The Crown Beckons
1015 Words
Prince Kenneth Valdros rose silently from his grand velvet-lined bed, the heavy drapes of his chamber already parting at the will of the morning's dim crimson light. The vampire realm never truly basked in sunlight, only in various shades of dusk and dawn. A kingdom under the eternal twilight. He moved with grace, quiet but alert—his body, still sharpening from days of brutal recovery, now surged with a new level of awareness.
There was no need for breakfast. Vampires didn’t hunger for mortal meals. A sip of bloodwine from the glass decanter on the dresser was enough to take the edge off. It was thick, crimson, and cold—still fresh. He downed it, dressed in a black combat tunic stitched with the sigil of House Valdros: a silver hawk devouring a serpent, wings blazing in flame.
As he stepped outside the seventh queen’s castle, the air held the chill of the highlands. Malrik was already waiting at the edge of the training yard, staff in hand, looking every bit the old ghost that had refused to die. His long hair was tied back, revealing sharp, ancient features carved by decades of war and royal secrets.
“You’re late,” Malrik said without turning.
Kenneth cracked his neck. “You’re early.”
Their training began instantly, a blur of motion and strategy. Kenneth moved like a phantom, his senses sharper, his instincts cleaner. The strain of blood recovery had peeled away the final layers of mortal hesitation in him. Now he was something else—fluid, feral, and fast.
Malrik circled, parrying each blow, but barely.
“You’re faster,” the elder muttered. Then after another exchange, where Kenneth nearly disarmed him: “Too fast.”
Kenneth smirked, breath steady. “Am I finally passing?”
“You’re not just passing, boy. If your legs keep that speed and your mind keeps its edge, you may very well be the fastest vampire the kingdom’s ever seen. Perhaps too fast for your own good.”
Kenneth darted forward again, blade shimmering through the air like a wraith’s whisper.
Malrik barely blocked. “Damn it,” he grunted.
A sharp whistle interrupted them.
A royal guard in gold-trimmed armor approached swiftly, his voice echoing across the yard. “A message from His Majesty!”
Kenneth halted, blade sheathed.
“The King commands the presence of the House of the Seventh Queen at the Royal Spire for the announcement of the Crown Prince. All royal bloodlines are summoned. Immediately.”
Malrik turned to Kenneth, brows raised. “Well then… looks like the old bastard’s finally making a decision.”
Kenneth’s expression darkened with intrigue. “And everyone’s been called?”
The guard bowed. “Yes, Prince Valdros. The entire court will be present.”
Kenneth gave a subtle nod and headed inside. The blood of battle still roared in his limbs, but duty now called. He stripped off his training clothes and bathed quickly, steam rising off his skin. As he dressed in ceremonial black with a deep wine-colored cloak bearing his crest, Malrik appeared once more in the doorway.
“You think he’ll name you?” the old knight asked, arms crossed.
Kenneth fastened his vambrace. “I don’t think anything yet. But we’ll find out soon.”
Minutes later, Kenneth slid into his obsidian black vehicle, the engine humming like a sleeping beast as it carved through the narrow, spiraling roads toward the Royal Spire.
The castle was alive when he arrived. Grand chandeliers burned with witchlight, illuminating the ancient columns. Nobles drifted like ghosts through the halls, laughter echoing between sips of bloodwine and whispered alliances. Crimson and silver robes shimmered in the ambient glow as each house positioned themselves strategically for what might soon be a seismic shift in power.
Kenneth stepped through the arched entrance into the main ballroom, drawing several glances. His presence was always marked by that subtle ripple—too beautiful for a knight, too composed for a savage. And then there were those eyes: piercing glacial blue, unnerving even for the ageless.
He spotted two familiar figures at the far end.
Lucien, the charming troublemaker with silver hair and a smug grin.
Darien, quiet and precise as ever, dressed in muted armor laced with gold.
Kenneth approached. “Brothers.”
Lucien raised his goblet. “And here I thought you’d skip the occasion. Must’ve been quite the training.”
Darien nodded. “You look sharper. Faster.”
Kenneth returned the nod. “I am.”
Lucien leaned closer, smirking. “So, who do you think Father’s gonna name?”
Kenneth shrugged. “I’m not guessing. You two have any thoughts?”
Lucien’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m placing my bets on the Firstborn—he might just hypnotize Father with that righteous stare of his.”
Darien scoffed softly. “Aurelius. No question.”
Kenneth raised a brow. “Why him?”
Darien took a sip of wine. “Because he’s been scheming since the moment you fell into slumber. Father favored you, but Aurelius spun a tale that you wouldn’t return. He played loyal knight, bowing at the right moments, siding with the generals, attending the war councils you couldn’t.”
Lucien nodded. “He even backed a few noble families financially. Earned himself favors. And lately, he’s got the ear of Lord Salvor and High General Varik.”
Kenneth’s jaw tightened slightly, but he remained calm.
“So he’s Father’s little shadow now,” he murmured.
Darien shrugged. “Aurelius plays the game well. But it’s not just about politics. It’s about presence. Conviction. You might still have a shot.”
Lucien chuckled. “Assuming you don’t kill him first.”
Kenneth gave a faint smile, his eyes flicking toward the towering doors at the far end of the hall where the King would soon appear.
The room buzzed with anticipation. And the throne, still empty, loomed like a storm waiting to descend.
The crown would soon find a head. And whether by loyalty, legacy, or quiet fury—it might still be his.
- Writer
