A Tithe Of Blood

Elira's breath caught for only a moment. Not enough to be seen, but enough to know.

Then, with a careful tilt of her head, she answered, "I think, my lord, I've already taken quite enough."

Calvorn said nothing at first. The air stretched between them like spun glass.

When he finally spoke, it was with the softness of silk hiding a blade. "A wise answer," he said. "But not always the right one."

Elira offered a curt nod, more courtly than submissive. "Good day, Lord Calvorn."

She turned before he could answer, walking away through the fractured light.

Only when she was well past the gallery did she let out a breath.

_________

It was past eleven when Elira entered the kitchen, it was steeped in the scents of burnt wax and stewed onions when Marta entered, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Elira," she called. "You're needed in the West Wing."

Elira blinked, straightening from where she was drying pewter cups. "Now?"

Marta gave her a sharp look. "Lord Calvorn has asked for blood wine. You'll take it."

Several kitchen girls froze, wide-eyed. Everyone knew the West Wing was the quietest part of the estate not for lack of activity, but because it belonged to him.

Marta handed her a silver tray with a tall, narrow decanter and a single black-stemmed goblet. The wine inside shimmered darkly, thicker than anything meant for simple indulgence.

"Hold it steady. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for heaven's sake, don't linger," Marta muttered. Then, lower: "But watch him. He sees more than he says."

The doors were already open when she arrived.

Inside, the chamber was darkly opulent. Deep red drapes spilled from the ceiling, a single candelabra lit the sitting room, and the scent of spiced wine lingered in the air.

A harp sat untouched in the corner, half in shadow.

Calvorn stood by the hearth, back half-turned to her. He had changed into an ink-dark robe, the collar loose around his throat.

"You brought it yourself," he said, not turning.

"I was told to," Elira replied, stepping inside.

"Good." His voice held approval, or something like it. "Set it there."

She placed the tray on a low table by the settee, careful not to spill a drop.

Calvorn turned finally. He wore a loose black shirt, unlaced at the collar. His black hair fell past his shoulders, catching the firelight like threads of ice.

"I expected Marta," he said, approaching. "But this is… better."

Elira tensed. "Shall I leave, my lord?"

He glanced towards her for a second longer "Not yet. Sit."

She stayed standing.

Calvorn didn't insist. He stepped toward a carved wooden table where two glasses waited, one already filled with a dark red liquid.

"I've been wondering," Calvorn began, turning to face her fully, "what you intend to do once your contract ends."

She blinked, caught off guard. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"You should." His tone was gentle, but there was weight beneath it. "This house does not keep servants longer than it has use for them. And some uses…" His eyes flicked to hers. "Are not always spoken aloud."

Elira remained quiet.

Calvorn took a slow sip of his wine. "You're sharp. You carry yourself like someone who hasn't always been beneath others' commands. You don't belong in a kitchen."

"Perhaps that's where I belong now."

He gave a small smile, unreadable. "Is that what he told you?"

Elira's heart gave a slow thump. "Lord Alaric has only ever been kind to me."

"That's one way to describe his behavior," Calvorn murmured.

He stepped closer, but not menacingly. Just enough to lower his voice. "Let me offer you something few in this house will honestly."

Elira looked up at him, uncertain.

"Alaric is not what you think," he continued. "He is not a savior. He protects what he values, yes, but only while it serves his end. I've watched him claim things he later left to ruin, once they'd fulfilled their purpose."

She flinched slightly but held her ground. "I don't think Lord Alaric would—"

"You think," Calvorn interrupted gently, "because he lets you believe you have all the pieces. But you don't."

The fire crackled between them.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked quietly.

"Because despite your defiance, I think you deserve more than to be a pawn in a game you don't even know you're playing." His voice was calm, too calm. "And because I want to know what you want, Elira."

She searched his expression for deceit but saw only shadows and sincerity layered so closely they were impossible to separate.

"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But whatever I choose, I want it to be mine."

Calvorn nodded once, slowly. "Then choose carefully."

She turned to leave after seeking his permission, mind reeling with more questions than answers.

But as she reached the door, the candlelight shifted, catching the edge of her collar as it slipped slightly to the side. Just a glimpse, barely a sliver, but enough.

Calvorn's gaze locked onto it.

The faint black crescent mark below her collarbone.

He said nothing.But his eyes lingered.

Elira's breath caught for only a moment. Not enough to be seen, but enough to know.

Calvorn's silence followed her down the hall like a second shadow, heavier than his gaze.

