Chapter 39: A Kingdom Beneath the Skin
The moon was low on the horizon, bathing the castle's spires in silver as Liam stood alone atop the highest balcony. The events of the Rite of Crimson Waters still coursed through him like a dream refusing to fade. His body felt heavier now—not with fatigue, but with memory. Thousands of years of bloodshed, sacrifice, and longing lived inside him like ghosts that refused to rest.
He could still feel Ella's fingers on his cheek, her voice soft in the quiet night: "It means you still have your soul."
He hoped that was true.
The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of mist and roses from the lower gardens. The Crimson Reverie had not stirred again, but Liam felt it pulsing behind reality, as though its heartbeat had become synchronized with his own.
A soft rustle of silk behind him made him turn. Ella approached, her gown trailing like living shadow behind her. Her eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, more tired than usual.
"You haven't slept," she said.
"I don't think I can," he replied.
She stopped beside him, her gaze falling to the forest far below. "The throne's mark binds you to the old blood. It will take time to settle."
Liam glanced down at his hand. The glowing runes from earlier had faded into faint scars now, like old ink beneath skin. "They still burn."
"They always will." Her voice was quieter now. "But you'll learn to carry them."
He turned to her. "What happens next?"
Ella sighed. "Now? We prepare. The Council may have accepted your right to live—but that doesn't mean they won't test you further. And worse, the old bloodlines... they'll feel the throne's awakening. Some will see you as a rival. Others, a threat."
"And you?" he asked, more hesitant than he expected. "What do you see me as?"
She met his gaze. "A choice I didn't expect… but one I would make again."
He looked away, heart thudding strangely. "They called you Queen of the Last Blood. What does that make me now?"
Her answer came slowly. "Something new. Something dangerous. Perhaps… a king of the First."
---
The following morning brought with it a storm—not of rain or thunder, but of politics.
The castle courtyard was filled with envoys and messengers, some bearing crests Liam had never seen. They arrived in dark carriages and on winged steeds, bearing scrolls sealed with wax sigils and parchment etched in blood. The realm was stirring.
Inside the war room, Liam sat at Ella's side for the first time—not as a guest, not as a consort—but as someone whose words held weight.
Arabelle stood before the massive round table, pinning maps and letters to a board of black obsidian. "Three bloodlines have requested a summit," she said. "The Hallowthorn Pact, the Sable Daughters, and the House of Mourning."
"Old names," Ella murmured. "And ambitious ones."
Liam leaned forward. "Do we trust any of them?"
Arabelle scoffed. "Trust is a mortal luxury. These houses move like vipers. If they're requesting talks, it's only to gauge your strength."
"Or our weakness," Ella added.
Liam tapped his finger on the table. "Then we give them neither. We accept the summit, but on our terms. Here. In the castle."
Ella's eyebrows raised slightly. "You want to host them here?"
"Yes," he said firmly. "If they want to see what I am, then let them come into the lion's den."
There was a beat of silence. Then a slow smile curved Ella's lips. "Bold. I like it."
---
Preparations began immediately. The throne room was polished to gleam, its stained-glass windows lit with flickering crimson magic. Guards were doubled. Wards layered across every entrance. Liam watched the transformation of the castle into something more than regal—something imposing.
He was beginning to understand what power looked like. Not just in strength, but in presence.
Ella trained him in the ways of the court during long candlelit sessions in the library—how to speak in veiled threats, how to read a silence, how to wield a pause as if it were a blade. He was a fast learner, but there were moments it all overwhelmed him.
"I was just a guy in a city apartment three months ago," he muttered one night, slumped in a velvet chair.
Ella placed a goblet in his hand. "Now you're a monarch in a realm between life and death. Adaptation is survival."
He looked at her. "Do you ever regret it? The throne?"
She didn't answer at first. Then: "Every day. But regret is not the same as weakness."
---
The night of the summit arrived.
Liam stood at the foot of the throne dais, dressed in formal attire—black silk lined with red embroidery in ancient sigils. A crimson clasp, shaped like a rose dripping blood, fastened his cloak. Ella stood beside him in a matching gown that shimmered like oil and moonlight.
The great doors opened.
The bloodlines entered.
The Hallowthorn Pact came first—pale, beautiful beings wrapped in vines and veils. Their leader, a vampire named Vaelis, bowed with perfect grace. "May the first blood flow unbroken."
Next came the Sable Daughters—seven women cloaked in mourning shrouds, faces hidden, their leader speaking only in riddles.
Last came the House of Mourning—a militant order dressed in armor forged from obsidian and bone. Their leader, Lord Severin, walked with a wolf's grace and a serpent's smile.
The chamber buzzed with tension. Courtesies were exchanged. Goblets raised. No one trusted anyone.
Liam listened more than he spoke, letting Ella steer the early conversation. But when Lord Severin turned to him and said, "The throne has chosen a consort. Not a ruler," Liam stepped forward.
"I didn't ask to be chosen," he said. "But I was. I didn't steal the throne's mark. It branded me. And if any of you think I'm just a name beside the Queen's, you're welcome to try me."
The room fell silent.
Then Vaelis smiled faintly. "A bold king. How refreshing."
Ella's lips twitched upward. "He's full of surprises."
---
That night, after the bloodlines had retired to their guest wings, Ella and Liam stood alone in the observatory.
"You handled them well," she said.
"I don't know if I convinced them."
"No," she said, "but you reminded them you're not a shadow."
He looked out at the stars. "What happens if one of them moves against us?"
"Then we remind them why the throne was sealed in the first place."
---
But the attack did not come from outside.
It came from within.
Liam woke to the scent of smoke. The eastern tower was ablaze. Servants screamed. Guards clashed with black-robed assassins bearing no sigil.
Ella was already gone from his side.
Liam ran.
He found her in the Hall of Echoes, locked in combat with three attackers. Blood stained her gown. Her eyes glowed with fury. Liam didn't think—he moved.
The first assassin lunged for him, blade curved and gleaming. Liam ducked, slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, and drove a dagger into his ribs. He didn't know where the dagger came from—only that it felt natural in his hand.
Ella finished the last two with a blast of blood-magic that turned the air scarlet.
Breathing hard, she turned to Liam. "You're hurt."
He looked down. A slash across his ribs bled freely.
"Damn," he muttered. "Ruined the shirt."
She pressed her hand to his wound. "Hold still."
Magic flared. The skin closed. Pain faded.
Ella looked at the bodies. "These weren't sent by the bloodlines."
"Then who?"
She knelt beside one corpse, pulling a medallion from beneath the robes.
The symbol made her go pale.
"Ella?"
She stood slowly. "They're from the Broken Covenant."
Liam frowned. "I've never heard of them."
"Because they were erased. Exiled for trying to merge vampiric blood with demonic essence. They were thought destroyed centuries ago."
"And now they're back."
She nodded. "And they want the throne."
Liam looked toward the horizon, where the first light of dawn crept in.
"The game just changed," he said.
Ella stepped beside him. "Then we change with it."
---
End of Chapter 39