The day of the ball arrived with an atmosphere so heavy and grand it felt as though the King were preparing for his own wedding. Perhaps he was. In this era, the "lucky ones" were those chosen by royalty to have their lives altered forever.
The Royal Palace was a sight that bordered on the divine. King Liam had ordered the usual gloom of the fortress to be stripped away, transforming the cold stone into a radiant sanctuary. It was a palace built of longing, designed to welcome the one woman he had spent lifetimes searching for. Silver-enchanted willow trees lined the approach, their leaves weeping with a soft luminescence that glowed against the dusk. The citadel itself rose like a crown of white marble and obsidian, while frozen waterfalls stood as jagged ice sculptures, reflecting the flickering light of a thousand lanterns. Guards in silver armor stood like statues, their regal crimson capes matching the King's own predatory eyes.
The decor was a deliberate, bold clash of rare Amethyst and deep Red—a silent message to any wise enough to read it. Ivan had executed the King's vision with undeniable skill, though his heart was a battlefield. He had supervised every detail with a heavy conscience; he would not let the King simply snatch Floria away.
Ivan sat in his carriage, a striking figure in a tailored black suit. His silver hair was artfully ruffled, and a silver cross glinted at his ear. Once human, Ivan had been turned into an Elf through an Archangel's grace, but that power came with a staggering cost. In gaining immortality, he had lost the ability to feel. He was a void, a man of cold justice who lacked the capacity for warmth or inferiority. Yet, he understood duty. He knew that as a man, he was liable to provide happiness to the woman he intended to wed, and he planned to fulfill that role with precision.
When the carriage reached the mansion, Ivan stepped out with a charming smile. He greeted Mr. and Mrs. Saipon, elegant in their blue silks, and watched the youngest couple follow. Little Lillian looked shyly away from Jace's flirtatious talks , her olive-green gown making her look like a princess.
Then, his eyes found Floria.
She was magnificent. He found how hard it would be to deny the destiny if they were meant to with how her wine-pink waistband perfectly matched the palace's theme, silently claiming her. Ivan knew her too well; he saw the slight sparkle in her eyes and felt a surge of triumph. Those mending flowers, and they were finally working.
"You look lovely as always, Floria," he said softly.
"You too, Ivan," she replied. He respectfully kissed the back of her gloved hand, his grip firm yet gentle. After charming the Saipons and making Lillian flush with a few well-placed compliments, the group set off.
The journey was quiet. Floria stared out the window as the dusky sunlight painted the world in gold. She felt a strange, unsettling disconnect. Even as Ivan sat across from her, she felt nothing from him—no heat, no soul. She wondered why he was the only Elf who seemed like a hollow shell. Despite his efforts, her heart refused to bloom. Ever since the exhibition, a nagging disappointment had taken root in her chest, keeping her from accepting the changes he tried to force.
Ivan studied her, noticing how her composure had begun to fracture since she encountered the King. Memories of the past—sour and sharp—lingered in his mind. People thought he had loved Floria in their past life, but the truth was simpler and colder: he didn't want her to end up dead because of a vampire .. not again. He was here to prevent history from repeating.
As the carriage passed the glowing willows, Jace stepped out and helped Lillian down like a true gentleman. To him, the palace felt grandly, hauntingly familiar. He knew the tales of King Liam—the merciless decisions and the suffocating aura of power. Despite the festive lights, Jace felt his instincts scream at him to be guarded. He looked at Lillian, whose skin glowed in the twilight, her olive eyes drinking in the sight.
"Indeed, you are a little squirrel," Jace chuckled to himself, his voice dropping to a serious, protective tone. "Lillian, stay close."
Lillian turned toward him, his words "stay close" echoing in her mind. Hearing him use her actual name with such gravity made her heart skip. Surrounded by the overwhelming red and amethyst of the palace, she felt small, but the warmth in Jace's voice was the only thing keeping her grounded .
Soon, Ivan and Floria arrived at the palace, passing the ancient, sprawling roots that anchored the castle to the earth. The very air had shifted, growing thick with the scent of old magic and anticipation. As Ivan helped Floria down from the carriage, the sound of another set of wheels announced the arrival of her parents and continued with the hue of people. Following the strict etiquette she had been raised with, Floria offered them a slight, graceful bow—a silent acknowledgment of their presence amidst the growing chaos.
The palace was alive, a bustling sea of people flooding the lower halls. Women in every conceivable shade of red moved through the crowd, their eyes darting about, hoping to be chosen by a high-ranking noble—or, in their wildest dreams, the King himself. Floria could feel a lots of unalienable emotions spinning in the air.
High above the common chatter, looking down from the royal gallery, stood three figures. They held crystal glasses filled with blood, though the Prince opted for wine, his Merman blood craving the fruit of the vine more than the hunger of the night.
King Liam was a vision of dark authority, dressed in enchanting red and black with an amethyst that glowed against his chest. A mask covered half of his face, lending him an air of dangerous mystery.