She didn't run, but her steps quickened once the West Wing fell behind her, swallowed by velvet dark and unreadable quiet.

And yet, even as she turned corners and slipped back into the warmth of clattering pans and murmuring firelight, she could still feel it his eyes on her, or perhaps the memory of them.

Watching. Weighing.

Like he had seen something she hadn't meant to reveal.

_____________

The kitchen was warmer than she remembered Or maybe it was just the shift from the cold quiet of the West Wing to the familiar clatter of knives and boiling pots. Either way, Elira stepped inside feeling like someone who had crossed a border they weren't meant to.

Marta spotted her instantly.

"You're back," the older woman said, voice low but sharp. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Elira gave a practiced, quiet shrug and moved to return the tray to its shelf, careful not to spill a single drop of the wine still glistening in the decanter. Her hands, she realized, were shaking slightly.

Marta frowned. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer, waiting until the noise of the kitchen masked her words.

"What happened in there?"

"Nothing," Elira said too quickly.

Marta's lips thinned. "Don't lie. Not to me."

Elira hesitated. "He asked questions. That's all."

"Questions," Marta repeated, her eyes narrowing like she could see straight through Elira's skin. "And did he speak of Lord Alaric?"

Elira looked up sharply.

Marta gave a small sigh and pulled a stool from under the side counter. "Sit. You're trembling."

"I'm fine—"

"Sit, girl. Before your legs give out."

Elira obeyed, more out of habit than agreement. Marta sat beside her, folding her arms.

"I suppose it was bound to happen," she said softly. "Someone had to tell you."

Elira's brows drew together. "Tell me what?"

"That once long ago, Lord Alaric Valtreon lived here. This was his estate, not Lord Calvorn's. It belonged to the Valtareon for generations. He wasn't always what he is now." Marta paused, her expression wistful.

"He laughed once. Did you know that? Laughed like sunlight in spring."

Elira blinked. She couldn't imagine it.

"He was young. Proud. And in love." Marta's eyes dimmed. "She was… fierce. Brighter than fire and gentler than snow. He built a garden for her right where the north courtyard stands. Flowers that only bloomed under moonlight. You would've liked her."

Elira blinked. "And Calvorn?"

Marta exhaled through her nose, folding her arms over her apron like she was weighing the weight of inherited memory. "Lord Calvorn came to this estate when he was barely older than you. In his twenties, smooth-voiced and brilliant-eyed. Some said he was a scholar. Others whispered things darker rituals, pacts, blood-borne knowledge."

Elira glanced up. "You knew him then?"

Marta gave a dry chuckle. "Me? Saints no. That was generations ago. But my great-grandmother did. She served in this estate long before I was born. Her mind went in the end, but the stories never did. She told them like prayers."

"What did she say about them?"

"She said Lord Alaric was already ancient when she was a girl," Marta said softly. "The kind of old that doesn't wrinkle skin or weaken bones but settles in the soul. She spoke of him like one speaks of a legend: quiet, regal, terrifying. He ruled the North before we even had names for most of the maps."

Elira's breath caught.

"But then," Marta continued, "something changed. My great-grandmother never said what exactly, but it was tied to someone he loved. A woman. When she was lost by war or death or something worse Lord Alaric… fell. Not just in spirit. He vanished. Into slumber. Some called it grief. Others, magic. Centuries passed."

Marta said. "My great-grandmother met Lord Calvorn too—briefly. She said he was sharp, learned, and carrying more secrets than luggage. A cousin of Alaric's, blood-linked but not raised here. When Lord Alaric fell, Calvorn stepped in."

"To help?"

"To hold power." Marta's gaze didn't waver.

"He stabilized what was left. Managed the estate, formed alliances, and rebuilt what time had broken. And eventually, the title passed to him."

"So they never ruled together?"

"No. Never. The North was always Alaric's. Calvorn inherited the shadow of it and shaped it in his own image. He is colder, yes but also steady. Dangerous in a different way."

Elira's voice dropped. "And now that Lord Alaric remembers?"

Marta's eyes darkened. "Now… everything shifts."

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

"He's been changing, Elira. This past decade especially. The way he watches, listens. Memory returns to him like frost slow, creeping, but unstoppable once it begins. He's no longer a man who's forgotten. He's a man becoming."

Elira felt something tighten in her chest.

Marta's voice softened, but her eyes were steady as a blade. "I think you should know this: men who carry centuries in their shadows rarely love without reason. Or without ruin."