The Bride Should Match the Wine

The days following her arrival were a dizzying, suffocating onslaught. The news of Kylian Hawkrige's engagement to a fallen Rutherford whelp spread through Westmarch's shadowed courts on whispers faster than ravens. Hawkrige Manor, which had slumbered in its ancient gloom, awoke. The house pulsed with a new energy, a nervous, excited hum that vibrated through the stone floors and up Aisling's spine.

Servants scurried through the halls, their faces a mixture of fear and frenzied purpose. Dignitaries and messengers from other noble houses arrived and departed, their carriages leaving deep ruts in the gravel of the courtyard. They were preparing for something called the Blood Reception—an official, binding ceremony where high vampire society would gather to inspect Kylian's chosen bride, to sniff out her bloodline, and to pass judgment.

It was, Aisling gathered from the hushed tones and averted eyes, a trial. And failure was not an option.

Her life was no longer her own; it was a series of appointments. This morning, it was the tailors.

She stood on a small stool in the center of her cavernous sitting room, feeling like a doll being dressed for sacrifice. Two stern-faced men, their own faces as pale as parchment, circled her, muttering in a clipped dialect, pinning and tucking fabric with sharp, precise movements. Bolts of silk, velvet, and brocade were piled on every available surface, a dragon's hoard of color and texture.

Kaelith lounged on a chaise, directing the proceedings with the air of a queen. "No, not the silver, Antoine. It makes her look like a ghost. She is not my mother." She tapped a finger to her chin. "She has fire in her hair and emeralds in her eyes. We need to complement the flames, not dowse them."

Kylian leaned against the doorframe, a silent, amused spectator, a smirk playing on his lips. He hadn't said a word, but his presence filled the room, his gaze a physical weight on Aisling's skin.

"Something in blood-red velvet," Kaelith declared, her eyes gleaming. "For the reception. It's tradition. The bride should match the wine."

Aisling, who had been holding herself perfectly still, finally spoke. "I am not a canvas for your traditions."

Kaelith's laughter was a delightful, wicked sound. "Oh, darling, of course you are. We all are. You just happen to be the newest, most interesting canvas this dreary house has seen in a century."

"Nonsense, my dear," Kylian's velvet voice cut in from the doorway. He pushed off the frame and sauntered into the room. "You are a masterpiece. We are simply providing a suitable frame." He stopped before her, his blue eyes dancing with a dark, private amusement that was meant only for her.

"A frame is still a cage," she retorted, her voice low.

"Everything is a cage, little witch," he murmured back, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. "You just have to decide if you want to be the bird or the tiger inside it."

Before she could form a reply, Kaelith clapped her hands together. "That's settled then! Blood-red for the reception." She then fixed Aisling with a conspiratorial grin. "But before that, we need a rehearsal. I'm having a small, intimate feast tonight. To welcome you to the family."

Aisling's stomach plummeted. "A feast?"

"Just a few… dozen… of our closest friends and most cherished enemies," Kaelith said with a dramatic wave of her hand. "You can't meet society for the first time at the Blood Reception. Honestly, they'd eat you alive. Think of tonight as a… tutorial in swimming with sharks."

Aisling glanced at Kylian. He merely raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. He was allowing this. This wasn't a welcome; it was another test.

Kaelith leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry, darling. I'll be there to throw you a lifeline. Probably."

***

That evening, as a shy, young maid named Liora helped her into one of the new gowns, a deep emerald silk that clung to her like a second skin, Aisling's fear was a cold, hard knot in her belly. She channeled it, as she always did, into resolve. She would be the tiger.

When she walked into the lesser dining hall, a room that was still larger and more grand than any she had ever seen, she understood Kaelith's warning. The room was a glittering pit of vipers.

A long table was set with gleaming silver and crystal that reflected the light of a thousand candles. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, expensive perfume, and roasted meat, all underpinned by that faint, coppery tang that never truly left the air in this house.

But it was the guests who stole the breath from her lungs. They were a collection of ancient, beautiful predators, all dressed in exquisite finery. Their movements were languid, their smiles sharp, and their eyes… their eyes were all on her. They followed her with an unnerving, calculating stillness as Kylian led her to the head of the table.