Beside him, Prince Rory was a shadow in solid black, his sable shirt contrasting with a sharp olive-green . Warren stood to their other side, draped in rich shades of brown and gold, his eyes scanning the crowd with a mix of anxiety and hope.
Liam's crimson eyes were locked onto Floria. He watched her every movement like a predator watching a "little bunny" who had wandered into a lion's den.
"My, my," Rory remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he glanced at his brother's stoic face. "That Elf seems quite adamant about coveting my future sister-in-law. It looks like you'll have a hard time winning her back after everything that's happened."
"By hook or by crook," Liam murmured, his voice a low, possessive rasp that carried the weight "She will be mine... she has always been mine."
"Shall we announce your presence, Milord?" Warren inquired. He was mentally praying for a night without bloodshed. A scandal wouldn't just ruin the palace's image; it would likely terrify the woman Liam intended to make his Queen.
Warren's thoughts trailed off as his own heart skipped a beat . His gaze landed on a woman with beautiful brown hair and eyes like polished beads, dressed in shimmering, glittering gold. Salvia Montanore. She looked exactly as he had imagined she would. Captivated by the sight her futile tough act. The way she kept trying to act up to the families title, acting tough as a vampire but her actions and concerns in her red ones towards those pitiful weren't had to guess.
"Not yet, Warren," Liam replied, his voice a low, resonant hum. " Let her feel the presence long before the sheep's hear me...she will"the last was the thought straight out his conscience.
He leaned back slightly, a dark, knowing grace in his posture. "Why not let them breathe while we enjoy what our hearts call for? Because once I descend those stairs, she won't be breathing for anyone but me."
It wasn't a boast born of mere possession; it was something deeper, a conviction that transcended arrogance. It was something more , more deeper.
Below, the ballroom was a whirlwind of activity. Floria moved through the crowd, making polite conversation with old acquaintances, her hand linked firmly to eachother.
Ivan wore a charming smile, one that looked perfect . However, the lack of warmth from her companion wasn't what was bothering Floria. Her heart was hammering against her ribs with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. Since the moment she had crossed the threshold, she felt an anonymous, magnetic pull.
"Heavens, you look absolutely gorgeous Floria."
The voice pulled her back to the present. She turned to see Noah Cassian son of Minister Emral Darwin, a tall, handsome man with sun-dusted skin. He was as tall as Ivan but with a leaner, more lithe frame.
He reached out, taking her hand , where they made conversation "long seen Floria, hopping everything's well " his voice laced with friendliness being a good acquaintance while attending education at Derefield "Noah ,Everything's fantastic, lords grace. How about yourself, how'sthe work goingin in south?" Noah forced by Minister Emral ,has been looking into the work right after completing his degree "oh well it's tiring yet not as much as convincing Father for letting me into the Art "After few word, his eyes found an silver headed man.
"Mr. Westwood," Noah continued his intrested in the art has found him to attend each exhibition hosted and admiration towards Ivan Westwoodand his tribe to sky, firm hands mate unfazed, " heard much about your craftsmanship. It's an honor. King gave you special orders to lead the decor. I must say, it's breathtaking."
Noah spoke as if Ivan were the luckiest man in the kingdom, but beneath his mask of elven grace, Ivan felt no joy.
Ivan's jaw tightened. He often wondered why the King would go to such lengths, risking his very life to mark her soul across time. But every time he looked at Floria's pale face, he remembered of the truth .
The ballroom was vast—a sprawling sea of silk and stone so immense that Floria, Salvia, and Natalie had yet to cross paths, each lost in their own corners of the night. After meeting an endless parade of strangers, Floria finally managed to excuse herself from Ivan's side while he was deep in conversation with a group of colleagues.
As she stepped away, the air seemed to thin. The subtle, haunting pull of a violin began to weave through the chatter, its melody sharp and bittersweet. Floria's eyes darted through the crowd . Her gaze kept returning, almost magnetically, to the same spot: the shadows cast against the glass balcony high above.
"His Majesty the King has arrived!"
The announcement thundered from the center of the upper platform. Floria recognized the speaker immediately—it was Warren Davies, the man in brown she had encountered twice before, the trusted confidant of the Prince.
Yet, even as the herald spoke, Floria's focus remained locked on the darkness. Was someone truly standing there, or was her mind playing tricks? Despite her calm and brave exterior, a tempest of confusion was rising within her, a turmoil of emotions she couldn't suppress.
Then, the light shifted, flashing across the balcony.
There they were: those piercing red eyes. The King. The Dark Vampire King.
Floria saw him clearly, long before the rest of the crowd even realized he had stepped into the light. The moment their gazes locked, the world outside that connection ceased to exist. For Liam, boring into her for few moments making her wonder if it was her. He saw the way her breath hitched; he saw the recognition dawning in her eyes.
