Chapter Ten: Masked Dance

The dining hall echoed with silence. Myra sat at the long table, the wood beneath her fingertips cool and polished to a gleam. The chandeliers above flickered softly, casting faint gold onto the table—but there were no plates. No silverware. No scent of roasted meat or warm bread drifting from the kitchen. Nothing but stillness.

Her stomach tightened.

Something was wrong.

A faint creak from the door made her glance up. A maid entered, her shoes making light thuds against the marble floor.

"Won't we have lunch today?" Myra asked, her voice thin in the large room.

The maid kept her head lowered. "Blood has been sent to your room, Miss."

Blood?

Myra's lips pressed into a flat line. An ache bloomed quietly in her chest. They always ate lunch together—Madeline, Sebastien, sometimes even Nathan. But now?

Now she was alone.

Without another word, she pushed away from the table, her footsteps echoing off the marble as she strode through the corridors toward the master bedroom.

The manor seemed unusually quiet. Even the air felt different—thick with something unspoken. Shadows danced lazily across the stone walls from the sconces as she reached the ornate door. She raised her fist and knocked.

"Come in," came the voice after a pause.

Myra stepped into the room. The scent of aged paper and lavender greeted her. Madeline Aphelion sat gracefully on the edge of her bed, a deep green velvet book balanced on her knee.

When she saw Myra, her entire face lit up.

"Myra!" she said, setting the book aside and crossing the room.

She reached out, delicately running her fingers through a loose strand of Myra’s hair.

"Shouldn’t you be getting ready?"

Myra blinked. "It’s only twelve-thirty. The party doesn’t start until seven."

"Evelyn will be bringing your dress soon," Madeline murmured, eyes still fixed on her hair as though searching for something lost.

There was a pause. Her voice dropped to a murmur. "Guess some changes were made."

Myra tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

But before she could hear the answer—a sharp, invisible blade cut through her chest. Myra gasped, staggering a little.

Pain. Someone else’s pain. It burned like fire behind her ribs.

She hated it. Hated this gift. This curse.

Madeline’s expression darkened. She reached out, her cool hand resting gently on Myra’s forehead.

"Are you alright?"

Myra forced a tight nod.

Madeline didn’t believe it. But she said nothing.

"I’ll be going," Myra mumbled, turning away.

As she closed the door behind her, she caught the distant sound of a page turning. Her chest still ached.

Lady Aphelion was always sad.

And for some cruel reason, Myra always had to feel it.

Hours passed.

The knock on her door startled her from a restless nap.

"Lady Thorn," came a soft voice.

Myra opened one eye. A maid stood in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.

"Your bath is ready."

Myra groaned and sat up, bones cracking as she stretched. "My what?"

She followed the girl to the bath chamber, blinking against the soft candlelight that shimmered against cream-colored tiles.

And then she saw it.

The white tub, deep and gleaming, was filled with warm milk. Crimson rose petals floated on the surface like delicate bloodstains. A heady floral scent thickened the air, mingling with notes of vanilla and something ancient.

She turned to the maids beside her. "You can leave."

They didn’t move.

"Didn’t you hear me? Leave."

"Her Grace asked us to help you prepare," one whispered, barely audible.

Myra's eyes narrowed, her aura curling around her like smoke. Cold, pressurized magic throbbed in the air.

"And if you stay," she said softly, "you'll regret it."

They fled without another word.

Satisfied, she disrobed and sank into the bath, letting out a slow breath as the warmth enveloped her. For the first time today, she felt calm.

Until—

BANG!

"MYRA~"

Water sloshed as Myra flailed, arms crossing over her chest.

Madeline giggled, leaning against the doorframe. "Such a modest little thing."

"What the hell are you doing in here?!"

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she snapped her fingers.

The maids returned. This time holding silver jugs. They poured fragrant oils into the bath until the air was thick with perfume.

Hands scrubbed her arms with soft brushes. Another worked the floral paste into her scalp, fingers strong and practiced. Myra twitched, lip curling.

She wanted to scream.

