The air in the chamber hung thick with the scent of fear and scorched candle wax.

Drusilla stood tall before the line of trembling humans, the last echo of her heels having long faded against the cold stone. Her gaze, ancient and glinting with centuries of predatory knowledge, lingered on the girl. The girl had survived her scrutiny, her testing, her casual cruelty —the little touches of her claw, the circling questions, the silent games meant to break spirit or will.

Yet she had not broken.

Drusilla’s lips curled into a smile —not warm, never warm— but pleased, a flash of something dangerous behind her regal stillness.

"This one..." she spoke at last, her voice thick with that unshakable English accent, "...shall remain."

She raised a hand, motioning with a single black-tipped finger. The guards moved instantly.

"The others," she said, turning away as if they were no more than dust beneath her hem, "dispose of them."

Cries erupted muffled and terrified but Drusilla didn’t flinch. The torches flared once, then dimmed. The chamber emptied of all sound save for the girl's shallow breath behind her.

“Fetch the princess,” Drusilla commanded one of her robed servants. “Inform her that her mother has, at long last, chosen a suitable match... and she is to present herself immediately.”

Amara stood at her balcony, staring into the abyssal dark of the Underworld, where glowing fungi clung to ceilings and cold rivers ran through black stone. Her thoughts were far elsewhere —in dreams, in freedom she’d never tasted. A knock came. Then the voice.

“Princess. Her Grace... commands your presence in the throne chamber. She says... she has chosen your spouse.”

Amara blinked, jaw tightening. "Again?" she thought, but said nothing.

She descended the long staircase at her own pace, silk skirts brushing cold iron railings, heart thudding beneath her corset. The idea of another suitor, another pawn to marry... it made her sick. The last noble’s perfume still clung to her gloves and she’d only shook his hand.

The throne room loomed ahead, the heavy doors groaning as they opened.

Her mother stood poised, regal as always, terrible and beautiful.

And beside her... a human.

Amara slowed, her brows knitting. She had expected another pompous vampire lord. But instead, there was a woman.

Drusilla turned her head, addressing her daughter without a smile. “She shall be yours. Make no quarrel of it.”

Amara’s lips parted. A hundred thoughts bloomed at once —disbelief, irritation, intrigue. Her gaze flicked to the girl, lingered.

This wasn’t just her mother’s latest stunt. This... was new.

Her purpose fulfilled, Drusilla turned with practiced elegance, her cloak flaring behind her. She did not need to witness what came next, she had planted the seed, and now it was the duty of time, and perhaps fate, to see if it would flourish or rot.

“See that she is made presentable,” she muttered to her nearest servant, glancing once more at the girl. “Scrub off the dirt, but do not dull the fire.”

Her boots echoed with authority as she strode from the chamber, her clawed fingers brushing against stone columns, leaving faint scratch marks with every pass. She would not watch her daughter’s discomfort. Nor would she admit, even to herself, that she was curious what might bloom from this little act of rebellion disguised as tradition.

She paused at the door.

“See to it that she’s cleaned, fed, and taught proper address. I’ll not have my daughter consorting with livestock.”

Then she vanished into the shadows, the heavy doors groaned shut behind her.

Silence settled the moment her mother vanished.

Amara remained still for a moment, studying the girl left behind. Her mother’s taste was usually awful, all bloodlines and cold egos. But this time? This time, Drusilla had done something unpredictable.

Amara stepped closer, slow and graceful, her hips swaying with natural rhythm. She let silence bloom between them, savoring the weight of her gaze. The human was... gorgeous and so out of place here.

“You’re prettier than the last one,” Amara murmured, voice sultry, smooth, threaded with amused venom. “And definitely smell better.”

She stopped just inches away, reaching out to gently touch the girl’s chin, tilting her face up. Not forcefully but just enough to feel the tension.

“I’m guessing you didn’t volunteer for this,” she said, a soft smirk tugging at her lips. “My mother doesn’t really do consent.”

She circled the girl once, letting her scent brush across her shoulder, her fingers trailing lightly, not to hurt but to test.

“You scared?” she asked from behind, her voice now a whisper. “Or... curious?”

Then she stopped in front again, eyes meeting hers with unapologetic boldness.

“Because I’m curious. And very good at getting what I want.”