Prologue
***
In exchange for protection, the Night Lord Emperor Amias de Marc, King of Forever, self-proclaimed God of Death and first of his name, has two requests of the people of Noxterra: a willing supply of Blood Sacrifices and a wife.
The selection for becoming a Blood Sacrifice is civil and the right of every citizen of Noxterra. Only the old and infirm who do not wish to pass away naturally, or let their illness ravage them, may apply. The application process is rigid to ensure either side is not exploited. To be selected is an honour and celebrated by the families of Blood Sacrifices.
The selection of a bride for the King of Forever, however, is less so.
Once, every hundred years, a bride is selected for Emperor Amias in a ceremony known as ‘The Picking’. All unmarried maidens turning twenty in the winter of The Picking are invited to attend the Eternal Palace and, from them, the one to make the flowers bloom becomes his betrothed.
To be chosen is both a privilege and a curse. Refusal means certain death.
Chapter 1
One Day
900 years previous
***
Amias trailed his fingers along the upper arm of one of his bedmates: silky smooth and porcelain white under his touch. The maiden sighed in her sleep, her long black hair covering her like a blanket. Settling against the cushions, he folded his arms behind his head as his second bedmate snuggled up against him with a sleepy murmur. The odd puncture mark marred the skin around their breasts, blood smearing their curves. Thankfully, Madame Ostara had come to accept his blood play when in the heat of passion and would not worry.
He preferred it this way: sex was sex. After his wife had passed away almost a hundred years ago, he had vowed never to love again, unwilling to revisit such grief. He still felt her loss keenly and doubted he would ever find love again, especially after having been changed into a vampire. Who could love an abomination as cold and bloodthirsty as that?
Though he had paid for their company until the morn, sleep eluded him, as it often had these Two hundred years. One of the few disadvantages of being a vampire. Though, the perks were certainly not to be sniffed at: invulnerability, immortality and super strength. Not only had they helped him establish rule over Elphyne—ignoring the bloodshed in his raise to power—but they had allowed him to come to the aid of Noxterra, the mountainous country neighbouring his own.
Last year, the Chimera of Lycia, West Myrrithia’s northernmost country, had invaded Noxterra. The Chimera were deadly. A fire-breathing hybrid that humans stood no chance against, that left nothing but death and destruction in their wake. When King Neclik and his army had perished, the people of Noxterra had cried out for help.
And so, he had answered.
Leaving his oldest son in charge, he had gathered his army and left for Noxterra. For the sake of the Noxterrans, but also for the sake of Elphyne and its people. To avoid any possible invasion of his own kingdom and home.
It had not been easy, though, despite his vampiric power. The fighting had been long and brutal, and he had lost many, many good men, but, finally, in an almighty battle just outside the capital city of Dårath, he had been victorious in slaughtering the Chimeran ruler Merikh and the remaining Chimera had fled back to Lycia. Proclaimed a hero, national celebrations were called and a week’s worth of parties and revelry replaced bloodshed and fear.
But he was ready to go home. Despite the pleasure of the last few hours, it wasn’t enough to fill the void inside. He was restless. He put it down to missing the forests of Elphyne. Though he had been turned into a vampire, his Fæ instincts remained strong and he longed for the ancient trees of his homeland, the whisper of their leaves upon the breeze, and the smell of rain on their grassy banks. The bleak rocky crags of the Noxterran mountains jarred whatever soul remained within him. Even the soil here felt different between his fingers!
Extricating his naked body from those of Madame Ostara’s finest girls, Amias hunted for his garments. Once dressed, he quietly left the bedchamber, finding Altair, Badar and Ciro, his three Felidaeon, standing guard. These large, over-sized cats were native to the mountains of Noxterra, navigating their sheer slopes with sure-footed ease. Discovering these three as orphaned cubs when on patrol soon after his arrival, Amias had taken them in, nurturing them back to strength. Choosing to remain with him, rather than return to the wild, they had proved invaluable in skirmishes. Not to mention excellent companions on lonely days.
With the three Felidaeon by his side, he swept out of the parlour and onto the lively streets of Dårath. Enchanted torches lit up the stall-lined streets, selling drink and food and pleasure to punters eager to celebrate their survival and freedom. The towering Palace of the former King reached heavenwards to the glowing twin moons of Myrrithia. Though he and his court had been permitted use of the Palace, he disliked its dark stone and longed for his treetop Palace in Elphyne. Unease immediately set in as memories of the day’s meeting tumbled through his conscious. He continued past Palace Way, the swooping bridge that led to the Palace’s entrance, turning his feet to the Palace gardens and the woodland within. He would rest there tonight, he decided.
Picking his way through the forest with the help of the moon’s glow and his own keen eyes, he walked deep into the green heart of the woodland. The trees here weren’t as ancient as those in Elphyne and the creeks of their boughs were less sonorous, but the rustle of their leaves still soothed him, succeeding in banishing the sense of foreboding that had settled on him since the meeting: the remaining barons of Noxterra had gathered in Dårath to meet with him, requesting him stay indefinitely as ruler to protect them from the Chimera, alongside his responsibilities in Elphyne. Though he feared for the Noxterrans, Amias had no desire to begin an Empire.
