A Tithe Of Blood

The kitchen reeked of wine, wax, and regret.

The aftermath of the masquerade was everywhere—smeared lipstick on goblets, shattered crystal underfoot, and trays still half-filled with delicacies no one remembered eating.

Elira was on dish duty.

She'd been awake since five. The cold water stung her fingers, and the coppery scent of blood from someone's discarded goblet clung to her apron.

She scrubbed in silence, her sleeves damp, her thoughts louder than ever.

The mark.

It still pulsed faintly beneath her collarbone. Invisible now. But it had flared last night—bright enough for Alaric to see.

Bright enough to change everything.

She bit her lip, scrubbing harder.

A soft purr broke her focus.

She looked down.

The cat was back.

Ink-black, with bright golden eyes. He brushed against her leg like he belonged here more than she did.

"Well, look who returned," Elira said, kneeling beside him. "Always at the right moment, aren't you?"

The cat blinked slowly, tail flicking.

"I think I'll name you," she said, her voice light in contrast to the weight inside her. "You've earned that much."

She tapped his head gently. "You look like a Mr. Toby."

The cat gave a soundless meow as if approving.

Elira smiled for the first time that morning.

High above the scullery, behind an arched window veiled in frost and shadow, Lord Calvorn stood still.

The steam from below rose faintly, curling against the chilled glass, but it didn't obscure his view.

His gaze followed her.

Elira.

Bent over a basin, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms damp with dishwater, strands of her hair escaping their tie to cling to her flushed cheek. Her posture was tired, her pace methodical—but her expression…

That was what he watched.

A girl whispering to a black cat as if it were her equal. Laughing, but only in fleeting glimpses. It was like joy was a language she'd once known but had long forgotten how to speak fluently.

He couldn't hear the words, but he could see the rhythm of them on her lips—gentle, curious, tinged with something ancient and unknowingly brave.

Not a noble, he reminded himself.

Not a threat.

And yet…

His eyes narrowed, just slightly.

Why, then, does she linger in my thoughts like an unanswered riddle?

He watched her lift the cat into her lap, stroking it as though it were some long-lost friend. Her gaze drifted—not toward the other servants or the pile of dishes, but inward.

She remembers something. Even if she doesn't know what it is.

Was it amusement that tugged at the corner of his mouth?

Perhaps.

But deeper beneath it was something else.

Concern.

The mark had awakened last night.

He had seen it.

That subtle pulse of light beneath her skin—a language few still spoke, even fewer understood. But he had known it immediately.

Recognition.

She had been chosen once before.

In another age.

And now she's remembering.

And worse… others might remember her, too.

He exhaled slowly, the frost on the window catching his breath and blooming outward like a white flower.

Then, without a word, he turned from the window, the hem of his coat dragging across the cold stone like a shadow unwilling to let go.

Down below, Elira dried her hands and leaned back against the scullery wall, the warmth from the basin quickly giving way to the kitchen's damp chill.

She let out a soft breath.

Her fingers ached. Her arms were sore. But it wasn't the work that weighed on her.

It was the echo.

Of last night.

The memory lingered, playing over and over in fragments.

The flicker of candlelight.

The low hum of the stringed instruments.

And then—

His hand in hers.

His voice in her ear.

Lord Alaric.

Even thinking his name made her heart stutter in confusion. In defiance.

She shouldn't feel this.

Not for someone like him.

Someone who could move like water and watch like fire. Someone who knew too much and said too little.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

⸻

She had never danced before. Not truly.

There had been silly twirls with Lilin in the field when they were little—barefoot in the wild grass, hair tangled with dandelions. Spinning until the sky dipped and the earth tilted.

But that was play.

Childhood.

Last night…

Last night had been something else entirely.

When Alaric placed his hand on her waist, when he guided her into step, it was as though her body remembered movements her mind never learned.

He hadn't asked her to follow.

He had made her feel as if she already knew how.

Like they had danced this waltz in another life.

In another place.

And maybe they had…

Her chest tightened. She pressed a hand lightly to her collarbone, where the skin still felt strange—too warm, too aware.

The mark.

Had he seen it?

Of course he had.

And yet, he hadn't spoken of it. Not yet. Not directly.

But there had been a shift in his gaze. A flicker of something sharper than curiosity.

Recognition.

Maybe even devotion.

Elira shook the thought away. Dangerous thoughts bloomed too easily in places like this.

⸻

She couldn't afford to feel anything. Not here. Not now.

This world didn't allow soft things to grow—not unless they were intended for sacrifice.

Especially not for a man like Alaric.

Not for someone who might wear charm like a velvet mask while hiding fangs underneath.

He danced with me like I belonged beside him.

And yet I can't forget—

He was a vampire.

