Three weeks had passed since the wedding, and the palace had settled into a brittle peace.
Hazel moved through her new life with quiet determination, her days filled with the endless rhythm of duty. Lara, the silver-haired councilwoman, was her constant shadow—sharp-tongued, unflinching, and surprisingly patient when it mattered. Each morning began in the solar with stacks of parchment: petitions from human villages begging for lighter tribute quotas, complaints from lesser vampire houses about perceived slights, requests for blood allowances, marriage alliances, territory disputes. Hazel read every line, asked questions Lara hadn't expected, and made decisions that left the council chamber buzzing.
"You cannot keep granting mercy to every sob story," Lara warned one afternoon, tapping a scroll against the table. "Compassion is a luxury. It makes you look weak."
Hazel lifted her chin. "It makes me look human. And the humans are the ones feeding this court. If we bleed them dry, we starve ourselves."
Lara stared at her for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod. "Bold. Dangerous. But… not wrong."
Afternoons were for protocol: learning the intricate dance of court etiquette, memorizing the names and rivalries of every major bloodline, practicing the correct tilt of her head when addressing an elder vampire. Evenings brought the balls—glittering, suffocating affairs where Hazel stood beside Lucian in gowns of midnight silk and emerald velvet, smiling through gritted teeth as courtiers kissed her rings and whispered poison behind jeweled fans. She hated the falseness most of all—the way they called her "radiant lady" while their eyes measured her like prey.
Yet she endured.
She attended teas with the matriarchs, listened to their veiled barbs, offered careful smiles, and filed every word away. She oversaw the household staff, approved menus that included more human-safe options, and quietly increased the distribution of blood substitutes to the outer villages. Small acts. Dangerous acts. But each one chipped away at the old cruelties.
Lucian watched her with quiet pride, though he never said it aloud. In the stolen moments between duties, he would find her—pull her into an alcove, kiss the tension from her mouth, and murmur, "You're rewriting centuries of tradition, little rabbit. And they don't even realize it yet."
But beneath the surface, something darker was moving.
On the first moonless night of the fourth week, Zakri arrived.
He slipped through the eastern gate like a breath of cold wind, dressed in the plain black livery of a night guard. Forged papers bore the seal of a northern captain long since "lost" on a hunt. A glamour charm, stitched into the fabric by his own hand, masked the reek of sulfur and old blood that clung to him, softened the yellowed fangs into something almost human, and dimmed the unnatural glow in his eyes. To the watch commander, he was simply Torren—tall, silent, efficient. No one looked twice.
For four nights he watched.
He memorized the patrols, the blind corners, the exact hour when the royal wing quieted. He felt her power even from the corridors—a bright, dangerous spark pulsing beneath layers of mortal fragility. It called to him, beautiful and lethal, like a flame he both craved and feared.
On the fifth night, fate opened a door.
A modest feast had been held in the lesser hall—minor nobles, a few council members, wine and quiet conversation. Hazel attended briefly, luminous in emerald silk, the crescent-moon necklace glinting at her throat. She excused herself early, pleading fatigue. Primus remained, the perfect predator-host.
Zakri followed.
He kept to the shadows of the long corridor, boots silent on marble. Two maids trailed her: one with a silver tray of chamomile tea, the other with a folded shawl. The torches here were fewer; light thinned to pools of gold and black.
He waited until the narrow turn where the hall bent toward her private chambers.
One whispered word—old, guttural, tasting of ash.
Reality shivered.
The maids blinked, suddenly certain they had already delivered the tray. They turned and walked away, footsteps fading into silence.
Hazel paused.
She frowned, sensing the wrongness. Her hand drifted to the necklace. The crystal warmed once—twice—then stilled. She glanced behind her. Empty corridor.
Or so it seemed.
Zakri stepped from the alcove, hood lowered just enough to reveal an unremarkable face. He bowed low.
"My lady," he said, voice soft and deferential. "A message from Lord Lazarus. He asked me to deliver it personally."
Hazel tilted her head. "Lazarus? Why didn't he come himself?"
"He is occupied with security matters, my lady. The message is urgent."
She studied him—the too-still stance, the faint tremor in the air. Then she extended her hand.
Zakri reached into his sleeve.
Not for parchment.
For the vial.
Three drops.
As her fingers brushed the folded "message," he flicked his wrist.
A single violet bead fell onto the back of her hand, soaking in like ink into parchment.
Hazel's breath caught.
Her eyes widened—shock, confusion, then nothing.
Pupils dilated, then shrank to pinpricks. Shoulders relaxed. Face smoothed into eerie calm.
Zakri's heart slammed against his ribs.
He leaned close, voice a serpent's hiss. "You will forget this encounter. You will return to your chambers and sleep. Tomorrow night, at exactly midnight, you will feel an overwhelming need to drink this tea—" He pressed the second vial—disguised as perfume—into her palm. "—alone. You will tell no one. You will not resist. Do you understand?"
Hazel nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now go."
She turned and walked away, steps even, mechanical. The door to her chambers closed with a soft click.
Zakri retreated into shadow, pulse racing, triumph and terror warring in his chest.
The slayer was his.
Or so he believed.
Unseen, the crescent-moon necklace at her throat pulsed once—faint, almost imperceptible. A soft, warm light stirred deep within the crystal.
The protection Anna had given her daughter had not slept.
It had waited.