But Lady Aphelion watched with a satisfied smirk.

So she endured it.

When it was finally over, she was toweled off and seated before a wide vanity. Her hair was dried, nails painted a wine-red. Her skin glowed. She felt more like a doll than a girl.

She dressed alone.

The chemise was soft against her skin, a brief moment of peace.

Then came the gown. Dark purple. Off-shoulder. The black rose embroidered into the fabric shimmered under the light.

Myra stared at her reflection.

Was this really her?

She almost didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror.

"Beautiful, as always."

She turned.

Madeline stood behind her, a soft smile on her lips.

She approached, taking Myra’s hand and placing something cool and delicate into her palm.

A mask. Black. Encrusted with diamonds.

"It was your mother’s," she said quietly. "I borrowed it a long time ago. It’s time I gave it back."

Myra swallowed hard.

She missed her mother more than she could ever say.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Madeline nodded, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"You’ll ride with Nathan. Sebastien and I will go ahead."

Myra nodded.

And as she left the room, she tucked her mother’s poisoned hairpin into her bun.

She would be ready.

___

The ballroom shimmered with golden light spilling from massive crystal chandeliers, casting a warm glow over polished marble floors and towering stained glass windows. Classical music floated through the air, delicate and haunting, while the crowd of nobles—human and vampire alike—moved like clockwork in elaborate gowns and crisp black suits.

It gave off a Victorian era feeling.

Myra stood at the entrance, a black mask encrusted with tiny diamonds framing her eyes. Her dark purple gown clung to her like silk smoke, the embroidered black rose on her skirt almost breathing as she walked. The golden hairpin in her bun glinted with every step she took, a quiet warning tucked behind elegance.

The stench of human perfume and blood stung her nose. She swallowed it down.

Then she saw him.

King.

He stood beneath a glowing chandelier, his posture relaxed, champagne glass in hand. The white shirt beneath his black coat was perfectly pressed, and his white gloves clutched the glass with practiced grace. That stupid cross earring glinted at his ear, catching the light just right.

And damn it all—he looked breathtaking.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He was talking to Nathan and Arielle, who both stood a little too stiffly—like they knew trouble was about to walk in.

Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she approached, and it wasn’t until she was just a few feet away that King looked up.

His smirk was instant.

Like he’d been waiting for her all along.

"You look astounding as usual, my little rose," he said, stepping forward. His voice was low, smooth, annoyingly intimate. He took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

The warmth of his breath against her skin sent a chill up her spine.

She pulled her hand away before he could say anything else.

"I didn’t come here to flirt," she muttered.

"I know," he said, eyes gleaming behind his black mask. "You came to steal the show. And you did."

Myra’s scowl deepened. Arielle was smirking in the background, clearly entertained.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I’m yours."

King leaned closer, whispering just beside her ear. "Maybe because you are."

She nearly elbowed him in the gut.

Before she could reply, the music changed—slower now, a waltz—and King offered her his hand again.

"A dance, my lady?"

"I’d rather die."

"Good thing I’m into dangerous women."

Before she could refuse, his arm was already around her waist, pulling her into the rhythm of the dance. Their bodies moved in perfect sync—too perfect.

Then—

He twirled her.

Lifted her.

Set her down.

And dipped her low enough that the whole room gasped.

Then—

He kissed her.

Her eyes widened.

His lips were soft. Familiar. And far too sure of themselves.

When he pulled back, he was already grinning.

"See you later, my little rose."

He vanished into the crowd before she could slap him.

Myra stood in the center of the ballroom, hand to her lips, heart hammering. Her cheeks burned.

She hated him.

She hated that she didn’t move away in time.

___

The massive double doors loomed before her, carved with intricate gothic patterns, each detail telling stories of centuries-old bloodlines and violence. Shadows twisted along the torch-lit walls, flickering with every gust of wind from the hallway behind her.

Myra exhaled, a slow and shaky breath, her fingers grazing the golden pin tucked into her bun. The smooth metal was cool against her skin—a small comfort amid the rising dread in her chest.

