Prologue
The underground temple was enveloped in stillness. Outside, a storm raged as though it were determined to tear the castle down to its very foundations. Yet within this secret sanctuary, isolated from the tempest battering the world beyond, a silver-haired figure knelt before the altar, her eyes closed. Her lips were drained to a pale, bruised blue, and with every frail breath, wisps of mist escaped her nostrils. Still, the biting cold of the temple could not deter her from paying solemn respects to the deceased.
Iris, a sworn vassal of the vampire royal house of Valmont, slowly opened her eye. Only a single lid lifted. Beneath the other, forever closed, a faint trace of moisture glistened.
As she knelt, Iris resembled an ancient tree rooted deep within the earth. Even beneath the crushing weight of more than fifteen hundred years, her aged form maintained an unyielding, lofty majesty.
“Your Highness…”
Her breath scattered around her blanched lips like dense smoke.
Upon the altar before her lay a corpse, its pale fingers curled around a gem-encrusted longsword. Clad in full royal regalia, the deceased shone with such immaculate luminescence that she appeared merely asleep, but for a lingering stillness. Her long black hair, tenderly combed and smoothed by a delicate hand, retained a rich, living luster.
“Why did you choose such a path?”
Iris’s features contorted with quiet grief. Tears welled in her remaining blue eye, as pure as her temperament. Her rigid frame wavered, swaying as though she might collapse forward, before she gathered herself once more. As footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, Iris used the heavy sleeve of her black wool coat to wipe the moisture from her eye.
“It has been a long time, Lady Iris.”
“Indeed it has, Mersen.”
At Iris’s deliberate omission of the title ‘Lady,’ Mersen’s brow twitched sharply. Yet Iris kept her gaze fixed on the altar without turning her head, so she did not see Mersen’s reaction. Nor would she have cared if she had seen.
Mersen smoothed her short brown hair as she stepped up beside Iris. Her face, briefly flushed with irritation, quickly regained the cool, impassive pallor characteristic of a pureblood vampire. Still, she could not entirely conceal the subtle clenching of her jaw or the hard line of her pressed lips.
Stubborn old woman.
Reaching Iris’s side, Mersen tutted to herself. Knowing precisely why Iris refused to treat her with deference only stoked the fire of her resentment. You arrogant relic. Mersen adjusted the voluminous sleeves of her satin shirt as she struggled to rein in her indignation.
Her attire was far too ostentatious for a funeral. Unlike Iris, who wore a black wool coat resembling a cleric’s habit, Mersen had chosen garments to flaunt her immense wealth.
She wore a black satin shirt featuring intricate pleats and billowing sleeves, layered under a tailored jacket that accentuated her figure. Rows of polished gold buttons gleamed along the front.
“Pay your respects to Her Highness, Mersen.”
When Mersen made no move to kneel beside her, Iris spoke. Her solemn voice resonated with the weight of a stern rebuke.
“It appears Lady Cecilia has not yet arrived.”
Mersen had no intention of creasing her fine, new garments. Feigning indifference, she glanced around as if searching for the final guest expected at the sanctuary.
“Have you heard the news, Lady Iris? It is said the ladyship of House Cecilia has changed hands. The one who newly inherited the title…”
“Mersen.”
Iris cut her off with venomous coldness, her single word striking like a shard of ice. Mersen flinched back, and her composure fractured as though she had been struck across the face.
Iris, who had remained kneeling, picked up the heavy cane resting beside her. The noble form that had seemed rooted to the stone floor began to rise. Mersen’s slitted, serpent-like eyes quivered as she watched the venerable warrior slowly straighten her posture.
Standing nearly six feet seven inches tall, Iris struck the stone floor firmly with her cane. A heavy thud reverberated through the soles of their feet. Mersen found herself utterly speechless in the presence of this fierce royal loyalist who made no attempt to disguise her hostility.
Over fifteen hundred years old, Iris was a living testament to the history of House Valmont, and an elder revered by all vampire kind. Above all, she was an undefeated warrior who had fought in countless wars without tasting a single loss.
Though the three vassal houses appointed by House Valmont shared equal official rank, their true stature was vastly different. House Iris was a cadet branch of the Valmont bloodline, rendering them royalty in all but name. They were a formidable family of warriors whose absolute loyalty to the crown had endured for millennia, defending the throne against all who sought to usurp it.
By contrast, House Mersen was never associated with martial prowess. Their influence stemmed from managing the crown’s finances through wealth amassed via diplomacy and trade. Mersen was motivated purely by self-interest, so during conflicts, they focused on providing supplies while hesitating to deploy troops, which allowed them to unexpectedly maintain the largest vampire population among the noble houses.
It was for this pragmatic reason alone that they had been designated as vassals. Thus, the bond between the crown and House Mersen was less that of sovereign and subject and more akin to a commercial alliance.
“You stand before Her Highness Lillian. Did you not come here to mourn her passing?”
“Forgive my insolence, Lady Iris.”
Mersen bowed her head without delay.
“Your apology belongs to Her Highness, not to me. Have you forgotten your courtly etiquette?”
Iris’s blue eye coldly appraised Mersen’s extravagant clothing. A chill ran down Mersen’s spine, prompting her to draw back in discomfort. Just as Mersen turned toward the altar to kneel…
“Ah, dear me! It appears I am terribly late.”
A clear, ringing voice echoed through the temple as a young lady with crimson eyes appeared. It was Cecilia, the head of the final vassal house bound to House Valmont.
As Cecilia entered and offered her greetings, Mersen lingered in an awkward posture, stealing a nervous glance at Iris. Without a word, Iris returned to her original place and resumed her posture of solemn reverence.
Gathered together at last, the three vassals knelt before the body of their deceased monarch. Facing the altar, they performed six formal prostrations, pressing their foreheads to the stone floor in rhythmic, solemn reverence.
When they rose after paying their final tribute, the stone floor was littered with crimson bloodstains. Each vassal produced a handkerchief to wipe her forehead before stepping forward, in order of their house’s antiquity of service, to kiss the back of their departed sovereign’s hand.
Once Iris, Mersen, and Cecilia had each completed the rite, the stone floor of the underground temple slowly ground open. A hidden staircase emerged beside the altar, descending into the dark depths below.
Now, it was time to awaken their new queen, who had slept for three hundred years.