Beautiful, yes.

Alluring, undeniably.

But still a creature born of death and blood and endless time.

Was she falling? Or being led?

Elira didn't know.

All she knew was that she had felt more in those four minutes of music than in four years of survival.

And that terrified her more than any fang or curse ever could.

Voices swirled around the kitchen like steam from the morning kettles.

"The roast stag had gold-leaf trimming," one of the dish girls whispered to another. "Gold. On meat. Can you imagine?"

"I was too busy staring at that violet gown," another replied. "Lady Inessa looked like she'd walked out of a painting. Did you see the embroidery? Real pearls."

"And the way Lord Varell tripped down the stairs," a boy snorted from the basin. "I thought vampires couldn't be clumsy."

Laughter rippled through the scullery like warm water.

The buzz of last night's masquerade still clung to the walls, heavier than the scent of wax and wine. Every servant had something to say—about the food, the fashions, the whispers behind fans, and who disappeared into which shadowy corridor.

Elira scrubbed a silver goblet, only half-listening. Her mind was still tangled in candlelight and music.

She didn't notice Corrin until the rag smacked gently against her arm.

"Dreaming already, Duchess?"

Elira blinked, then turned to him, one brow raised. "If you throw another rag at me, I'll wring it out in your hair."

Corrin grinned, unapologetic. His curls were damp from dishwater, and he wore his usual expression: half mischief, half charm.

"Worth it," he said. "You were staring off like one of the nobles left you a love letter."

Elira smirked. "Just trying to remember if I imagined all of it. The music. The silk. The nobles looking like they'd never touched dirt in their lives."

He leaned beside her on the bench, picking up a goblet to dry. "You didn't imagine it. It was real. Over-the-top ridiculous, but real."

"Did you see the cake?" she asked.

"I helped carry it," Corrin said with a mock groan. "Three layers, sugar flowers, and probably more butter than this entire kitchen's allowed for a month."

Elira chuckled. "It didn't even look edible."

"Didn't stop Lord Marell from eating half of it on his own. I thought he was going to combust."

They both laughed now, the sounds echoing comfortably over the clinking of dishes and bubbling pots.

Later, when the scullery emptied, Elira sat on a low stool, drying her hands slowly.

Mr. Toby hopped into her lap without permission and promptly curled into a tight black circle.

She stroked behind his ears.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she whispered.

The cat didn't answer. But his purr deepened.

"I should be afraid. I am afraid. But it also feels like…"

She struggled for the word.

"…like something inside me has woken up. And it's watching them too."

She glanced toward the stone ceiling.

Were they watching her now?

Footsteps echoed outside the corridor—measured, unmistakable.

A moment later, the door opened.

Lord Calvorn entered the kitchen without announcement.

Every servant dropped to a bow or curtsy.

Elira stood, her body tensing by instinct. Mr. Toby leapt from her lap and vanished into shadow.

Calvorn's eyes found her immediately.

"Walk with me," he said.

It wasn't a request.

Elira followed Lord Calvorn in silence, her slippers quiet against the stone, the scent of hearth soot and copper lingering in the hall behind her. She didn't ask where they were going. His presence was sharp enough cutting through the air like the first bite of steel in winter.

He said nothing at first.Only walked.

His stride was deliberate and measured, as though every step had been plotted hours before.

They passed the grand gallery the one filled with portraits of men who wore crowns without thrones and women who smiled like knives.

Elira kept her gaze forward.Finally, they stopped at a narrow alcove lined with stained-glass windows, the light fractured into slivers of ruby and gold across the floor.

Calvorn turned to her.

"You're quiet today," he said softly. Too softly.

"I thought that was what you preferred," Elira replied.

Calvorn's lips curved, but it wasn't quite a smile. "I prefer truth over silence," he said, his voice like velvet drawn over thorns.

The fractured light painted his sharp features in hues of fire and blood, and Elira wondered if he had chosen this place for a reason. Nothing about him was ever unintentional.

"And what truth would you like from me, my lord?" she asked, folding her hands before her to still their tremble.

He studied her then—truly studied her—as though trying to look through her rather than at her. "You dance like someone born to be watched," he murmured. "But you vanish like someone afraid to be seen."

Elira opened her mouth to respond, but the words tangled in her throat.

Calvorn stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she could feel the shadow of his intent pressing into her breath. "You've unsettled more than the servants, Elira. Even the walls seem to remember your presence."

Her heart stammered.

"And I—" he paused, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, ancient, and dangerous. "I find myself wondering what else you remember, hidden behind those defiant eyes."

Elira held his gaze, refusing to flinch.

"Tell me," he said, voice dropping into something deeper, almost reverent, "if I were to offer more than protection… would you take it?"