Chapter 10 – Whispers in the Blood
1510 Words
The castle moved like a storm was coming.
Silk banners were unfurled, floors scrubbed until they shone like mirrors. Formal gray uniforms returned to the servants’ wardrobes. Obsidian and silver were being shaped into an altar in the main hall—its design half-wedding, half-coronation. But no one dared name the ceremony aloud.
It wasn’t a crowning.
It wasn’t a union.
But it was a beginning.
And something else’s end.
Esme stood by the high windows of the west tower, watching the movement below. Couriers raced across the courtyard. Tailors, decorators, and foreign lords arrived by the hour. Every corner of the palace thrummed with ceremony—but no one had asked for her counsel.
Not on the guest list.
Not on the seating.
Not even in her own attire.
She was still Queen by title.
But something beneath that title had begun to vanish.
“Momma?”
She turned.
Ciel stood in his polished black boots, clad in a miniature ceremonial coat. The crest of House Dracula had been newly stitched on his lapel. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his expression—usually curious and soft—was now unusually serious.
“I want to be called Earl Ciel now,” he said.
Esme blinked. “Where did you hear that title?”
“Carmilla said it suits me,” he answered. “Because I’m your son. And I need to protect you.”
She knelt before him, smoothing his collar. “You already do.”
He looked down. “Then... Lady A can call me that too. But nothing else.”
Esme smiled faintly. “Lady A?”
“She doesn’t feel like family,” Ciel said. “I don’t want her calling me something she hasn’t earned.”
Esme pulled him into her arms and held him close. His little heartbeat thudded against her ribs.
“She doesn’t get to decide who you are,” she whispered.
That morning, Ciel had spent time in the western garden under the quiet watch of Carmilla.
Unlike the other nobles, Carmilla didn’t bow to him or offer empty flattery. She simply sat beneath the winter roses, a presence as old as the moon, cloaked in deep crimson. Her braid glinted with silver thread, her voice low and steady.
“Is it true you can float?” Ciel asked as he leaned against her.
She smiled. “Only when I forget my burdens.”
“Like Momma says—floating means your heart’s too light to sink?”
“She’s a wise woman,” Carmilla said softly.
Ciel studied her. “Were you always this old?”
She laughed quietly, the sound rich and strange. “Not always. I was once a girl in a story that didn’t end happily.”
“Will you tell me?”
Carmilla hesitated, then nodded. “Just a little.”
She plucked a rose from the bush beside them and turned it slowly between her fingers.
“Long ago, before your father ruled… there was a woman. She was a vampire like no other. Born before the councils, before the laws. Her name was Carmilla—like mine. She loved fiercely. Dangerously. Too much, they said.”
Ciel’s eyes widened, barely blinking.
“She loved a girl named Laura. And that love was forbidden. When the council found out, they tore them apart. Laura died young. But her bloodline lived on.”
Carmilla looked at him, her voice softening.
“I protected that line. For generations. Watching from the shadows. Making sure no harm would ever come to it again.”
“Why?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“Because some legacies don’t live in thrones,” she said, pressing the rose to her chest. “They live in hearts.”
By late afternoon, the war room no longer resembled its name. Florists replaced maps. Protocol scribes replaced generals. Ribbons lay where blades once rested.
Esme stood beside Callie, surveying the chaos.
“This looks more like a wedding than a diplomatic welcome,” Callie muttered, her eyes narrowing.
Esme’s gaze locked on the throne arrangement at the far end of the chamber. Her throne—once beside Taylor’s—had been shifted. The new one in its place was taller. Framed in crimson velvet and silver.
“You see it too,” Esme whispered. “They’re not just welcoming her. They're trying to make her consort."
“They’re crowning her without a crown,” Callie said. “They’ve already written the script.”
A steward approached with a stiff bow.
“Your Grace,” he said, “Your placement in the procession will follow Lady Agatha’s.”
Esme didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her silence was her only answer.
Later, she stood by the eastern windows, where the wind tugged at the loose strands of her hair. From this height, the castle looked almost peaceful. Almost like the world hadn’t shifted beneath her feet.
A gentle knock broke the stillness.
She turned to find one of the youngest maids—Isolde—waiting nervously in the doorway, eyes downcast.
“Your grace, his Majesty requests your presence in his study.”
Esme nodded, a polite smile on her lips—thin and practiced. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
The walk to Taylor’s study was short, but it felt endless.
Every footstep echoed louder than it should. As if the castle were listening.
She didn’t knock when she reached the heavy oak doors.
She pushed them open.
Taylor stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring toward the training grounds.
He turned at the sound of her steps. Something unguarded crossed his face—relief, maybe. Or regret.
“Esme my queen.”
“You asked for me?” she said evenly. She didn’t move closer.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Please. Sit.”
She didn’t.
Taylor sighed. “I know how things must look.”
“They don’t look like anything,” Esme said. “They are what they are.”
“I never wanted this,” he said, stepping around the desk. “You know I fought for you—for Ciel. But the council—”
She cut him off. “The council speaks. You obey.”
He stopped. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
They stood in silence.
He reached out, brushing her hand gently. Tentative. Hopeful.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured.
She didn’t pull away.
But she didn’t hold him, either.
Her hand stayed cold beneath his.
“We were more than throne and crown,” he said, his voice softer. “Don’t you remember?”
“I remember everything,” she said. “Especially the part where you once told me no one would ever stand where I stood.”
A flicker of guilt shadowed his expression.
“It’s not what it seems.”
“No?” Her eyes sharpened. “Then explained the ceremony. The taller chair. Explain why our son asked me today if Agatha was going to be his new mother.”
Taylor flinched. “She’s not.”
“But she will be Queen,” Esme said. “Even if you don’t say the words. Even if you leave my title intact. You’ve already built her a throne.”
He opened his mouth to respond—but no words came.
“I didn’t come to argue,” she said. “I came because you summoned me. Like a subject.”
Taylor looked stricken.
But she didn’t offer comfort.
When she turned and walked out, she didn’t slam the door.
She didn’t need to.
The silence she left behind did damage to her.
Taylor remained at the window long after her footsteps faded.
The firelight flickered across the stone, casting fractured shadows of him across the glass.
He was King of the Vampires. Louise Vladimir Dracula. A name spoken in whispers. Feared by beasts. Respected by empires.
But even the strongest kings bowed to something.
The world believed Taylor obeyed the council out of loyalty. They didn’t understand.
He obeyed to preserve the fragile thing called peace.
A peace bought with silence.
With sacrifices like Esme.
There were only two vampires in existence, Taylor feared.
Carmilla—his mother. The eternal. The first queen. Her power was older than language. Her patience was endless. Her plans ran deeper than any prophecy.
Even he, her son, could not predict her.
And Esme.
Not for her fangs. Not for her fire. But for what she made him feel.
Esme could unmake him with a glance. Undo his calm with a sentence. She was his mirror—honest, brutal, unwavering. Around her, he couldn’t be king.
Only a man desperately trying not to lose her.
She hadn’t raised her voice.
She hadn’t wept.
She had simply walked away—and that had left him shattered.
Because if he ever truly lost Esme…
He wouldn’t just lose his queen.
He would lose himself.
- Writer
