The house smelled of dust and old wood, the kind that settled into the lungs and never truly left. Morning light filtered through narrow windows, pale and thin, barely warming the stone floor beneath her feet.
She stood at the washbasin, fingers trembling slightly as she dipped them into the cold water.
It had happened again.
A faint ache beneath her shoulder blades, deep and persistent, like a bruise that never healed. She pressed her palm there, jaw tightening as the sensation flared—then faded, as it always did.
"You're imagining it," she told herself.
She always did.
Behind her, the door burst open.
"Did you hear?" her sister's voice rang out, sharp with excitement. "Did you hear what they said in the square?"
She turned slowly, already bracing herself.
Her sister looked radiant—cheeks flushed, hair carefully braided, eyes shining with a hunger she'd worn for as long as she could remember. Ambition clung to her like perfume.
"Hear what?" she asked quietly.
Her sister grabbed her wrist, practically dragging her away from the basin. "The invitation, from the vampire king."
"The king?" she repeated.
"Yes!" Her sister laughed breathlessly. "A royal banquet for the surrounding villages. Can you imagine? His castle, his court—his eyes on us."
She pulled her hand free. "Why would he invite villagers?"
Her sister rolled her eyes. "Peace talks, truces, or politics." She waved a dismissive hand. "That's not the point; the point is this is an opportunity."
Her gaze flicked over her sister's face, lingering there with quiet concern. "Opportunity for what?"
Her sister's smile sharpened. "To be seen."
The ache in her back throbbed again, stronger this time. She swallowed.
"I don't think it's wise," she said. "Vampires don't invite humans for no reason."
Her sister scoffed. "You're always like this, afraid of shadows, afraid of rumors." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Do you know what people say about him?"
She didn't answer.
"They say he's immortal, that he rules both night and hell itself, that demons bow when he speaks." Her sister's eyes glittered. "Imagine catching the attention of someone like that."
Something twisted in her chest.
"Be careful what you wish for," she murmured.
Her sister turned away, already pulling dresses from the chest near the bed. "I plan to be unforgettable."
The village square buzzed with noise by noon.
People gathered in clusters, clutching the sealed black parchment that bore the king's crest. Soldiers had delivered them at dawn—silent, armored, eyes glowing faintly red beneath their helms.
She stood at the edge of the crowd, watching.
The parchment in her hands felt warm.
"You're staring," her sister whispered beside her.
"It feels… strange," she said.
Her sister laughed. "Everything feels strange to you."
A cold wind swept through the square.
For a brief moment, the noise faded, the chatter dulled, and she felt it—an invisible weight settling over her that feels heavy and wrong.
As if someone far away had turned their attention toward her.
She looked up.
The sky was clear, blue, and ordinary.
And yet her heart began to race.
That night, as she lay in bed, sleep refused to come.
The ache returned, burning hotter than before. She turned onto her side, then her back, then her stomach—nothing helped.
A soft crack echoed through the room.
She froze.
The glass cup on the table beside her bed had shattered—its fragments scattered across the floor.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She stared at her trembling hands, hea
rt pounding.
This had never happened before.