The Vampire's Luna

Without another word, he turned and breezed out of the room.

Luna stood alone in the quiet aftermath. Her ripped dress lay in a pile at her feet. Her body hummed with unresolved tension. Her heart? Oh, her heart was a traitor. It wanted to go after him. To finish what they started. To surrender.

*****

Kyllian’s heart did a somersault, then broke into a full marathon sprint the moment he read the note. His fingers trembled slightly, the paper fluttering.

’Meet me at the café between boundaries in a week. 7pm...

Princess Luna Sinclair’

That was it. Simple, direct Luna. And yet, to Kyllian, it felt like the damn thing had been handwritten by the Moon Goddess herself.

Did she miss him? Was this her reaching out? Hell, at this point, if she asked him to run away to some obscure mountain village where no one knew their names, he’d already be halfway there with a packed bag and a bouquet of whatever flowers she loved.

He wanted it all with her.

Lately, his blind rages had become more frequent. But he knew one thing: just a little dose of her could quiet the madness, at least for a little while.

And poor Talon. Bless that unshakable soldier’s heart. Kyllian was nearly certain he was one snarled response away from catching an accidental uppercut to the jaw. Talon had been patient, understanding, even occasionally offering advice. But how long before he cracked under the weight of Kyllian’s emotional wreckage?

*****

In the cold, cavernous expanse of the Blood Throne room, King Lucivar sat lazily on his throne, drumming his fingers against the armrest.

He knew why they were here. Of course, he knew. The whole realm knew. News of Damien and Luna’s grand entrance at Lord Bishop’s christening had spread.

Lucivar sighed as the council filed in, faces stiff with curiosity.

"Well," Lucivar said. "How can I help you lot today?"

The head councilman cleared his throat, smile fixed.

"Your highness," he began in that tone that always made Lucivar want to nap with one eye open, "we congratulate you on the prince finally working out his relationship with the princess."

"Do you?" Lucivar arched an eyebrow, the sarcasm dripping off him. "How generous...And yet...the prince wasn’t invited to this meeting."

The head councilman cleared his throat delicately.

"The matter we wish to discuss is of a delicate nature," the man began, clasping his hands. "One that might not resonate well with the prince."

Lucivar arched an eyebrow, so slowly it could’ve been choreographed. "You mean offend him."

The man hesitated. "It is a possibility, yes."

"Fine," Lucivar sighed, gesturing lazily with his hand. "Let’s hear it. Let’s peel the Band-Aid off this ancient wound of yours, shall we?"

The man nodded solemnly, as though he were about to deliver a eulogy rather than a political proposal. "Your Majesty, let it be known first that the people are not opposed to the prince’s union with the princess. If the Blood Goddess herself willed it that way, who are we to go against her will?"

"How noble of you," Lucivar muttered, already over it. "And yet...You wouldn’t be here if everything was sunshine and sacrificial doves."

The councilman licked his lips. "We... would like to know what the future of the Blood City is concerning the succession of the throne."

Lucivar gave the most dramatic shrug a centuries old vampire king could muster. "Same as it has always been. When I retire, the prince rules. When the prince retires... his child rules. It’s not exactly a mystery, gentlemen. We’ve been doing this for several millennia. It’s practically tradition."

"Simple...isn’t it?" he added with a smirk, stretching. "Besides, there’s still a thousand years between now and then. Why bring this up now?"

The councilman straightened again, emboldened by whatever dusty rulebook he clutched at in his mind. "Even in a million years, a True Blood has always ruled us," he said firmly. "And a True Blood will continue to rule us. A hybrid has never taken the throne."

"I see," he said calmly, though his smile had vanished. "So what you’re saying, in your infinite wisdom, is that if my son’s child were to take the throne someday, you’d... object?"

"Not object, sire," the man said quickly. "Merely... question the legality."

"Well... then you have a problem," Lucivar said. He let the words stretch in the air, then punctuated them with a sharp laugh that echoed off the stone walls of the throne room.

"You cannot eat your cake and have it," he continued, rising from his throne with a casual grace that masked the ancient power in his bones. His sharp eyes scanned the assembled council. "The prince found his mate in a werewolf—through the goddess’s divine meddling, no less. And now, after all your whining, you’re suddenly thrilled they’ve worked it out. Why? Because even you fools know that a vampire rejected by his mate is nothing."

"And now," Lucivar continued, pacing slowly in front of his throne, "you do not want the fruit of that union to rule over you. I am afraid..." He turned and locked eyes with the head councilman, "at some point, you have to sacrifice something."

The old man stiffened. "There are too many things at stake," he said, "to allow for a hybrid king."

Lucivar tilted his head slightly, studying the man. "And what exactly is at stake? Your pride? Your dusty traditions?"

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he swept an arm out dramatically. "The princess has sacrificed her life. Her throne. Her people. She gave up her birthright, her family, and her pack to be here—to be with him. Her own father banished her. That is not a punishment thrown around lightly in her world. A wolf without a pack. And yet, this..." he waved toward the council, "this is what you want to do to your future queen?"

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. "You know nothing about werewolves, do you? You don’t test them. They do not forget. They do not forgive. They remember insults as clearly as they remember the scent of blood. You’re playing with fire wrapped in fur and claws." Lucivar leaned in. "Let me be clear: the throne is not determined by blood alone. It is determined by strength. By will. And sometimes, yes, by the sheer cosmic irony of fate."

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