Then offer me your blood

A little voice in her head warned that she'd never find her way back. The palace was a maze of gilded doors and shadowed alcoves, every hallway identical in the dark.

But she couldn't stop.

She trailed the woman through another set of arches and up a shallow flight of steps. The air changed subtly here, taking on a faint scent of roses and polished wood. The walls gleamed with richer paneling, the sconces fitted with glass chimneys shaped like lilies.

This part of the palace was finer—more secluded.

Nysa slowed, pressing herself into the deeper shadows of a carved pillar. If she was caught, what would she say? That she was only wandering? That she was lost?

Somehow she didn't think that excuse would be well received.

The maid finally stopped at a pair of tall double doors banded with delicate brass. She looked over her shoulder once, as if to make sure no one watched.

Nysa's breath caught. She shrank back behind the pillar.

When she peeked again, the maid had slipped inside. The door closed with the softest of clicks.

Nysa stood there, heart hammering.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, muffled through the thick wood, she heard voices.

She strained to hear but could make out only fragments—a low male tone, then the maid's thinner one, pitched in pleading.

Her skin prickled.

The minutes stretched. She started to wonder if she should retreat before someone came along and found her lurking in the dark.

But then the voices rose—just enough for her to catch words.

"…Your Highness… please—"

Her heart nearly stopped.

Your Highness.

So the man inside must be royalty.

The prince?

It had to be.

She inched closer, pressing her ear to the narrow gap between the doors. The wood was warm beneath her palm.

"…so sorry… I never meant to… it was an accident…"

The maid's voice shook.

The answering tone was smooth, calm—dangerous in a way that set Nysa's skin crawling.

"You poured a decanter of twenty-years old wine onto Viscount Berel's lap. Do you think an apology is sufficient?"

Her heart jolted. She recognized that voice. She had heard it in the ballroom. Closer to her ear than any voice had ever been.

The man in the white mask.

"Your Highness", the maid's voice choked out, high and trembling.

"I—I didn't see—"

"You embarrassed an important guest. You made a spectacle of this evening."

"I'll work to repay it," the maid babbled, words tripping over each other. "Please—I'll do anything—"

A pause.

Nysa held her breath.

"Anything?" the prince murmured.

"Yes," the maid whispered. "I swear—"

"Then offer me your life."

Silence fell so complete Nysa wondered if her heart had stopped too.

"My… my life?"

"You heard me."

"No—please—I have children—"

"Then offer me your blood."

Nysa clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering a gasp.

Her mind scrambled to make sense of what she'd just heard. He couldn't mean it literally. It had to be some cruel metaphor, some noble threat meant to frighten her into obedience.

But when the maid spoke again, her voice was hoarse with terror.

"I—I'll do it—just don't—don't kill me—"

Another stretch of silence.

Nysa's skin turned to ice.

And then, so soft she barely heard it, the prince said:

"Come here."

A scraping movement. The rustle of skirts.

Then—

A sound she would never forget.

A wet, muffled noise, almost like someone drinking—but deeper, more awful.

The maid's breath caught in a ragged cry.

Nysa's nails dug into her palm, the sharp sting of her own grip the only thing anchoring her to the moment. The rough texture of the stone wall pressed against her back, cold and unyielding, as she fought to steady her breathing. Every instinct screamed at her to run—to flee down the shadowed corridor and never look back—but terror had turned her limbs to lead.

"No—please—" the maid's voice was a broken whisper, thick with tears and something worse—the wet, ragged sound of a throat too damaged to scream. "Stop—"

The sickening sound continued.

Nysa's stomach twisted. She clutched the door frame, her fingers slipping against the polished wood, her knees trembling so violently she feared they would buckle.

"Your Highness—please—no more—"

The maid's words slurred, her voice weakening with each gasping plea. Nysa squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out the horror by sheer will—but the sounds only grew louder in the dark behind her eyelids.

Then—a final, shuddering gasp.

Silence.

Nysa didn't realize she was shaking until she tried to take a step back. Her legs nearly gave way beneath her, her bare feet slipping on the icy marble. Her heartbeat was a deafening drum in her ears, so loud she was certain it would betray her.

She didn't know how long she stood there, paralyzed, her breath coming in shallow, silent hitches.

Then—

A soft thump.

The unmistakable sound of a body collapsing onto the floor, limp and lifeless.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, like the air before a storm.

Nysa pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her fingers cold as death against her lips. A voice inside her—small, frantic, screaming—begged her to run, to flee back to her chambers, to lock the door and bury herself in blankets until morning.

But she couldn't move.

Through the narrow gap between the doors, a shadow shifted.

Candlelight flickered, catching the edge of a figure rising—tall, elegant, unhurried. Midnight-black hair gleamed like spilled ink, and pale hands, streaked with something dark and glistening, flexed once before stilling.

Nysa's breath caught.

She knew—with a terrible, sinking certainty—that he could hear her.

That he had always known she was there.

That any second, those dark, fathomless eyes would turn toward the door, toward the sliver of space where she stood, trembling and exposed.

She had to get away.

But her body refused to obey. The cold of the marble seeped up through her bare feet, spreading through her veins like frost, rooting her in place.

And then—

The darkness behind the door shifted again.

Closer.

.

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