The Descendant of a Pureblood

"Chapter 2" The Next King

"Hey," she gasped. He opened his eyes.

"What happened to you?" she asked. He pulled his hands away from her.

"It's nothing, just a bad headache," he said. She nodded and rubbed her arm, lost in her own thoughts again. Sky noticed and took her hand.

"Eli, don’t worry," Sky promised, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum that seemed to ground her. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he found hers. "I’m right here. If anything tries to hurt you, if any shadow even moves toward you it has to get through me first."

He looked at her then, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective heat that made the air between them feel heavy. "I mean it. You aren't standing alone anymore."

She smiled, a small, genuine spark breaking through her worry. "You’re weird," she murmured, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to melt.

Sky let out a soft, huffing laugh, his expression softening as he looked at her.

"I’m not weird," he countered, his voice warming with a gentle, protective heat. He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her knuckles. "I'm just making sure you know deep down that you're safe. That's my only job right now."

"Okay, you assured me very well," she replied.

Sky didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his gaze searching hers with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade. It wasn't just a casual look; he was looking deep into her eyes, as if memorizing every fleck of color there.

"I will protect you," he vowed, his voice barely a whisper but heavy with a promise he clearly meant to keep.

Eli nodded, a weak smile touching her lips a flicker of hope mixed with the exhaustion she couldn't quite hide.

"I... I have to go," she said, her voice trailing off. Sky just nodded, a quiet understanding settling between them as he let go of her hand.

She started toward the door, but paused for a second, glancing back at him. "And take some analgesics for that headache," she added, her worry still lingering in the air.

Sky watched her disappear into the chamber.

"The only analgesic that can handle my pain is you," Sky murmured. A faint, bittersweet smile played on his lips as he pressed a hand over his heart, his fingers digging into his chest. "Maybe this dead thing is just trying to beat again."

Eli froze at the door. Her heart gave a painful throb, echoing his words. She had always been the kind of person who reached out who needed to touch and be touched to feel real but life had taught her to keep her hands to herself.

Ever since her parents vanished without a word, she had carried a quiet, rotting guilt in her gut. She didn't wonder where they went; she wondered what was so wrong with her that they didn't want to stay. She had spent years convinced she was a burden, a daughter who hadn't been enough to anchor them to this world.

Following her parents' departure, Eli was raised solely by her grandfather. He became the singular anchor for her gratitude and respect, for it was he who forged her strength and shouldered the burden of her upbringing. Yet, even as he tried to create a sanctuary for her, she felt the hollow truth that "home is home" a sacred sense of belonging that no other place on earth could ever truly replicate once her original world vanished.

To the outside world, Eli had crafted herself into a portrait of resilience a self-reliant woman who needed no one to survive. But beneath that hardened surface, she remained a girl deeply wounded, navigating the quiet depths of her own loneliness.

She never spoke of it, but she carried a deep-seated phobia of attachment. It wasn’t for a lack of trying; she had reached out many times, only to find that every attempt at a real connection seemed to slip through her fingers.

She had once imagined a simple, peaceful future for herself, one where she would earn enough money to finally feel secure. She believed that financial independence would be her shield against the world. But life had other plans, pulling her far away from the quiet stability she had always yearned for.

Life was destined to be a private hell, a path carved into her fate from the very beginning. Now, she was left with no choice but to endure the storm that was gathering on her horizon.

In a stark white room, a group of dire figures sat around a long, oval table of dark wood. Their faces were old and ominous, etched with a coldness that felt utterly lifeless. Their skin, as pale and chilling as ice, betrayed the fact that they were no longer merely human; they had become something firm and formidable, forged by trials that would have broken lesser beings.

Dressed in deep black, their presence casts a surreal shadow over the sterile room. They sat in pensive silence, their expressions strenuous as they searched for a hidden trove a secret, or power they were desperate to claim.

A strange glitch seemed to ripple through their collective consciousness, a shared flicker of unease. As one, they turned their gaze toward the man in the center seat. He was old, yet possessed a fine-grained, polished elegance that commanded the room.

He arched a single brow, glancing sideways into the clouded, milky eyes of his companion. A slow smirk pulled at his thin lips, spreading across a handsome, wrinkled face marked by a square jaw and a long, sharp Greek nose. His small blue eyes glinted with a cold intelligence, framed by hair that was stark white at the front and faded into deep black at the back.

Clad in a crisp black shirt and a heavy, floor-length black coat, he looked like a relic of a forgotten era. Suddenly, he let out a sharp, ragged gasp and spoke.

"This is skeptical," he breathed, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

He leaned forward, the dark wood of the table reflecting the cold light in his eyes. "This could be a new lease of life for all of us," he continued, his tone dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. "But for that to happen, this has to be true. It must be true."

"This is true," rasped an even older man sitting beside him. His face was a map of deep, weathered wrinkles, like a blade that had been chipped by a thousand battles. "And it could bring us a charmed life a sanctuary for us all."

He leaned forward, his small gray eyes widening with a sudden, haunting intensity. "As we all know, we are on the verge of being demolished. We have endured for ages, but that inner sinew the very strength that holds us together is finally coming to an end."

"We need something that can grant us a few more centuries," the stubby, nasty man rasped, his lined lips pulling back in a desperate sneer.

The first man the one with the sharp Greek nose and the half-black, half-white hair leaned back, his cold blue eyes narrowing. "If you are suggesting a pureblood," he said, his voice was smooth but lethal, "then we must take them into our account. We will use them to produce our new generation."

