Becoming Lucien's Bride

chapter 3

Outside the borders of the Red Moon Pack and deeper in the forest, a banquet was being held. This celebration took place in Vaelmore, a vast area known as the vampires' territory. The event was called "The Feast of the First Bite."

Inside, the banquet had already begun.

The grand ballroom was large, candlelit, and old—like an abandoned cathedral covered in ivy and shadows. The high ceiling faded into darkness, where bats rest among broken angel statues. Stained-glass windows cast a red light on the marble floors, and incense filled the air with the smell of clove, smoke, and decay. Ornate chandeliers hung from rusted chains, flickering with blue flames. In the distance, the organ played a slow and haunting tune—low notes filled with sadness and mystery.

Countless vampires—males and females roamed the grounds. Their fangs protruded, their skin was as pale as death, and their lips were as red as blood. They held glasses filled with blood, laughing and chatting with one another. No one speaks above a whisper.

Some vampires danced with bare shoulders and jeweled collars, black lipstick smudged against pale throats. Some wear antique gowns stitched with thorns, others nothing but veils and shadows.

Feasting had begun in earnest.

The Blood Fountains pouring warm, perfumed plasma were surrounded, but not everyone was interested in diluted supply.

No—some vampires preferred it fresh.

Dozens of humans in white silk clothing were shown in the room like offerings. An auction started, where purity increased the price. Virgins brought the highest bids—not for their virtue, but for their taste. Still-beating hearts. Unbroken fear. The flavor of innocence mixed with blood.

And when a vampire claimed their prize, they often fed with abandon, draining their human dry, then discarding the corpse like a peeled fruit. Servants dragged the bodies away in silence.

But then—

The air shifted.

The laughter faded. Conversations cut short.

Even the music faltered.

A ripple of awareness spread like a chill. All movement stopped. Glasses paused midair.

People who were in the way stepped aside to clear a path. Like the Red Sea had once split for a prophet—only this was no savior.

From the shadowed archway at the far end of the hall, a figure stepped into the candlelight.

Lucian.

The First Fang.

The Ancient King.

The Devourer of Thrones.

He wore no crown, and he needed none. Power clung to him like smoke. He was tall—inhumanly so—and draped in black layered fabrics, his high-collared coat embroidered with subtle crimson sigils that pulsed faintly as he moved.

His face was flawless and deathless, carved from porcelain and shadow. Eyes as dark as midnight eclipses. Mouth like a sin, unsmiling. His hair, ink-black, fell loose past his shoulders, untouched by time.

The crowd lowered their heads, and some dropped to their knees. Even the blood-drunk trembled. No one dared speak. Even the flames seemed to lean toward him.

Lucian walked in silence across the marble, and every step echoed like a heartbeat counting down. When he reached the obsidian dais at the center of the hall, he stopped before the sacrificial altar—where a still, trembling human lay bound in velvet and gold chains. He looked out over his court. His gaze passed through them like a blade.

Still seated upon his throne, one leg crossed over the other, he lifted his gaze and spoke, his voice quiet, but saturated with ice.

“There is a stench in my court.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. Faces turned, glances sharpened. The scent of fear spiked—not human. Something fouler.

Lucian's gaze drifted across the room like frost on glass. Lucian’s hand opened slightly, “Wolf.”

A single word.

And then—movement.

One of the robed courtiers screamed as her body was ripped into the air, levitating, thrashing violently. Her illusion fell away mid-scream—robes shifting, skin bubbling, bones elongating. The truth of her form bled through her disguise.

Fur. Claws. The snapping of tendons.

A werewolf.

Gasping, snarling in pain, caught between shift and death—she twisted helplessly, her limbs contorting in agony under Lucian’s invisible grip.

“You walked among my blood as if you belonged,” Lucian said, rising now, slow and deliberate, “You feasted at my table. You bowed at my throne.”

He walked down the black steps, the hem of his coat trailing behind him like the shadows, “You dared lie with fangs in your mouth”

The spy writhed in the air, face contorted in pain, trying to form a plea. Her throat, caught in the unseen grip, could barely produce sound.

Lucian stopped in front of her, tilting his head, “Tell your Alpha,” he whispered, voice dark silk, “next time… send something harder to spot.”

Then, he raised his hand and the werewolf's body imploded inward, collapsing into itself with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed in a perfect arc, sizzling as it touched the marble. Her bones turned to dust. Her skin peeled into mist.

And when it was over, nothing remained but ash.

Lucian turned back toward his throne, not bothering to wipe the blood from his cheek. The organ resumed its haunting tune the moment he sat again.