He didn't care about the laws of the land or the whispers of the court. In his mind, it was a settled truth: she was his. Only his to claim, only his to love, and only his to protect. Her chest rise and fall, knowing with a fierce, quiet certainty that her breath was meant for him alone. It had always been her—just her— for centuries... lifetimes.
The heavy oak doors creaked open as he descended the grand staircase. Every step he took was a testament to a power that didn't need to shout to be heard. As the cry of "Long live the King!" rippled through the ballroom, Liam Atkinson didn't so much as blink. To him, the adoration of the masses was merely background noise.
He took his place upon the dais, his commanding voice silencing the room. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. To mark this occasion, the respected King shall himself open the waltz."
Among the shadows, Ivan watched with his eyes cold ,distant know well whatsoever the destiny could never be denied. He had seen the threads of fate pull people back together despite every effort to keep them apart. Memories, were like water; they always found a way to the person they belonged to. All he could do was gamble upon the crack the distance have pried.
Liam stepped down from the dais, his eyes locked onto a single point in the sea of faces. The masquerade had been his idea—a clever ruse to keep the "chosen women" hidden behind silk and lace. But it wasn't for the sake of tradition; it was for Floria. He knew her; he knew she loathed the vultures of high society and their poisonous gossip.
Liam knew that the return of her memories would bring a storm of restraint, hate, and denial. Yet, the tethered to a promise made lifetimes ago—a vow to stay together always. He wanted - needed her.
Floria watched him approach, her eyes wide like a cornered fawn's, yet sharp . She was different now. Her once-black hair was now a shimmering blonde, her deep brown eyes transformed into a piercing amethyst, and her sun-kissed skin had faded to a ghostly, ethereal pale. She was no longer human, and Liam was never going to let her slip through his fingers be it human or not.
"Care for a dance, Lady?" Liam said. It wasn't a request; it was an ultimatum wrapped in velvet.
As she placed her hand in his, she felt a warmth that should have been comforting but instead sent her internal alarms screaming. She allowed him to lead her away from crowd, her heart shuddering against her ribs.
The music swelled, transforming the ballroom into a whirlpool of melody. As Liam's hand settled firmly on her waist, his other hand clasping her palm, he leaned in. His husky voice brushed against her ear, sending a cold shiver down her spine. "Miss Floria... you dance pretty well."
He knows. Oh the sea Godess help, he knows.
"My King, I could never hope to compare to you," she replied, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest, the king felt hollow, no emotion she could sense. She had to protect her family. They were simple people, demanding some peaceful life but it was blood-soaked games of politics—a world she had grown to hate with every fiber of her being.
"Tell me," Liam murmured, his eyes burning through the slits of his mask, "what perfume do you wear? It has a scent... a bit fishy, wouldn't you say?"
Floria's pulse skyrocketed. Playingit cool "It is a rare fragrance, My King. A specialty made specifically up to the costumers wishes. The dezial hut is quite executive at those terms"
"A specialty?" Liam's lips quirked into a dangerous smile. "I find fascinating, trouble to call out the name of the specialty " trying to wrap up in words, she has become quite witty though.
For the first time, she truly looked at him. At this distance, he was a masterpiece of masculine grace—perfectly sculpted lips, a heart-shaped jawline, and that shock of luscious red hair. He was a statue come to life, a man built to be worshipped, yet she saw the shadow of the same people who had deceived her for their own selfish ends.
Across the room, the ball was in full swing. Jace held Lillian with a grip that bordered on bruising. After the horrors they had witnessed, he couldn't bear the way other men looked at her—as if she were a prize to be won or a toy for their amusement. He wanted to rip the eyes out of anyone who dared to linger too long on her.
Nearby, Rory stood amidst the crowd, a quiet observer of the unfolding drama. He watched the young Saipon hovering over his partner like a protective moth shooing"bees" of the aristocracy. A soft, knowing chuckle escaped Rory's lips as he saw the young man.
On the other side of the palace, Jace and Lillian enjoyed themselves in the royal ball. Jace stayed close, his eyes full of warmth and protection. "Isn't it beautiful, Jace?" Lillian asked, looking up at him with shy, adoring eyes.
"It is," Jace whispered, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "We should dance more often, what do you say?" He loved watching her cheeks turn bright red. He threw cold, threatening glares at any man who stared at her. He felt a deep, almost overwhelming need to keep her safe, knowing she wasn't yet strong enough to protect herself from the world.
As the music faded elsewhere, Liam pulled Floria close, his voice a dark, terrifying whisper against her ear. "Do you think this is a coincidence?," he questioned. "You don't have much further to run." Floria felt a wave of pure dread wash over her. What was that supposed to mean.
Meanwhile, Lillian had wandered far from the banquet and the safety of Jace's side. The castle felt heavy and lonely. Her feet moved as if drawn by a something, leading her to a door left slightly ajar. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the sadness of a place. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the old trinkets, feeling a strange, forbidden connection to the room.
Then, her heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat, and tears pricked her eyes.