"Lord Orson, we don't know who they are. We don't know if it's a male or a female we are completely oblivious," he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor in shame.

"And if it is a male, who is going to deal with him? Your sons?" the man questioned.

With a sudden, violent thud of wind, every figure was thrown from their seat. The air in the room turned freezing as Orson stood, his dominating voice booming through the chamber.

"Silence!" Orson roared, the sound vibrating through the very stone of the walls.

"How dare you?" Orson hissed, his hand snapping out to clutch Fisher’s collar.

The room fell into a deathly silence. Everyone stood frozen in their places, breath held, as Orson’s small blue eyes bored into Fisher’s with a terrifying, predatory focus.

"Fisher, don't ever talk s**t about my sons," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that felt like a physical weight. "They are pure. They belong to royal blood."

Fisher’s defiance vanished instantly. He withered under the gaze of his lord, his eyes dropping to the floor in silent submission.

"Pardon me, but I am only looking for a way forward for all of us," Fisher stammered. Orson’s grip loosened, and he finally let go of the man's collar with a dismissive shove.

"We will decide our path once we have seen this pureblood for ourselves," Orson declared, his voice regaining its cold, regal composure.

Fisher smoothed his black coat, his hands still trembling. "But no one can sense that blood," he whispered, casting a cautious look around the table. "No one can predict where it will appear... only your son. Your oldest son, my Lord."

Orson stood silent for a moment, the flickering light catching the silver and black of his hair. Finally, he gave a slow, solemn nod.

"This is going to be convenient for all of us," Fisher added, a mischievous smirk pulling at his wrinkled lips. "We shall soon see what this creature brings whether they are the key to our longevity, or simply the vessel to seed our new generation."

Orson’s gaze snapped to him, cold and absolute. "You are no one to make such decisions," he stated, his voice echoing like a tolling bell. "Daminion, my eldest son, will be the one to decide."

Without another word, Orson turned, his long black coat billowing behind him like a shadow. He strode from the room, and the group of lifeless, stone-cold figures followed in his wake, leaving the white room in a heavy, expectant silence.

Claire, call Daminion," Orson commanded, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceilings of his magnificent mansion. The opulence of the foyer, with its cold marble and silent statues, seemed to shrink in his presence.

"My Lord," his servant replied, bowing her head deeply. "Master Daminion is in the penthouse... with his friends."

Orson paused, his sharp gaze cutting toward the servant like a blade. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken with his sudden displeasure.

"What is he doing there?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk.

"Maybe he is having his hangover tonight," the servant replied, their voice barely a whisper in the vast hallway. Orson let out a sharp, frustrated breath, his hand sliding over his face as if to wipe away the exhaustion.

"When is he going to learn?" Orson muttered, his voice thick with disappointment. "He doesn't act like the eldest. And where is the other one?"

"The young master has been off to his duty, my Lord. He should be returning shortly," the servant said. A rare, thin smile touched Orson’s lips at the mention of his younger son.

"The younger does the elder's work, while the elder remains a truly frivolous gump," Orson remarked, his tone shifting from anger to a cold, mocking bite. He looked around the room a space embroidered with plain black mirrors that stretched the brown interior into an infinite, dark horizon.

"Take me to the penthouse," he commanded, his eyes snapping back to the servant. "I have something to talk over with him."

The servant nodded quickly, leading the way through the mirrored halls toward the heights of the mansion.

Daminion was dawdling in the penthouse, the very picture of a beautiful, dangerous rebellion. He was a man of striking proportions—six feet of enchanted, unreal grace. His skin was as fair as fresh snow, contrasting sharply with his short, raven-black hair and full, dark brows. With his sharp cheekbones, a perfectly defined nose, and wide, plump pink lips, he possessed a charm that felt almost lethal. When he truly smiled, he had a boyish "bunny" look that made his shiny green eyes sparkle, masking the predator within.

​He sat shirtless on a plush couch, the king of this magnificent, luxurious hall. While the party raged around him, Daminion’s gaze was fixed on his best friend. His companion was equally handsome—tall and slightly tanned with a cold, dashing edge, defined by brown hair, a square jaw, and deep brown eyes.

​With a slow wink and a slight tilt of his head, Daminion signaled his friend. It was a silent permission; only his best friend was allowed to use Daminion's private room for his latest conquest.

​"Hey, Daminion, did you see her?" another friend asked, gesturing toward a girl in the crowd.

​"Is she human?" Daminion asked, his voice smooth. When his friend nodded, a dangerous smirk pulled at Daminion's pink lips. He turned his face away. "Then probably no. I can't control my nerves around them."

​The music and laughter reached a fever pitch, but it died instantly as the air in the penthouse curdled. Orson had entered.

​The silence spread like a virus. Those who saw him froze; those who didn't simply felt the crushing weight of his presence and went still.

​"Father," Daminion gasped, his playful energy vanishing as he stood up, his bare chest heaving slightly.

​"Wow, my son," Orson mocked, his eyes scanning the debauchery with pure vitriol. "You truly look like the next great king." He turned to his servant with a deep frown. "Claire, get them all out. Disgusting."

​Daminion glanced toward his room, thinking of his friend. "But father—"

​"How dare you..." Orson’s voice dropped into a thunderous, vibrating tone that rattled the glass walls of the penthouse. He suddenly stopped, his Greek nose twitching as he sniffed the air. His eyes flared with a new, sharper rage. "Humans? Are you out of your senses?"