The trees thinned, and a clearing opened before him. Walking through the ferns and wildflowers, he came to a quaint thatched cottage. It looked deserted, but he avoided it, nonetheless, continuing his way through the forest. Not long after, the hackles on the back of his Felidaeon rose to the rumble of their growls and he caught the distant sound of arguments and scuffling, like a struggle. Sadly, bandits had taken advantage of the disarray and marauding had become rife. Another thing he had to resolve before leaving for home.
He was on the edge of the forest now. Unsheathing his sword in preparation, he crept through the last few trees, careful to avoid twigs and anything else that might give away his presence. He found himself at the brow of a dale. Lying flat behind a swath of gorse bushes, the Felidaeon crouching nearby; he inhaled sharply.
By the gods, surely not?!
There, down in the valley, by the shores of a lake, was a tree with glowing pink leaves.
An Elixium tree!
He’d heard legends of them and their healing powers, but never, not in all his long years, had he seen one! The very earth seemed to hum with its divinity. Though it looked worse for wear, with broken branches and patches of foliage missing.
The sound of more scuffling drew him from his reverie, and he noticed a couple grappling with one another. A lifeless body lay sprawled across the tangle of roots, its hand clutching at a loose branch of the tree.
Were they fighting over it?!
They would destroy it!
Without thinking, he rose from his hiding place and advanced down the valley, leaping on to Altair’s back. With the other two cats flanking him, he charged at the men, too engrossed in fighting to pay them any heed until it was too late. Ciro and Badar pounced to knock them to the ground. Dismounting, Amias pointing his sword at the two men.
“Explain yourself!”
“King Amias!” One man cried, cowering behind his arms as the other flinched away from the Felidaeon’s snapping jaws.
“Ciro! Heel!”
The Felidaeon snarled, canines bared, but pulled back to prowl the perimeter.
“Explain yourself!” Amias repeated to the men, jabbing his blade into their sternums. “What happened here?”
The men looked sheepish and remained quiet.
His nostrils flared to smell the dead man’s blood. Amias glanced from the branch with its magical leaves to the dead body, its spilled blood tarnishing the roots red, and back again. Inspiration struck. His mind was made up. “My patience wears thin,” he said through gritted teeth, fangs flashing. “I said ‘explain yourself’. This is my land. You are trespassing.”
“Your land? You’re staying?” One of the men stammered, looking guilty. “Forgive us! We didn’t realise.”
“This woodland is now mine. Be gone. Or you will pay the price for this man’s death.”
“It was an accident!”
“He slipped!”
“Be that as it may, but continue to plunder the trees on my land and you will answer to me. Do you understand?” His eyes blazed crimson.
The men stared at him in shock.
The three Felidaeon roared, and they flinched, whimpering in fear. “We understand! Sorry, Your Excellency!”
Scrambling to their feet, they cast a backwards glance at the branch with its pink leaves, caught the fearsome gaze of Amias and his Felidaeon and fled back up the dale.
Amias looked up into the glowing crown of the Elixium tree. Reaching out a shaking hand, he pressed it against the trunk, almost feeling the magic and power coursing through its wood and boughs.
He bowed his head in reverence. “You are safe now.”
Dragging the body away, he noted the discolouration on the bark where the man’s blood soaked the roots. It webbed up the side of the tree like some dark evil. When he touched it, he immediately withdrew his hand, disliking the sense of deadness beneath their fingertips. Fetching out a small glass stone, he breathed on it, igniting it. It flashed hot-white.
“Yes, Your Majesty? Is everything alright?” A tinny voice arose from the stone’s centre.
“I’m taking Noxterra. All of it. Assemble the Barons in the Central Court to discuss my conditions within the hour. Kill all who resist. And bring a unit of men to the woodlands. There’s something I wish them to guard for me.”
Returning the stone to his pocket, he leaned back, looking up through the pink leaves at the starry sky above. It wasn’t home, but it would be.
One day.
Chapter 2
The Picking
Present day
***
The people of Noxterra have lived happily under the rule of Emperor Amias de Marc, Night Lord and King of Forever, for almost a millennium. On the whole, Emperor Amias was a fair ruler and the mountain kingdom of Noxterra had flourished to become one of Myrrithia’s greatest. Provided Blood Sacrifices and a bride were given.
Though selection for a bride only took place once every hundred years, with so many potential brides, The Picking was to last a week. For this reason, Emperor Amias granted it as a public holiday to the people of Noxterra. Towns and cities often held celebrations to mark the occasion with markets, festivals and merriment, but being the capital and host city of The Picking, the people of Dårath liked to put on the biggest and greatest show.
Though it was bittersweet. Because, whilst people celebrated, they were also keenly aware of the sacrifice the chosen bride would make in becoming consort to the vampire Emperor of Forever.
***
Blessed with outcrops of land that provided shelter from the waves and wind, Gerran had grown to be one of Noxterra’s largest coastal cities. With one of the best natural harbours this side of the Atlantean Sea, trade had naturally come, and with it, jobs.
