The carriage wheels thundered over the stone bridge as Kaelira sat still, her hands gloved, her spine straight, her heartbeat betraying everything her face did not.
Outside, the towering gates of Veyrhold Castle loomed ahead, carved with iron roses and spiked thorns, glistening like obsidian under the dusk sky. Shadows clung to the spires like jealous ghosts. The castle didn't welcome. It warned.
"Almost there," murmured the handler beside her. His name was Marek, a loyal hound of the rebellion. "Do not forget what you are."
"I never do," Kaelira whispered, her voice like frost.
She touched the locket around her neck—not for comfort, but out of habit. Inside, a sliver of parchment bore the last words of her mother before she vanished into the dungeons of the vampire king. Blood answers blood. Strike where the heart once beat.
Kaelira had trained her whole life for this moment.
She was no noble, no bride. She was a blade in silk.
The sixth chosen. The assassin.
---
The great hall of Veyrhold was colder than she'd imagined.
Dozens of noble eyes tracked her as she stepped down from the carriage—vampires in embroidered coats, jeweled fangs, and mocking smiles. The scent of blood hung faintly in the air, like perfume. Kaelira had been warned not to stare back too boldly. Predators didn't like being challenged.
Then he appeared.
High Lord Dorian Veyr.
He descended the staircase without a sound. Tall, clothed in shadow-black with a deep crimson sash, his eyes were not the crimson of hunger—but the gray of mourning stone. Ancient. Quiet. Watching her.
Kaelira dipped into a perfect curtsy. "My Lord."
"You are... the sixth." His voice was smooth, low, and vaguely amused.
"And still not last," she said carefully, risking a glance up. "There's room for one more mistake."
A hush spread through the crowd. Dorian tilted his head, and for a moment—just a moment—Kaelira thought she saw a flicker of something behind his calm expression.
Recognition.
But that was impossible. He'd never seen her before.
Right?
---
That night, in her private chamber, Kaelira sat before the gilded mirror, unpinning her hair, her fingers trembling. Why had he looked at her like that? Like she was a secret half-remembered.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
She opened the door to find a servant holding a velvet box. "A gift from the High Lord," they said, bowing low. Inside was a single black rose. Dried. Preserved. With it, a note written in a hand that felt too steady to be warm:
"For the sixth bride.
May this one last longer than the others."
Her blood ran cold. She wasn't the only one playing a game.