The fire in the prince’s chamber crackled low as Damien sat alone, elbows resting on his knees, hands clenched together. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, silvering the edges of the dark room. He hadn’t noticed how cold it had gotten.
He could still smell her scent — faint rose and something wild beneath it, something ancient.
Aria.
Her blood had awakened more than just desire. It had stirred the part of him he had buried for centuries: the memory of who he used to be… before the crown, before the thirst.
Before the curse.
The past clawed its way back as he stared into the flames.
He had been turned at seventeen, against his will — the son of a mortal king, traded to the Nightborn to preserve peace. His mother, Queen Malverra, had not yet been what she was now. But the thirst for power, for immortality, had begun with her.
Damien had fought the transformation. For years, he drank from no one. He isolated himself, refused his throne, refused his fate.
Until he met her — the first Flameborn.
Her name was Lysara. She had been powerful, wild, full of light. And she had loved him.
They had almost changed everything together.
But the Council had found out. And one night, while Damien was away, they took her.
He had arrived too late. All that remained was her blood on the marble floor.
And his rage.
The monster inside him awoke that night — not just the vampire, but something darker. He burned cities. He slaughtered the Council members one by one. He was crowned king of nothing but ash and memory.
Until centuries passed.
Until Aria.
Now here she was — with Lysara’s eyes, her fire, her defiance — unknowingly holding the same power to either break him or save him.
But Damien no longer knew if he deserved saving.
He rose from his chair, his face unreadable as he looked toward the window. Somewhere in the palace, Aria was unraveling the truth.
And soon, she would know it all — the blood on his hands, the prophecy he had once tried to destroy, and the price of loving a creature like him.