The Fontaines had moved to Gerran several generations past, establishing a profitable accountancy business for the merchants who traded there. Though, whilst it helped them escape poverty, it didn’t mean all hardships escaped them.
It was early spring and the day invitations to The Picking were to be delivered. With it being such a rare event, the Baron of Gerran had organised a festival for the town’s folk. Alongside food stalls and games, a stage had been erected in the town square next to the statue of ‘The Barons’, which had been erected to commemorate the hundreds who had died when they tried to revolt against Emperor Amias’ extreme demands on becoming ruler of Noxterra. They had forfeited their lives.
The stage was festooned with flowers and decorated with brightly coloured streamers. As midday approached, the Baron stepped on to the stage and an eery quiet settled upon the gathered crowds. In his hand, he held several envelopes bearing the black seal of the Night Lord.
It was unnecessary, though. The girls knew who they were, as did most of the town. Whilst most parents had tried their best to marry their daughters off, some had slipped through, either through personal determination to attend The Picking, or through no accident of their own. As their names were read out, they mounted the stage, accepting their invitation to attend the Eternal Palace before lining up behind the Baron.
"Lamia Fontaine!”
A tall girl with silky brown skin stepped forward, her expression determined as she took the envelope from the Baron with a curtsey. Lining up with the other three girls, a grim satisfaction settled upon her, despite the shadows under her eyes. Though her parents had found many suitors to help avoid this, she had refused every single one. Her mind was too overcome to think of marriage, she had said.
But she was finally where she wanted to be. She was that step closer to getting her revenge.
And it would taste so, so sweet.
***
Two moons later marked the start of The Picking. A week-long event with those maidens turning twenty in the winter arriving in the capital from all over the kingdom, travelling the mountain roads to reach the capital city of Dårath, which nestled amidst Noxterra’s mightiest peaks.
There was much celebration made of the arrival of potential brides who wore the finest white gowns their families could afford. Bands played music and rice and petals were thrown like confetti. Swathes of red and white roses decorated Dårath Boulevard, the main road that cut through the middle of Dårath and led to the black and gold gates of the Eternal Palace. It was along this road that the brides sat in fine open-topped carriages pulled by Felidaeon, large Noxterran black cats with smooth fur and tufts of black hair on the tips of their ears.
With Noxterra being so far north, there was little sunlight, even as summer approached, and the wind carried a constant chill. Nonetheless, the people of Dårath greeted the brides warmly as they paraded down the main boulevard, setting off magic firelights, playing music and waving and cheering their procession onto Palace Way: an elevated bridge lined with towers which passed over the canals of Dårath. However, whilst the city continued their celebrations with drink and revelry, the brides and their families reported to the Hall of the Brides, located at the end of the bridge and next door to the black Eternal Palace, where Emperor Amias resided.
As the doors to the Hall were shut, muffling the cheers of the city, the reality of their situation hit most brides who would either breakdown in tears or collapse, having to be revived with smelling salts by the Emperors attendants.
But not Lamia Fontaine.
Like all brides, Lamia had been allocated a day for The Picking. Arriving as requested, she could hardly remember her procession through Dårath with her mother and father. Dressed in a becoming off-the shoulder gown with airy skirts and glittery lace, all she could remember through the noise and chaos was the feel of the cold blade hidden in her garter.
As with all Noxterrans, Lamia’s hair was as black as raven feathers. Though, unlike pure-blooded Noxterrans, hers was curly and her skin a lustrous brown, belaying her heritage from Khandûrn, a country east across the Atlantean Sea. Normally she left it untamed, but today she’d gone to great lengths to create an attractive chignon, pinned in place with a diamond slide.
“Isn’t this spectacular, darling?” her mother cried as her wide eyes took in the golden cornices and friezes of the Hall of the Brides.
Her mother was native Noxterran with dark hair, dazzling blue eyes, and pale skin. Though, at this precise moment, a touch of colour brightened her cheeks.
Lamia cut her mother a derisive look, the blue eyes she’d inherited from her gleaming coolly. Delilah Fontaine had always had a soft spot for anything shiny. Though her daughter was facing possible forced marriage to the most powerful Fæ in the land, and a vampire no less, the gold gilt decorations met with her approval.
It had been the same when she’d hosted her brother’s farewell party.
Miklaus Fontaine patted his wife on the shoulder, smiling indulgently at her, before tucking a stray curl behind Lamia’s ear. “Yes, dear, and Lamia is almost as spectacular.”
He gave Lamia a wink, and she covered her smile with a gloved hand.
Miklaus Fontaine was an accountant from Gerran, situated on the coast. Though not the most exciting of trades, it paid well and had allowed him to give his family everything they needed, and more. It was his side of the family who were Khandûrni and Lamia had inherited her dark skin and curly hair from him.
They were sat waiting for Lamia’s name to be read out. The Hall was busy with families preparing brides for the task that lay ahead. Which was difficult, as no one knew exactly what that was, for little was known of the process for The Picking.
Lamia cast a critical eye over the friezes depicting chasteness, deference and love. The ideal qualities of a future consort for the Forever King.
She just needed to get close enough…
To be continued...
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