The arrival

Chapter Eleven: The Arrival

Draven and his company of fifty men rode into the neighboring village under a sky streaked with gray clouds. The air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and smoke from distant hearths. Villagers stopped their work to gape at the arrival of the vampire prince and his soldiers.

Though the village was modest, signs of struggle were evident: cracked walls, patches on roofs, and fields that looked as though they hadn't yielded a proper harvest in months. Children peered out from behind doorways, their faces smeared with dirt, while adults wore expressions that hovered between curiosity and caution.

Levi, ever observant, leaned toward Draven as they approached the largest building in the village—a structure slightly more fortified than the others, with guards posted at the entrance. "Half-demons," Levi murmured under his breath. "They don't trust outsiders."

"I don't need their trust," Draven replied, his voice low but firm. "I need their compliance."

The men dismounted, and Draven's commanding presence immediately drew the attention of the guards. One of them hesitated before stepping forward, his eyes darting nervously between Draven and Levi.

"Prince Draven," the guard stammered, bowing low. "We weren't expecting your arrival so soon."

"Clearly," Draven said, his tone cool. "Take me to your leader."

The guard hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. "This way, Your Highness."

Draven and Levi followed the guard inside, leaving the rest of the men to settle outside the village. The interior of the building was dimly lit, with a lingering smell of damp wood and herbs. At the far end of the room sat a middle-aged man with sharp features, his horns barely visible beneath a hood. His eyes glowed faintly in the low light—a telltale sign of his half-demon heritage.

The man stood as they entered, his expression guarded. "Your Highness," he greeted, bowing his head slightly. "I am Marcus, the leader of this village. To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"

Draven stepped forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. "I am here to enforce the king's decree," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority. "The increased taxes must be collected without delay."

Marcus's jaw tightened, and he glanced at Levi before turning his attention back to Draven. "Your Highness," he began, his tone measured, "we do not refuse the king's orders lightly. But the situation here is dire. The people are hungry. Our crops have failed, and thieves raid what little we manage to produce. We need funds to feed our families and protect our homes."

Draven studied the man, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Levi shifted slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of deceit.

Marcus continued, his voice steady but edged with desperation. "We are loyal to the crown, but if we give what little we have left, this village will not survive the winter."

Draven remained silent, his gaze locked on Marcus. The weight of the villagers' plight hung in the air like a storm about to break.

---

Elara woke to the sharp ache of hunger gnawing at her stomach. Her body felt weak from the lack of food the night before, her limbs heavy as she forced herself to sit up on the cold, hard floor. The straw mattress beneath her was no comfort compared to the luxurious bed she had once slept in. She missed its warmth, the silk sheets, and most of all, the quiet reassurance of Draven's presence beside her.

Her mind wandered to the way he used to look at her—not with scorn or judgment, but with a guarded softness that made her feel safe, even in a castle full of enemies. The ache in her chest rivaled the one in her stomach. She sighed deeply and rose, determined to face whatever the day held for her.

Moments later, a maid barged into the cramped room where she was kept. "You've been summoned," the maid said curtly.

Elara followed her silently, her heart sinking as she guessed who had summoned her. Her fears were confirmed when she was brought before Clara, seated regally in one of the drawing rooms. Clara's face was a mask of cold satisfaction as she looked Elara up and down, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

"Well," Clara began, her voice laced with mockery, "you seem to have survived the night. Impressive." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "But don't think for a moment that your punishment is over. Until little Isabella wakes up, you will continue to serve as a maid. Perhaps then you'll learn the consequences of your carelessness."

Elara's fists clenched at her sides, but she bit her tongue, knowing any protest would only make things worse. "Yes, ma'am," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before Clara could respond, the door opened, and Alaric, the crown prince, strode into the room. His presence immediately filled the space with an air of authority. His sharp eyes flicked between Clara and Elara, his expression hardening when he noticed the maid's uniform Elara was wearing.

"What is the meaning of this?" Alaric demanded, his voice firm and commanding. "Why is she being punished like this?"

Clara's smile faltered for a moment before she straightened her posture, her tone defensive. "She's being disciplined for her negligence. Isabella's illness is a result of her incompetence, and until the child recovers, Elara will bear the consequences."

Alaric frowned, his gaze locking onto Clara with barely concealed disdain. "This is excessive, Clara. Punishment should be proportionate, and you're taking this too far."

Clara's eyes flared with anger, but she maintained her composure. "You may be the crown prince, Alaric, but this is my household. I will handle it as I see fit."

Alaric stepped closer, his towering presence overshadowing Clara. "Your household still falls under the rule of the crown. Consider this your warning: if I find out you've overstepped again, you'll answer to me."

Clara's expression twisted into a scowl, but she didn't argue further. She waved her hand dismissively at Elara. "Fine. She can go for now. But this matter isn't over."

Elara bowed her head and hurried out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest. Once outside, she leaned against the wall, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. Alaric's intervention had saved her from further humiliation, but it was a temporary reprieve.

---

In the quiet solitude of her makeshift quarters, Elara allowed herself a moment to think about Draven. She wondered if he was safe, if he had eaten, if he even thought of her. She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. It was foolish to dwell on him, yet she couldn't help herself.