices speaking in a language that made her teeth ache. Old tongue. The language of the first vampires, before they split into houses and bloodlines and wars.
The door swung open.
Light hit her like a blow.
The envoy stood outside, hand extended. "Out," he said. One word. His voice was cold, unused to softness, to kindness.
Catherine didn't take his hand. She climbed out herself, legs stiff from hours cramped in the dark, every muscle protesting. She forced herself to stand straight, shoulders back. If this was to be her end, she would not meet it slumped and broken.
Nocturne Keep rose before her like a wound in the earth.
Black stone, no banners, no gardens. Just towers that clawed at the sky and walls thick enough to swallow an army. Above it hung a moon so red it looked like it had been skinned, casting everything in a sickly crimson glow. The air smelled of storm and old blood and something else—ozone, like before lightning struck.
The gothic gates parted without a sound.
"Walk," the envoy said.
They crossed a courtyard where statues stood with their eyes gouged out, their mouths open in silent screams. Where the fountains ran red instead of water, the liquid thick and slow as it spilled over the stone lips. Servants moved through the shadows, all pale, all silent. None looked at her. None dared. Their eyes were downcast, their steps quick, like even breathing too loud would anger the master of this place.
Catherine kept her chin up. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her shake. She'd spent seventeen years learning to hide fear. It had kept her alive in Aurell Palace. It would keep her alive here.
The throne room was worse than her father's.
No warm wood, no tapestries, no life. Just black marble, columns like ribs, and at the far end, a dais with a throne made of bone and iron. Candles burned with green flame along the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to move on their own.
And sitting on it was him.
Prince Lucian.
He was taller than she expected. Tall enough that when he stood, his head nearly brushed the vaulted ceiling. Pale skin, black hair slicked back from a face that could have been carved by a god who hated beauty. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, lips that looked like they'd forgotten how to smile. Eyes like fresh blood. A black cape that didn't move despite the draft, as if the shadows clung to him by choice.
He didn't speak. He just looked at her.
Catherine felt it like a physical touch—cold, assessing, hungry. Not the hunger of a man for food. The hunger of something that had forgotten what it meant to be human, something that had lived too long and seen too much.
"So," Lucian said finally. His voice was low, smooth, and it slid under her skin like a blade finding a seam. "You're the Aurell girl."
Catherine didn't bow. "I'm Princess Catherine."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Was."
Her jaw tightened. "My father sold me to you. That doesn't make me yours."
Lucian stood. The movement was too fast, too fluid, inhuman. One moment he was on the throne, the next he was three steps from her, close enough that she could see the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the way his pulse didn't beat in his throat.
He didn't touch her. Yet.
"But it does," he said quietly. "A contract was signed. Your father's seal, my envoy's witness. You are my bride, Catherine. In name, in blood, in law."
"Then kill me and get it over with," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She refused to let it. "I won't lie with you. I won't give you what you want."
Lucian's eyes darkened. For a second, something dangerous and ancient flickered behind them, something that made the air in the room feel heavier, colder.
"You think I want your body, girl?" he said. "I have had a thousand bodies. They are dust now. I remember none of their names."
"Then what do you want?"
He stepped closer. Catherine didn't back away. She wouldn't give him that. She wouldn't let him see that her heart was hammering against her ribs like a caged bird.
"I want to know why," he said. "Why would a king give away his only child? Why would a girl with your eyes walk into my Keep without screaming?"
Catherine met his gaze. "Because I had no choice."
"Liar."
"I do not lie to monsters," she said. "It's pointless. You'll believe what you want anyway."
That got a reaction. Lucian's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her upper arm. Not hard enough to bruise—yet—but firm enough that she couldn't pull away. His skin was ice, colder than the mountain wind in winter.
"Tell me," he said. His voice had dropped to a whisper, but it felt louder than any shout, echoing in the hollow of her chest.
Catherine stared him down. "If I tell you, will you let Annie live?"
Lucian paused. His head tilted, like he was tasting the words, weighing them.
"Annie," he repeated. "The maid."
"You know about her."
"I know everything that happens within a hundred miles of my Keep," he said. "Your father threatened her life to make you compliant. Pathetic. Even for Edmund."
Catherine's breath caught. "Then you'll let her go?"
Lucian studied her. Really studied her. He saw the defiance, the exhaustion, the way her hands trembled but didn't let go of his wrist where he held her. He saw the years of hunger in her face, the way she held herself like someone used to being struck.
He saw her. Not the tithe. Not the curse. Her.
"No," he said.
Catherine's face fell, and for a second she couldn't breathe.
"But I will keep her alive," he continued. "For as long as you are mine. If you try to run, if you try to betray me, she dies. If you serve me well… she will want for nothing. She will live better than she ever did in your father's palace."
It was a cage. Gilded, but a cage all the same. A leash made of Annie's life.
Catherine wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to claw at him, to scream, to break something. Instead, she nodded once. Sharp. Controlled.
"Fine."
Lucian's grip loosened. He let her go.
"Good," he said. "Then we understand each other."
He stepped back, turning away as if she no longer interested him, as if she were already his and there was no need to watch her.
"You will be taken to your chambers," he said. "You will rest. Tomorrow, we begin."
"Begin what?" she asked, the word slipping out before she could stop it.
Lucian glanced over his shoulder. The red moonlight caught his eyes, making them glow like embers in the dark.
"Breaking the curse," he said. "Yours. Mine. Both."
Catherine was escorted out before she could ask what he meant.
Her chambers were on the east wing, high in one of the towers. They were absurd—silk sheets on a bed large enough for three people, a bath that ran hot without fire, a wardrobe full of gowns in deep reds and blacks that looked like they'd been made for someone else, for someone who belonged here. A gilded cage, beautiful and suffocating.
She didn't touch any of it.
She stood at the window, looking out over the mountains, at the blood red moon hanging low and heavy in the sky. The wind howled through the gaps in the stone, and for a moment it sounded like Annie's voice, soft and warm, telling her stories of her mother.
Below, in the courtyard, she could see the envoy speaking to a servant. And beyond the gates, a road leading back to Aurell.
To Annie.
Catherine pressed her palm against the cold glass. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her.
She didn't know if Lucian could be trusted. She didn't know if this curse he spoke of was real or just another lie to keep her compliant, to keep her from fighting.
But one thing was clear.
She wasn't going to wait to be broken.
If he wanted a war, he'd get one.
And if he wanted to see fire in her eyes, she'd make sure he burned with it.
A knock came at the door. Soft. Hesitant.
Catherine didn't answer. She didn't trust anyone here.
The door opened anyway. A young maid stepped in, human, her eyes wide and frightened. She carried a tray with bread and water.
"Milady," the girl whispered. "The Prince said you were to eat."
Catherine turned slowly. "You can leave it."
The maid hesitated, then set the tray down and curtsied. "My name is Mira. If you need anything… I will try."
Catherine studied her. She saw the fear, but also something else. Pity. Or maybe recognition.
"Why help me?" Catherine asked.
Mira's eyes flicked to the door, then back. "Because someone helped me once," she said quietly. "And because you look like you need it."
Catherine didn't thank her. Thanks were dangerous here. Instead, she nodded once.
Mira left, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Catherine waited a full minute before she moved. Then she crossed the room, picked up the bread, and ate. Slowly. Deliberately. She didn't know when she'd eat again.
When she was done, she went back to the window.
The blood red moon hadn't moved.
And somewhere in this Keep, Prince Lucian was watching.
She could feel it.
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