The sky was bleeding again.
A ribbon of crimson tore through the clouds as the Citadel descended from the heavens—hovering like a dark god above the ruins of the Old Earth. Smoke curled from its golden undercarriage, raining down the scent of burning rose oil and blood.
The Selection had begun.
I stood at the edge of the ruined coliseum, surrounded by thirteen other girls, all cloaked in white silk and silence. Each of us had been handpicked by the King's Watchers. Each of us was supposed to feel honored.
I felt nothing.
Not when they marked me with the vampire prince's sigil. Not when they braided gold into my hair. Not even when the woman beside me slit her own tongue to keep from screaming.
The girl who was chosen to die first always screamed.
But not me.
I had a blade sewn into the hem of my ceremonial gown, and a heart carved from colder things. My name was not on the roster. My bloodline was erased from every royal record. And yet here I stood, chosen by the throne that killed my mother.
I was not here to be loved.
I was here to kill a prince.
"Eyes down," the handler snapped. "He approaches."
The air shifted. Cold and ancient.
A figure stepped through the crimson mist, cloaked in velvet shadows and moonlight. He wore no crown, but none of us dared look him in the eye. Except me.
He was beautiful. In the way a graveyard is beautiful at midnight.
And his eyes—those golden, cursed eyes—fell on me.
And stayed.
For one, long, dangerous second, the Crown Prince of the Vampires looked at me like he remembered me from another life.
Then he smiled. A slow, knowing thing.
I clenched the blade in my fingers.
And I smiled back.
__
The Bite Before the Crown
They led us through the Hall of Blood, where the walls pulsed like veins and the floor was warm beneath our bare feet. Every step echoed like a prayer being denied. The girls walked quietly. Delicately. But I counted paces.
Sixty-three steps to the throne room.
Five guards.
Two exits—one sealed with silver flame, the other guarded by something that didn't blink.
The moment the Crown Prince looked at me, my timeline shifted. I was supposed to kill him during the Binding Ritual, when his blood was open to the offering. But now?
Now he was watching me like I was a secret he already knew.
At the edge of the procession, a girl collapsed. Too much fear. Too little blood. The guards didn't slow. One of them dragged her limp body into a shadowed corridor, and we never saw her again.
"Don't stop walking," someone whispered behind me. "If you fall, you forfeit."
No, I thought. If you fall, you feed them.
At the end of the corridor, the doors opened by themselves. Twelve feet tall. Made of obsidian etched with stories—old wars, old queens, and the original Blood Throne rising from a sea of bones.
Inside, the prince was waiting.
He no longer wore the velvet cloak. Just a silk shirt stained faintly at the collar. His fingers were bare. No rings. No crown.
"Welcome," he said, his voice a soft hunger. "One of you will become my consort. My bond. My queen."
He took a single step forward, and I swear the entire room held its breath.
"But first…" He tilted his head. "Let's see what your blood tastes like."
The girl beside me whimpered. I didn't move.
The prince approached. One by one. He touched the chin of the first girl, inhaled her scent, and moved on. No bite. Just anticipation.
When he reached me, he stopped.
Silence.
His eyes scanned my face, my mouth, my pulse.
"You're not afraid," he said, almost curiously.
I didn't answer.
He reached out, fingers brushing the side of my neck. Not a full touch—just a ghost of one. His thumb hovered above my jugular. Then his lips parted.
And for a moment—just a moment—I thought he would bite me.
Instead, he leaned in.
And whispered: "Why does your blood smell like a lie?"
I looked him dead in the eye and smiled.
"Because it is."