“Let no other beast mistake my silence for blindness.”

The werewolf's remains still smoldered—nothing left but a trail of fur and ash curling like smoke across the blood-veined marble.

The ballroom trembled with silence.

Then, breaking it with disgust-soaked disdain, a voice rang out from Lucian’s left, “Tch. Those nasty little dogs again?”

The voice belonged to Sire Malrec, known to the court as The Fang of Discipline, one of Lucian’s three lieutenants. He was tall and sharp, clad in crimson and bone-threaded robes, his every movement oozing contempt and precision, “Crawling into our skin. Breathing our air. Filthy little mongrels should be put down at the border”

From Lucian’s right, another stepped forward, folding her hands with calculated grace. Dame Veressa, called The Veiled Thorn, known for her poisoned touch and silver tongue. Her smile never reached her eyes as she purred, “What did they think they’d learn, hmm? Our wine recipes? Who Lucian f***s first during winter eclipse?”

The court gave a scattered, nervous laugh—but it was brittle.

Tension still hung heavy in the air, more potent than blood.

And behind Lucian’s throne, leaning against a pillar of black stone, stood the third of the Triune:

Veylan the Hollow, known only as The Mourning Star.

A beautiful, deathlike man with empty eyes and inked runes down his throat. He said nothing at first. But his whisper, when it came, was colder than any of theirs, “If wolves walk freely among us... perhaps someone let them in.”

The court rippled.

Gasps. Murmurs. Accusations flickered across faces. Vampires whispered behind gloves, eyes darting toward lesser nobles and border clans.

But they didn’t get far.

Because Lucian moved.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t speak.

He simply tilted his head.

And the room went silent.

The chandeliers groaned. The air went still. Even the candles dimmed, as if afraid to shine too brightly under his gaze. No one dared look up. Not even the Triune.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was so soft it forced the entire ballroom to lean in, “This is my court. Not a kennel for squabbling hounds.”

He looked past them all—into the very stone of the cathedral, as if addressing something older than the room itself.

“There will be no panic. No paranoia. No plotting.”

His voice sharpened.

“Or I will remind this court what silence tastes like.”

The room lowered their heads as one, their fear thicker than incense. Even Malrec’s mouth snapped shut. Veressa dropped her smirk. Veylan bowed without a word. And then… the candles flared back to life.

“The Feast of the First Bite,” Lucian said coolly, lifting his chalice again, “continues.”

And then, slowly, as commanded by fear, reverence, and centuries of tradition—the banquet continued. But it was quieter now. The blood was thicker. And every guest knew:

Lucian had spoken.

*****

Jane~

My days in Red Moon Pack after that night blurred into each other like foggy glass. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t focus. My hands trembled over documents I was supposed to understand, and before I realized it, I’d signed three of them in the wrong place. One was upside down.

The silence in my office felt louder than ever. Every tick of the clock echoed like a hammer in my skull.

“Luna,” my assistant said softly, careful not to meet my eyes, “maybe you should take a walk. Clear your head. I’m sure that’ll help.”

Clear my head.

There was nothing left to clear. Just a mess of feelings I hadn’t been allowed to express and memories I couldn’t escape. But I nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped outside like a ghost still wearing a crown.

The air was crisp, the sun warm on my skin—but it didn’t touch the cold knot in my chest. I walked aimlessly, not toward anything… just away.

That’s when I heard it.

Laughter.

Playful, light, and very familiar.

I turned a corner, drawn by it like a moth to flame.

And there they were.

Grey and Serana? Serena was back? Then could it be that she was the one that he spent the night with the very day I lost my baby? My breath hitched at the thought and I took a step back in horror. My eyes, though, unsteady returned to them.

He had his hand on her lower back, guiding her gently as they strolled near the training grounds. She leaned into him with a smile that said she knew she belonged there. That she didn’t have to earn it like I tried to.

She said something that made him laugh—a real one, not the polite hum he sometimes gave the council. His eyes were soft. His jaw was relaxed. He looked alive.

And then she turned toward him, placed her hand on his chest, and rose on her toes to whisper something in his ear. He didn’t pull away. He smiled.

And I stood there. Frozen.

Watching the man who wouldn’t touch me without flinching hold his ex—the very same woman who abandoned him like she was his home.

My lungs forgot how to breathe. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

I felt the sting before I realized I was crying. Quiet tears that trailed down without permission. I backed away before they saw me. Before he saw me. But even then, I knew—if he had seen me, he wouldn’t have come running. He wouldn’t have let go of her. He would’ve just turned away.

Just like always.