Chapter 2

My only Consort.

Elara couldn’t help but curve her lips into a faint, self-mocking smile.

So all those promises of “later” Lucien had given her were merely sweet lies to coax her patience.

“Sister.”

Celeste had spotted her.

She descended from the swing and, still holding Lucien’s hand, approached Elara.

Lucien’s gaze fell upon Elara’s blood-soaked state, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Why are you covered in blood?”

“It is the new moon,” Elara’s eyes dropped to their intertwined fingers.

Lucien knew perfectly well she endured the Penance for Celeste each new and full moon.

He hesitated, then said, “I will escort you back to your quarters.”

Before the words fully settled, Celeste suddenly inhaled sharply, her face paling.

“Celeste? What is it?” Lucien turned to her instantly, his voice laced with concern. “Are you unwell?”

Celeste gestured weakly to her ankle. “I believe I twisted it just now, stepping down. It is nothing. Lucien, please see sister home—I can find the physician myself.”

Lucien did not hesitate.

“Do not speak nonsense,” his voice lowered, possessive. “You are my intended Consort now.”

In the next moment, he swept Celeste into his arms and walked away without a backward glance.

Not a single glance, not a single word, for Elara.

Elara stood rooted, watching their retreating figures until her fingers slowly curled into tight fists.

The difference between being loved and unloved was truly this stark.

Returning to her chambers, she painstakingly peeled away the garments stuck to her wounds, each movement sending fresh shivers of agony through her.

Her maid, Maeve, cradled the bloodied clothes, her eyes rimmed red.

“My lady… how can he treat you so?”

“Five years ago, you took a blessed silver dagger for him. He vowed to repay you with a lifetime of devotion.”

“Now… he treats the young mistress like a treasure, and you like a ghost.”

A sudden, sour tightness closed Elara’s throat.

She remembered five years ago, returning from a nocturnal gathering at the Ashbourne’s old citadel. Hunters had ambushed them—a blessed silver dagger aimed straight for Lucien’s heart.

She had thrown herself in its path. As she lay dying, she had seen the black gates of the Afterlife yawn open before her.

She had felt the instinct to follow.

But just as the “gate” began to close, she heard Lucien’s voice, raw and shattered:

“Elara—don’t go.”

“I beg you, live. I will spend my eternity making it up to you.”

She had chosen to stay.

She had returned.

But the “eternity” Lucien promised was no longer hers to claim.

Suppressing the churning pain, Elara only whispered,

“Perhaps for him, a lifetime is just that short.”

Maeve fell silent, applying the healing salve with even more care.

Yet despite her gentleness, the pain left Elara pale and breathless.

It felt an age before exhaustion finally pulled her into a troubled sleep.

She dreamt of the day she first met Lucien.

It was during the Spring Convocation of the Vampiric Council. The gallery echoed coldly, the nobles’ cloaks like a dark tide.

Lucien had emerged from the crowd, stopping before her, leaning close to murmur:

“I know you.”

“Elara of House Voss—my intended mate.”

With those words, she had been utterly lost.

Growing up overshadowed by the clan’s preference for Celeste, she had been near-invisible within the manor.

This was the first time someone, amidst the countless faces of the night, had called her name.

She woke the next morning.

The memory of the dream left her heart hollow and aching, her eyes dry yet burning.

“My lady, it is time for the charity night,” Maeve said, helping her slip on lace gloves to conceal the whip marks on her wrists.

The night after each new moon, her mother, to “accumulate blessings” for Celeste, sent Elara to the underground relief point in the old city, distributing warm blood broth and bread to the destitute and the vagrants.

When Elara arrived, she found Lucien already standing beneath the stone archway.

He wore a lighter coat, his demeanor eerily reminiscent of the man he used to be—before he turned irrevocably cold.

He strode toward her as soon as he saw her.

“Your wounds… are they better?”

He produced a small vial of dark glass from his coat. “This is Ashbourne’s mending elixir. It accelerates healing.”

Elara paused, then pushed his hand away.

“Unnecessary.”

“Henceforth, you are my sister’s betrothed. We should maintain distance.”

Lucien’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

Elara paid him no further mind.

Bearing the pain of her silver-lashed wounds, she passed cup after cup of blood broth into trembling hands.

A vagrant, clutching his cup with shining eyes, asked, “A Voss lady comes every month… which one might you be?”

“We would light candles for you, offer prayers in your name.”

As Elara opened her mouth to give her name, she heard Lucien speak from behind her—his tone terrifyingly calm:

“She is the second daughter of House Voss, Celeste Voss.”