There was a fifty percent chance she'd walk out of this room with only a few broken bones.

Or she wouldn't walk out at all.

She turned back one last time.

Madeline and Sebastien stood a distance behind her. Madeline’s eyes were unreadable, her features carved from porcelain and worry. Sebastien’s jaw was tight, his hand resting protectively on the hilt of his cane-sword.

Myra nodded once, then turned back to the doors.

She pushed them open.

They creaked—loud and slow. The sound echoed like bones grinding together.

The scent hit her first—

Blood. Fresh.

Perfume. Expensive.

And something darker. Older. Ancient.

She stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit by braziers and twisted chandeliers. Red velvet drapes clung to the towering walls. There was movement—soft, languid.

Dracula sat lazily on his couch.

A woman lay sprawled across his lap, her neck exposed and his fangs buried deep. Her breath hitched, then stilled.

Another woman knelt beside him, her pale hand disappearing beneath his robe.

Myra's lip curled in disgust.

He didn’t even acknowledge her at first. He lifted his head, lips glistening crimson. His smirk spread slowly, like oil over water.

"Leave," he ordered lazily.

The women scrambled away, silent and swift. The massive doors shut behind them, leaving only the echo of their heels and the sudden stillness.

Dracula stood.

He stretched with a feline grace, shaking his black hair loose from his shoulders. His long coat shifted with his movement, brushing against the cold stone.

"To what do I owe this visit?" he drawled, voice laced with mockery.

Myra didn't flinch. "You know why I'm here."

He stepped down from the dais, his boots clicking against the floor, sharp as clock hands ticking toward midnight.

"I didn’t think Thomas would be so cowardly—sending his daughter to handle his battles."

Then—

That twisted grin.

"Or maybe he sent you for something else."

He let his gaze drag over her body.

Myra’s stomach turned.

"My father didn’t send me. I came on my own."

Dracula blinked.

Then he laughed.

The sound was low, rich, and humorless.

"You walked into the lion’s den... and expect him to stop eating meat?"

She clenched her fists. “Stop tormenting our people. Or I’ll make you.”

A pause.

Then—

His smirk widened. He dropped the wine glass he had been holding. It shattered against the floor.

In a flash, he was no longer across the room.

He was in front of her.

A blur of motion.

His sword hissed as it left its sheath.

He swung.

Myra ducked—barely. The blade missed her throat by inches, slicing a lock of hair instead.

The strand floated to the ground, black and soft.

She dropped into a crouch, heart pounding in her ears. The room had gone silent except for her breathing and the quiet scrape of his boots circling her.

He swung again—this time harder.

She dodged.

Again.

And again.

Shockwaves rippled through the air with each strike.

He was testing her.

"Stand still," he growled.

"Why? Afraid of missing?"

His eyes darkened.

He blurred—vanishing—

Then reappearing behind her.

She spun, arms raised, catching the blade—

Not with flesh.

But her hairpins.

Laced with poison.

His eyes widened.

Before he could react—

She slammed her knee into his groin.

He staggered back with a hiss of pain.

She turned to run—

But his hand caught her by the hair.

Pain.

Searing.

He yanked her back and slammed her head into the wall. Stone met skull. Light burst behind her eyes. Her knees buckled.

"You think you can win?" he sneered.

She forced herself up, blood trickling down her temple.

Her claws extended.

"I’m going to end you, Vlad."

He snarled. Then—

A brutal kick to the chest.

She flew backward, crashing into a pillar. Her ribs screamed. She coughed, blood staining her lips.

She tried to summon the darkness—

Nothing.

He raised a hand.

Suddenly, she was lifted into the air. Invisible force crushing her.

Her lungs burned.

Her limbs convulsed.

Then—

Blackness.

Her body fell.

He caught her.

His hand brushed her cheek.

"Should’ve gone easier on you," he murmured.

Then—

He kissed her forehead.

Lifted her into his arms.

And walked out.

Madeline's worried form was the first he saw, pacing around biting on her thumb.

“Heavens!”