Chapter 3: The Taken

She woke to silence. And cold. Her body weak.

Aria's eyes blinked open, vision blurry and stinging. She lay on a stone floor, her skin slick with something oily and fragrant. The air was sharp with the scent of lavender, bleach, and blood. She tried to sit up—and the dizziness hit her like a wave. Her limbs were weak. Her clothes—gone. In their place was a thin white shift, stiff with starch, clinging to her damp skin.

The room wasn't a prison. Not exactly. But it wasn't freedom either.

She was in what looked like a large, windowless preparation chamber—a long, narrow hall lined with low benches and flickering lanterns. The stone walls were smooth and dark, carved with symbols that looked older than anything Aria had seen in the human quarter. Red candles burned along the arches, casting everything in an eerie, ritualistic glow.

Around her sat other girls, all dressed in white like her. Silent. Shaking. One cried softly into her palms, rocking back and forth. Another stared blankly ahead, whispering to herself, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

Aria sat up slowly, her head pounding. Her mouth tasted like iron and bitterness. They had drugged her, stripped her, bathed her like cattle. Her nails still smelled of perfumed oils, her wrists marked with faint bruises from the scrubbing.

Where was Hansel?

Aria turned her head frantically, searching the faces. But there was no sign of her. No rosy cheeks. No tear-filled eyes.

A sharp groan echoed from the door.

It creaked open.

Three vampires stepped inside, dressed in fitted black uniforms—Enforcers. They walked slowly, surveying the girls like they were inspecting livestock. One crouched to lift a chin. Another reached for a trembling shoulder.

"Five," said one with pale silver hair and dead eyes.

Five girls were called. Five stood up, legs wobbling, and followed the vampires out. Not a single one looked back.

Aria clenched her fists. Her blood felt too hot for her skin.

Minutes passed. The door opened again.

This time, only one vampire entered. He was tall, young-looking, but his eyes were too old. He wore an elaborate collar of dark leather and bone—a handler. One of the vampires tasked with managing humans meant for Offering.

He walked straight toward Aria.

"You," he muttered, reaching for her face like he had the right to touch it. .

She moved faster.

Her leg shot out, slamming her heel into his jaw with a crack. The vampire's head snapped back, and he stumbled a step.

"To hell with you!" Aria spat, breathing hard, already reaching for a second strike.

The other girls gasped and scurried backward.

But the vampire didn't retaliate.

He wiped the blood from his lip, then laughed—a slow, amused sound.

"You're spirited," he said. "They'll want to see you."

"Who?" Aria growled.

He tilted his head. "The Vampire Court."

Before she could reply, two enforcers stepped in behind him and seized her by the arms. Their hands were inhumanly strong. No amount of struggling mattered. Her feet barely touched the ground as they dragged her through the corridor.

The hall outside was long and cold, lit only by torches that burned blue.

She passed doors she didn't want to look behind.

Every stone whispered stories of what had happened here—screams and sobs buried deep in the walls. The air was so cold it felt like ice was crawling across her skin. And still she fought, teeth gritted, eyes burning with rage.

She didn't know what the Vampire Court was.

But she would face them with fire behind her eyes.

—

The marble halls of the Citadel — Vampire Court , were nothing like the stone corners of the servant ward.

They were perfection carved in ivory and obsidian — ceilings that soared like cathedral spires, glistening with blood-gold chandeliers, and smooth floors that mirrored every step like still water. Arched stained-glass windows filtered in violet light from the eternal dusk outside, casting the corridor in hues of bruised silk and shadow. Every corner was pristine, fragrant with crushed roses, cold incense, and the coppery undertone of blood.

Vampire aristocrats lounged like gods on thrones of bone and velvet, draped in silks, their eyes aglow with hunger and old amusement. They sipped lazily from chalices filled not with wine, but from the throats of humans—bound, half-drugged creatures draped across their laps. Delicate fangs pierced soft flesh as their victims twitched and moaned. The nobles drank as if tasting the vintage of a rare year. A woman in crimson kissed the cheek of her feeder before biting in again with a sigh of ecstasy.

Aria walked through it all.

Not trembling like the girls ahead of her. Not weeping like the ones behind.

Eyes forward. Back straight. Rage tightly coiled in her chest.

She was barefoot, her white shift brushing the floor, her wrists still marked from the handler's grip. But there was no shame in her face—only contempt. She didn't look away from the spectacle. She didn't flinch at the sucking sounds, or the low, aristocratic laughter of the vampires as they mocked the girls who collapsed in fear.

She hated all of them.

And in that sea of cruelty, her stillness became a disturbance.

At the far end of the hall, a man paused in his slow, aimless walk.

Tall. Composed. His robe was deep midnight velvet, embroidered with silver thorns and ancient symbols. He wore no crown, yet the air bent around him like gravity. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes — cold as carved onyx — narrowed as they landed on her.

King Damian Serath.

The Vampire King.

The predator who had brought entire bloodlines to extinction. The monster whispered about in every shadowed corner of Velmorra. The reason the Offering even existed.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her not as prey… but as something else.

Something he hadn't seen in centuries.

Aria met his gaze. Didn't blink. Her lip curled slightly, just enough to make it a challenge.