Prince Raymond walked slowly into his chamber, each step heavier than the last. The tall, iron-framed doors closed behind him with a groan that echoed like a sigh through the gloom. Shadows clung to every corner of the room, as if the walls themselves were reluctant to reveal their secrets. The only light came from the flickering embers of a dying hearth and the moonlight leaking through the thick crimson drapes. It was a room that held sorrow like a shrine.
He didn't light the candles. He didn't need to. Darkness was a more honest companion these days.
The prince collapsed onto the edge of his bed—a massive, four-poster structure carved of obsidian wood, its velvet sheets black as a raven's wing. His fingers dug into the mattress, and his jaw tightened. His silver eyes burned with fury barely held in check. His royal attire—draped in the sigils of House Bloodwood—felt suffocating, as though every emblem weighed down on his chest like a curse.
He had just returned from the Grand Council—a meeting summoned by his father, King Valoise Bloodwood. The memory of the conversation still rang in his ears: harsh words, dismissals, and warnings. The old king's voice, ever so commanding, had been filled with disdain at the very mention of unity.
Nyxoria, the High Oracle of Shadows, had prophesied the impossible—that the three great clans, ancient enemies for over five centuries—werewolves, vampires, and witches—would soon reunite under one cause. The vision had shaken the realm, igniting both hope and fear in equal measure. But for the Bloodwood court, it was blasphemy. Betrayal. Treason.
And Valoise had made his position clear: "We do not share thrones with dogs and sorcerers."
Raymond's hands clenched into fists.
He hated the war. Hated the centuries of death, of blood-soaked lands and shattered families. He hated the blind loyalty to old grudges, the way history was twisted into chains. He had seen too much, even as a prince—he who was raised in the luxury of marble halls but taught to sharpen a blade before he could read scripture.
He rose, his cape sliding off his shoulders like a shadow, and moved to the tall window near the far end of the room. It overlooked the dark forest that bordered the western edges of the castle—the no-man's land between vampire territory and werewolf hunting grounds.
With practiced ease, Ray slid the window open, the cold wind rushing in and tousling his dark hair. The scent of pine, smoke, and rain filled his nostrils. He placed a boot on the windowsill, ready to leap down into the night like he had done so many times before.
A voice broke the silence.
"Where are you off to again, Prince Ray?"
Raymond froze.
Behind him stood a young man with olive-toned skin and a lean build, dressed in muted servant's garb. His eyes—amber and tired—narrowed as he stepped closer from the shadows. Piper Darkfire. Raymond's most trusted aide and, arguably, his only friend.
"Don't tell me you're off to the other clans," Piper said, arms folded, voice low but tense. "How long do you think I can cover for you? Your father will have my head if he finds out. Or worse—my soul."
Raymond turned halfway, his face lit by moonlight, revealing the turmoil in his expression.
"I can't stay here, Piper," he said. "Not tonight. Not after what he said. He speaks of loyalty to Bloodwood, but his loyalty is to war—eternal, senseless war. I've spoken to them. I've walked among the wolves. The witches. They are not what we've been told. There is more to this world than our father's hatred."
Piper stepped closer, his voice softer now. "You've made secret visits to enemy lands. If the wrong ears hear about it…"
"I know the risks," Raymond snapped, then softened. "But I can't let this prophecy wither under fear. What if it's true? What if unity is our salvation? I won't stand by while my father prepares for another massacre."
His eyes drifted out into the night, far beyond the forest. Somewhere out there were allies. Friends. Maybe even love. Bonds forged in secrecy, hidden even from the moon. It was dangerous. Treasonous. And yet—it was the only thing that felt right.
Piper sighed. "One day, Prince, you'll have to choose which fire to walk through—your father's wrath or the burning world you're trying to save."
Raymond stepped onto the windowsill, his long cloak whipping behind him. He looked down once more, then back at Piper.
"I already have."
And with that, he leapt into the night, vanishing into the forest below—toward the forbidden lands, toward the truth, and toward the future fate was waiting to reveal.
"Raymond" Piper called but Ray was long gone
Piper moved swiftly and quietly through Prince Ray's chambers, gathering all the smaller essentials the young prince might need for his secret departure—an extra tunic, a pouch of coins, a small dagger for protection, a flask of water, four bags of blood and a rolled piece of parchment with scribbled directions. Each item was chosen with care and tucked methodically into a worn leather satchel. When everything was packed, Piper slung the bag across his back, the weight of it grounding the reality of what he were about to do.
With one last glance around the room, Piper crept toward the window, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The moonlight spilled across the floor, casting silver shadows that seemed to dance with every creak of the wooden floorboards. As he hoisted himself over the windowsill, he muttered a desperate prayer under his breath to Nyxoria, goddess of the night and keepers of secrets, begging her to cloak him in shadow and silence. He knew with a chilling certainty that if he were caught fleeing the palace—betraying his royal blood and the crown's command—there would be no mercy. His punishment would be swift and absolute. His head would roll from his shoulders before he could utter a word in his defense.
And so, with a final breath, Piper slipped into the night, hoping Nyxoria was listening.