One Hour Until the New Year
The time had come.
The girls were led deep into a cavern, then through a winding series of tunnels until we emerged into a massive underground city. The darkness here felt alive, as if it would smother any light that dared challenge it—just like the gloom we'd lived in these past two years.
For twenty minutes, we walked through the city's hushed stillness until we stood before a colossal palace carved into the stone. It dwarfed every human palace I had ever seen, grand beyond comprehension.
Inside, a labyrinth of corridors gave way to an immense throne room. At its center rested a coffin—ornate, ancient, silent.
One of the vampires leading us checked a pocket watch and murmured something. The others sprang into motion, drawing a ritual circle around the coffin with practiced precision. While they worked, the one with the watch approached me and went over the steps again.
Lilya was to lie in the coffin with the Vampire Progenitor. Then, on command, she must puncture her thumb on his fang and let a single drop of blood slide down his throat. She was to silently count to ten—then drive the ritual blade into his heart and leave it there. That would trigger the awakening, at which point he would bite her neck and begin the process of turning her into a Blood Consort.
Simple in theory. But the act of stabbing him in the heart—it felt wrong. Like it served a darker purpose no one would admit.
Cassius's words still echoed in her mind, even after all this time:
"That's a privilege far greater than being handed off to that Vampire Progenitor…puppet."
Still, the vampire motioned for her to take position.
She lay atop the Progenitor, breath caught in her throat. He appeared no older than eighteen. Striking. Beautiful. His features were sharp, symmetrical—unnaturally perfect. His raven-black hair drank the light around it, and he was dressed in white: silk shirt, smooth trousers, and soft slip-on shoes. Regal, yet unearthly.
A signal. It was time.
Lilya pricked my thumb on his fang. Blood welled up and trickled into his mouth. She began the count.
One... two... three...
A strange weight settled in her chest. Doubt. Fear. She hesitated—counting too slowly.
Then, just as she lifted the knife to strike—
His hand snapped up, gripping my wrist with unnatural strength.
Before Lilya could react, his fangs sank into her neck.
Paralysis washed over her.
"Who are you?"
His voice echoed inside her mind, calm but edged with steel.
"And who are these strangers encircling my coffin? And why did you try to drive a blade through my heart?"
* * *
When everyone regained their senses, the first thing they noticed was the blood-red moon glaring down from above. The second was the darkness—it was night now. They had definitely been moved far from the central region.
The girls tried their wayscrolls again. Still nothing.
Loretta's expression hardened. "Check our food stores," she ordered.
While the situation was dire, Loretta couldn't abandon her duty as Garandale's Governor. Cut off from supply lines with no idea when more food would arrive, her first priority was clear: take stock of current reserves and ration them carefully. Only then could she reassure the population and prevent panic—or worse, chaos and looting.
One of her attendants rushed off without question.
Wasting no time, Loretta began organizing scouting parties to survey the surrounding area. Once the initial commands were issued, she gathered the others in a hall within the manor to plan their next steps.
This wasn't an accident.
Someone had deliberately cut them off from aid—isolated them for a reason. But what reason? As Loretta pondered the possibilities, a chill settled over her heart.
Who would dare to move them? And why now?
An hour later, the attendant returned, breathless.
"Our food stores are full, my lady."
Grace's voice steadied as she delivered the report. Loretta gave a slow nod, though the tension in her shoulders didn't ease.
Garandale was the breadbasket of the Grandoble Duchy—its fertile lands supplying grain, fruits, and vegetables not only to the Duchy itself but also to the bordering kingdoms. That the stores were full was a relief. If preserved properly, the reserves could last up to a year.
But the implications were heavier.
Without Garandale's exports, the rest of the Duchy would struggle. Especially during the winter months. Other regions could provide regular grains, yes—but not in the variety or abundance Garandale offered. Prices would rise. Shortages would spread. Trade routes might strain under the weight of panic.
There were magical greenhouses—thankfully—enough to offer limited relief in the coming months. But if no new supplies arrived within the year, starvation wouldn't just be a fear. It would become reality.
Loretta's gaze lingered on the dimming horizon outside the window.
For now, she had a single, urgent task: to steady her people. To stop fear from spreading like wildfire.
The real storm had yet to come.
Whatever the answer, one thing was certain: they were being hunted—or watched.