The Vampire's Luna

She turned toward Damien. "That’s why you didn’t tell me. I should have known."

"I’m glad I can still shock you every now and then," he said.

She let out a shaky laugh, one hand reaching up to touch his cheek. "Thank you."

Damien’s hand ghosted down her arm, lingering before he stepped back. "I’ll go show my face to the people too, and then prepare for the party in the town square."

"I’ll join you soon," she promised.

"Don’t take too long, Moonlight. They’ll be asking for their queen." With that, he turned and strode toward the temple doors, the sound of the crowd swelling as he disappeared into the light.

Luna smoothed her gown, steadying herself.

"My Lord," she called to Lucivar.

Lucivar turned instantly. "Your highness," he said smoothly. Then, with a faint arch of his brow, he added, "Shouldn’t you be out there?"

"I needed to speak with you first."

Lucivar reached for her arm. His hand closed around her wrist and guided her a few steps away from the priest still murmuring over the sacred altar.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"I thought I needed to apologise... for the way I handled the Isolde matter," Luna admitted.

"Luna... I have no right to weigh in on how you should handle it."

"I feel like I disappointed you in some way," she pressed, her eyes searching his face.

Lucivar exhaled, his jaw tightening. "Yeah," he said at last, blunt as a blade. "I was disappointed in the moment."

The admission stung. He looked at her the way a general might look at a soldier who had faltered on the battlefield.

"I thought," he continued, "that a woman who saved my son’s life deserved better. I thought my son’s wife could behave more elegantly and rise above petty emotions."

Her lips parted, ready to defend herself, but he lifted a hand to stall her.

"I don’t know what happened that day," Lucivar said, softer now, almost weary. "But I know that you let yourself lose control. And who am I to say anything? I have no experience with how a mate bond can strip you of better judgment, no matter how strong you think you are."

Luna’s throat tightened. He wasn’t wrong. She had lost control. Isolde had known exactly how to needle her, how to twist her insecurities, and Luna had taken the bait.

"I don’t want you to be mad at me," she whispered, a confession she hadn’t expected to make.

"I’m not mad." He released her arm but not her eyes. "I just need you to always remember that however you feel about this woman, she saved your husband’s life without asking questions." His gaze sharpened, a warning glinting behind it.

"And queens who cannot master themselves become pawns for others to move. I’ve seen it too many times."

Finally, Lucivar’s lips curved into the faintest smile. "Now," he said, "let’s go party. Blood City has a prince."

She smiled and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. As they began walking toward the temple doors, Luna felt the sting of his words still lodged in her chest—but also, strangely, a sense of comfort.

He might have been harsh, but he hadn’t cast her aside. That mattered.

Beyond the doors, the roar of the crowd swelled again, a city howling its joy into the heavens. Blood City had its heir.

*****

Thessa and Morvakar stood together just as the party truly began. Almost the entire city seemed to have poured into the square—hundreds of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, cheering, singing, drinking until the air itself seemed drunk with joy.

A part of the massive square had been carefully cordoned off, guarded by the castle guards, where the Lords and royals gathered, separating them from the people they ruled.

Thessa’s hand rested lightly on the marble railing.

"I am not so sure Prince Magnus should be around so many people," she murmured, leaning closer to Morvakar. She glanced toward the raised dais where Luna sat, cradling the newborn prince while Damien stood behind her, raising a glass with Councilman Richard.

"Hiding the prince is not good for the city," Morvakar replied. "The people need to know their prince. They need to see him live. It reminds them that their rulers are not untouchable gods. Damien had the same kind of party when he was born. Three centuries later, he is still standing."

She turned her attention back to Morvakar then. "Hmmm. Do you plan on dancing with me tonight?"

Morvakar chuckled softly, running a hand through his dark hair. "I don’t know if what I am going to do can exactly be called dancing."

"Come on," Thessa pressed, her lips curving into a playful pout. "If you are going to leave after today, give me something to hold on to."

Morvakar turned to her then. "I’d do anything for you."

Thessa glanced at him, her eyes reading more than he wanted to give away. She wondered what ghosts lived behind that guarded stare.

What Morvakar was truly thinking, however, was dangerous even for himself to admit. He was watching Luna and Damien, their bond so palpable it seemed to radiate off them.

The way the king’s hand never strayed far from his queen’s, the way her eyes lit with a love that had been tested in fire yet had not dimmed—every part of it screamed fate.

A pulse vibrated in his pocket. Instinctively, his fingers darted inside his coat, and when they came out, they held Isolde’s necklace. The pendant pulsed. Morvakar froze, every sense sharpening, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

His brows furrowed as dread gripped him. His gaze swept the square in one rapid motion, cataloguing the crowd. It was crowded. Too crowded. A sea of faces that could hide a goddamn army.

"Morvakar?" Thessa’s voice sliced through his panic. She had caught the change in his aura, the sudden coil of tension in his body. He rarely looked unsettled, but now his eyes burned with it. "What’s going on?" Her fingers brushed his sleeve.

"He’s here."

Her brows knitted, confusion warring with fear. "Who’s here?"

But he didn’t hear her, not really. He pushed forward, shouldering past nobles and maneuvering through the tight ring of guards surrounding the royal family.

Thessa stumbled after him. "Morvakar!" She chased him past the line of armored men, ignoring their disapproving looks.

"He is here." Morvakar spun abruptly, and the force of his turn nearly made her collide into his chest. His hand came down on her shoulders, rougher than he intended. His eyes locked onto hers.

"Make an excuse. Get the prince out of here. Do not tell their majesties anything. Just come up with something. Anything. Just move him, Thessa."

She grabbed his arm before he could pull away, her nails digging in. "Who is here?" she demanded.

But Morvakar’s gaze darted past her, scanning the crowd again.

Morvakar raised the necklace. "The one who made this necklace," he murmured. "I redirected the finding spell in it to lead me to him instead."

"Isn’t he the one Gabriel said was helping him?" she whispered, horror lacing every syllable. Her hand clutched at his sleeve. "Your son?"

The muscle in Morvakar’s jaw flexed. His nostrils flared. "I told you," he said, "my son is dead." His gaze sharpened, glassy with memory. "Lucivar killed him right in front of me. I need to find this person," he ground out, "because if he is still out there, the queen might still be in danger."

"And what are you going to do when you find him?" she challenged, her eyes blazing up at him. "You don’t have any powers."

"I’m not entirely useless, Thess. Go. Now."

Thessa surged forward and kissed him. Her lips caught his in a reckless brush that stole both their breaths. Her hand cupped his jaw, and for half a second, Morvakar leaned into it.

"Be careful," she whispered fiercely.

He touched her hand briefly, a fleeting pressure against her fingers, then urged her back.

With the last of her courage, Thessa turned and forced herself toward the royal circle.

Morvakar exhaled slowly, dragging in the night air. He lowered his gaze to the pendant again. The gem’s light twisted, the compass at its center spinning madly until it steadied, pointing toward the throng of revelers. He followed its direction, weaving into the sea of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder.

The square was chaos—laughter, music.

He slipped deeper into the crowd, eyes sharp, every nerve alight with purpose. Somewhere in this ocean of merriment was the one person who could unmake it all.

It was useless. He couldn’t tell who among this people was the sorcerer. He kept spinning around and around, circling the sea of people, hoping for a sign, a clue.

*****

Isolde arrived at the event in a dress that was a declaration. She had chosen it hours earlier. The gown was cut to reveal just enough skin to scandalize.

(Don’t forget those golden tickets)