"So this is the little ember that has set my nephew's cold heart alight," a woman's voice, dripping with honeyed venom, purred from across the table.

Aisling's gaze settled on a stunningly beautiful woman with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of a winter frost. She wore a gown of shimmering silver that seemed to mock Kaelith's earlier comment, and a cruel, knowing smile played on her lips. This, Aisling knew instinctively, was Lady Illyra, the Veiled Viper.

"Lady Illyra," Kylian said, his tone smooth but with an edge of ice. "How kind of you to join us."

"How could I resist?" Illyra replied, her eyes never leaving Aisling. "It's been so long since Kylian brought home a new pet. And such a… vibrant one." She took a delicate sip of her wine. "They burn so brightly, these mortal passions, don't they? And so very, very quickly."

The insult was clear, a dismissal of Aisling as a temporary amusement, a warmblood distraction. The table fell silent, every vampire present waiting to see how the new toy would react.

Aisling felt Kylian's gaze on her, curious and watchful. He would not save her. This was her fight. She took a slow, deliberate breath and met the viper's gaze with a calm, steady fire of her own.

"I find that passion lasts precisely as long as it is met with something worthy of it, my lady," Aisling said, her voice clear and carrying across the table. "Perhaps some find that a fleeting experience. I imagine it must be… disappointing."

A collective, almost inaudible intake of breath went around the table. Lady Illyra's smile tightened, the honey freezing into ice. Kaelith, seated to Aisling's left, let out a tiny, choked sound that might have been a laugh.

Before Illyra could retort, a new voice, laced with a silken, aristocratic mockery, cut through the tension.

"Tell me, brother," it drawled. "Have you explained to your charming little songbird the typical lifespan of a Hawkrige pet?"

A man seated further down the table leaned forward into the candlelight. He was devastatingly handsome, with midnight hair slicked back from his temples and eyes the color of mercury. He wore immaculate brocade and fine leather gloves, which he never seemed to remove. The power rolling off him was different from Kylian's—it was colder, sharper, and more serpentine. This had to be Valaric.

Kylian's jaw tightened. "Valaric. Always a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," Valaric said, his silver eyes flicking to Aisling. "I do so love watching you play with your food. You've chosen one with spirit this time. It makes the eventual snap of the neck so much more satisfying, don't you find?"

The casual cruelty of his words was meant to shock, to destabilize her. But Aisling had been raised on fear. She had stared into the face of it every day of her life. These creatures, with their jewels and their taunts, were just a different breed of monster.

"My neck, my lord," Aisling said, her voice ringing with a conviction that surprised even herself, "is not on the menu tonight. Nor any night."

Valaric's lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile. He raised his glass to her in a mock toast. "A fighter. How delightful."

The rest of the dinner was a blur of such encounters. A dance of veiled insults, probing questions, and condescending pleasantries. Aisling parried each one, her mind sharp, her tongue sharper. She spoke of trade routes with a pompous old lord, debated philosophy with a blue-skinned vampiress from a foreign court, and deflected every attempt to pry into her family's "unfortunate" circumstances. She did not eat. She could not. She was the main course, and every word was a fight for survival.

Through it all, Kylian watched her. He leaned back in his chair, a glass of dark wine in his hand, his face a mask of unreadable amusement. He was a spectator at his own fiancée's trial by fire. And the look in his eyes… it was dark, curious, and unsettlingly intense. He was watching her, not as a lover, but as a smith might watch a piece of steel in the forge, waiting to see if it would temper into a fine blade, or shatter.

The feast was finally winding down. Aisling was emotionally and mentally exhausted, her nerves frayed raw from the constant vigilance. She had held her own, but the cost was immense.

It was then that Valaric rose from his seat. He moved with a liquid grace that was both beautiful and terrifying, gliding around the table toward her. He stopped behind her chair, and she could feel the cold radiating from his body without him even touching her. The table chatter died away once more.

He leaned down, his voice a serpentine whisper meant only for her, though all could hear it in the sudden silence.

"You have a fascinating spirit, little morsel," he purred, his mercury eyes boring into her. "Like a flame dancing on a lake of oil. So very beautiful…"

He reached out, his gloved fingers moving to touch a lock of her fiery hair.

"Right before the inferno."