A Tithe Of Blood

The halls of House Calvorn throbbed with restless energy, like a living thing stirring from deep hibernation. What was once a silent fortress of stone and shadow had bloomed into a hive of movement, color, and breathless anticipation.

Silken ribbons of indigo, garnet, and silver fluttered from archways like the wings of rare birds, caught mid-flight in the early light.

Servants scurried like windblown leaves, draping gold-threaded banners across the high columns, their hands raw from hours spent hauling cedar-scented trunks from the deepest storage halls.

Velvet curtains were beaten free of dust and re-hung with jeweled tassels; silver sconces were polished until they gleamed like captured moons.

The air itself was transformed no longer the usual mingling of ash and damp stone, but a rich, dizzying blend of rosewater, citrus oil, beeswax, and the underlying tang of iron that never quite left these halls.

Laughter echoed faintly from unseen corners, muffled by the heavy carpets being unrolled across the marble floors. The clink of crystal goblets, the thrum of harp strings tuning, the occasional shriek of a maid stumbling over tangled thread all of it wove into a single, relentless rhythm.

The masquerade was coming.

It was the most sacred of secular events a night of masks and whispers, where political tension bled into flirtation, where centuries-old rivalries were masked by laughter and silk. Once a year, House Calvorn ceased to be a court of shadows and blood and became a ballroom of illusion. Favors were traded under chandeliers, alliances were born in candlelight, and secrets danced as boldly as the guests.

And this year, it would be grander than ever.

Lord Calvorn himself had declared it.

The invitation had gone out weeks ago, gilded and sealed with his sigil a fang through a crescent moon delivered by ravens, riders, and enchantments alike.

Nobles from across the central provinces would descend upon the estate. Lords from the borderlands. Ambassadors. Dukes of the three major part. Vampires of ancient bloodlines. Perhaps even a whisper of the South or a second envoy from the North.

And in the eye of this looming storm stood the staff the invisible hands weaving a world of wonder. Seamstresses worked day and night in the upper galleries, stitching feathers into sleeves and silver into bodices.

Cookfires roared below the cellars, exhaling the scent of roasted nuts, sugared fruit, and spiced meats. Servants buzzed in every hall, humming as they worked; songs from homelands long lost carried like spells through the rafters.

House Calvorn was becoming something else entirely.

Not a fortress.

Not a prison.

But a stage.

And somewhere beneath it all, Elira moved in silence, her eyes taking in the transformation with equal parts awe and dread.

Because beneath every mask there would be teeth.

And not all would be hidden.

She passed Marta in the west gallery, the older woman's arms full of starched lace and embroidered sashes, muttering about wrinkled trims and uneven hems.

Two footmen struggled past with trays of costume jewels and feathered masks, nearly colliding with a noble tailor who flung a measuring tape like a weapon of war.

"I told you," the tailor snapped at his apprentice, "crimson drowns in candlelight. Midnight-blue shimmers. Would you have the lord look like a corpse dipped in ink?"

"But red matches the estate crest," the younger argued, voice thin with panic.

Somewhere behind them, a maid was singing

a low, lilting tune from the southern isles, all sway and soft percussion, barely rising above the bustle.

The air trembled with tension and beauty: scents of lavender starch and fresh dye, flickers of colored silk, and the rhythm of hurried footsteps on stone.

And yet

All Elira could think of was the scent of warm bread.

And Nicholas 

⸻

It had been three days ago. The market trip beyond the estate walls—a rare reprieve. She'd been sent to help select spices and dyed ribbons, accompanied by Marta and two other senior staff.

The roads were muddy with the early thaw, but the sun had warmed the stone-paved streets of the village, and the market square was bursting with life.

Vendors shouted over one another, hawking silk scarves, candied almonds, goat's cheese, perfumed oil, and hand-carved combs.

Children darted between carts, and red banners hung from window sills like flame trails.

It had been the scent that pulled her attention.

Fresh bread, dark-crusted and warm, resting on wooden boards by a baker's stall. It hit her like a memory breaking through ice

afternoons on the hill, her mother's song drifting through the door, Nicholas tossing pebbles at her window.

She had turned her head toward the smell.

And there he was.

Nicholas. 

Standing at the far end of the market, near the herb stalls. His profile was unmistakable. The curve of his jaw, the way his fingers pushed his hair back when he laughed.

He hadn't changed, not in the way she had. Still warm-skinned, still careless in posture, still shining like something untouched by cruelty.

But he wasn't alone.

A girl stood beside him, maybe his age. Slender, with chestnut hair woven into ribbons and cheeks pink from wind and laughter. She leaned too close, whispering something in his ear. Nicholas laughed, then reached out to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Familiar. Gentle.

The world had gone quiet around Elira.

All the noise of the market the rustle of silk, the clang of coin, the laughter of children faded into a strange, hollow ringing in her ears. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Her hands tightened on the ribbon bundle at her side.

She felt the sharp edge of the pinprick where a pin stuck out too far, but she didn't flinch.

They hadn't seen her.

She could've turned away, melted into the crowd.

But she stood for a heartbeat too long, as if the sight of him might confirm that she still existed in the world he'd left behind.

And then he looked up.

For a second, their eyes met.

She didn't know if he recognized her. His expression shifted confused, maybe but the girl tugged his hand and pulled him away, laughing again, and Nicholas let himself be led.

Elira turned back toward the spice vendor, throat dry. The scent of bread now made her sick.

That night, back in her chamber, Elira lay curled beneath the thin blanket, unsure what stung more: that he had moved on or that she no longer belonged in the world where he could have noticed her.

But her thoughts never stayed on Nicholas for long now. Not when another shadow lived in her mind, Alaric. Cold, distant, and yet constantly near.

He never spoke more than a few words. But his presence filled entire rooms. The black feather. The look by the window. The way her name sounded when he didn't say it, only breathed it through silence.

And that night, when she lifted her pillow to shake out the straw, she found a note.

Folded into perfect thirds. The ink was crisp and slanted.

"You still look back. Be careful not to trip forward."

—A

She stared at it long into the candle's burn.