The moon was bleeding tonight.
It was suspended obscenely low above the spires of the Crimson Citadel, bloated to monstrous size, its crimson glow seeping through the black battlements like spilled blood.
The color was not a simple reflection; it was living, thrumming faintly to the beat of the hearts of the throng of faithful kneeling below. Bats swooped through endless circles above, their leathery wings slicing through the dense darkness of the air like scythes. Iron scent filled the air, ancient blood fossilized to stone through the centuries, mixed with the acrid bite of human terror.
The sprawling courtyard filled up with mortals, row upon row, pressing their foreheads to the chilly stones. Wrists raised to offer; throats bent low in submission. They came from all corners of Nocturne, compelled by the enforcers' fluid, dark grace.
Tonight, was the Crimson Tithe, the annual ritual that sustained the tenuous peace between the vampire lord and the prey. One drop of blood short, and the night would swallow them all.
High up, on the narrowest balcony in the highest tower, Viktor Draven stood alone.
His posture was immobile, yet every line of him spoke of absolute dominion. He had no need to raise his voice.
He wore no crown-merely the heavy chain about his neck, forged of blackened silver, its empty clasp waiting for the pendant he had never deigned to claim. The black cape draped his broad shoulders like spilled midnight, collar high and severe, the silver clasp glinting coldly in the dying moon's light.
The wind obeyed him; it took his words with it and let them down like a drawn blade.
"Bring the tribute."
The words were calm. Almost bored.
Yet the whole courtyard started as one, a wave of terror running through thousands like wind through dead leaves. From the shadowed archways at the courtyard's edge, his enforcers stepped forward. Tall, pale, cloaked in black, edged with crimson thread, which seemed to drink moonlight. They parted the kneeling masses easily, chains rattling as they dragged forward one iron cage set on heavy wheels.
Inside, a woman sat with impeccable posture: back straight, chin elevated, and dark hair spilling down one shoulder like an ink spill on her pale skin.
She did not tremble. She did not plead. She did not even blink at the faces that were paralyzed with fear of her fate.
Card Blackthorn, Viktor's second, his enforcer, his sword in the night, moved forward. He swooped a foot and kicked the door of the cage open with a careless boot. The hinges screamed in pain.
"Elara Voss," he pronounced, his voice heavy with ridicule and threat. "The final member of a line that thought to hunt one of us."
A low murmur spread through the humans like poison in water. Some wept silently, tears cutting tracks through the dust on their cheeks. Others stared at the woman in the cage with something close to reverence. The Voss name had been legendary for generations, hunters who had once felled Sovereigns, who had made the night fear the coming of dawn. That legacy had ended in blood and fire centuries ago… or so the stories claimed.
Viktor started to descend.
It was a tight spiraling stair, cut from the same obsidian as the rest of the Citadel. Every step fell like the stroke of a funeral bell, loud and slow. His cape swept after him in a dark tide. The chain at his throat flashed torchlight, its empty clasp winking like a promise of bloodshed.
Elara Voss lifted her gaze.
Her eyes were storm-gray, keen as winter ice, and unclouded by terror. Only challenge burned there; pure, unyielding, almost wild.
Viktor tilted his head, staring at her in much the same way a predator regards prey that refuses to flee. "You are the last," he said. It was not a question.
"I am," she replied. Her voice was steady, low, almost conversational despite the iron bars between them. "And you are the monster who murdered my family."
A collective gasp ripped through the assemblage. Some humans instinctively edged backwards, as though the words themselves might conjure retribution.
Card's hand twitched toward the dagger at his hip, fingers curling.
Viktor raised a single finger. The card froze mid-motion.
He crouched down, slowly bringing his face to a level with hers through the bars. Up close, he was devastatingly high, sharp cheekbones, midnight hair tumbling across his brow in careless perfection, eyes deep red as old blood. The faint scent of cedar smoke and ancient forests clung to him, intoxicating in its danger.
"I killed a lot of families," he said matter-of-factly. "You were nothing unique.
Her mouth turned up at the mere suggestion of a smile, sharp as a knife.
"Then why do you remember it?"
For the first time in centuries, something was flickering in the depths of Viktor's gaze. Not irritation or amusement. Something colder and older. A glimmer of memory long buried.
He reached through the bars.
His hands clasped her jaw, soft and unyielding as velvet over steel, and he turned her face from side to side, examining her as if she were some precious gem.
"You will serve," he said to her, his voice a low growl. "You will kneel. You will bleed when I tell you to. And when I am tired of you;" He leaned forward, his lips hovering mere centimeters from her ear. "—you will die screaming my name."
"Elara didn't flinch."
She held his gaze without flinching, her gray eyes focused on his red ones.
"Then you had better enjoy me while you can, Sovereign," she whispered. "Because you are going to beg for every drop that you get."
"The courtyard fell silent, even the bats appeared to be holding their breath."
He released her chin. Slowly. Purposely. His fingers lingered on her skin a moment too long.
He stood up on his legs, looming above the cage, his chain necklace glinting wickedly at his throat.
"Take her to the east tower," he commanded, never once looking away from her. "She can have the room next to mine."
Card blinked, a flash of surprise crossing his impassive face. "My lord?"
Viktor's voice turned to velvet and steel. "I wish to be… entertained."
The enforcers moved at once, chains clanking as they dragged the cage away. Elara never once looked away from him, her gaze a challenge, a promise, a spark in the endless dark.
And Viktor Draven—the immortal king who had never known fear felt the first faint, impossible tremor of something he could not name.
The crimson moon watched from above.
And it smiled.