Selene sat with her arms folded, her golden eyes hard as steel. The chamber was quiet but for the faint hum of the Dragon’s Heart locked away behind layers of warding. Clock Hand Tower loomed around her like a cathedral of crystal, its walls catching the moonlight in veins of silver-blue. She had not spoken for several minutes.

  Morgan LeFaye watched her granddaughter in silence, letting the weight of that quiet do its work. At last, the elder witch sighed. “I should have told you. I thought sparing you would keep you from chasing something impossible.”

  Selene’s jaw tightened. “And instead, you kept me ignorant. If you had told me sooner, I wouldn’t have wasted years chasing crumbs in the dark.”

  Morgan did not flinch. She had weathered centuries of storms, but this one—her granddaughter’s wounded glare—cut deeper than most. Slowly, she stepped forward and opened her palm. Resting on it was a necklace: a crude cord strung with a simple aquamarine crystal. It caught the tower’s light faintly, no ornament, no gold.

  “This was once a tool of the First Coven,” Morgan said. “During the war, when demons learned to wear stolen faces, we needed certainty. When you are near another of their bloodline, this stone will heat. It cannot be fooled. Flesh, glamour, even demons in disguise—none can counterfeit blood.”

  Selene’s eyes softened, just for a moment. She reached out and took the necklace, letting it dangle between her fingers. The crystal was cool against her skin. “And you’re giving this to me now?”

  “You will need it,” Morgan said, her voice both weary and resolute. “If you truly mean to seek the others, it will save you time. But remember, child—it only tells you blood, not location, not loyalty. Kin can betray as swiftly as any stranger.”

  Selene looped the cord over her head and let the stone rest against her chest. She leaned back against the crystalline wall, closing her eyes. “Then I’ll wear it. But for now—I need to relax before I start overthinking.”

  Morgan gave the faintest smile. “A wise thought, for once.”

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by the low thrum of the Dragon’s Heart deeper in the tower. Its pulse vibrated faintly through the crystal floor.

  “You think me cruel,” Morgan said at last, her voice worn with years. “But I lost a son to ambition. I would not lose a granddaughter to ignorance.”

  Selene’s eyes flicked open, sharp. “You lost him because you underestimated him, and got involved where you shouldn't. Now you underestimate me.”

  Morgan said nothing, but her gaze lingered on Selene’s new necklace — a shard of the First Coven’s wisdom now resting against wild youth. For the first time, doubt crept across her face.

  The Crown Prince of Valenfor tugged at the collar of his borrowed tunic, feeling both out of place and oddly exhilarated. His disguise still held—a face plainer than his own, jaw less sharp, hair lighter, eyes a dull brown. Enough to pass as a wandering noble’s son.

  The 7–8 district of Alleve’s Hallow spread before him in sweeping arcs of stone shaped like waves. Towers of coral-like masonry rose along a vast waterway where aqueducts cascaded like waterfalls. The Leviathans had carved their dominion into a living spectacle: pools large enough to house their serpentine forms. Enchanted fountains sent ribbons of water curling into the sky. At the district’s heart, what the locals called the Park.

  It was no park he had ever known. Pools upon pools, slides carved from smooth stone, and enchanted currents that carried bathers like leaves down winding rivers. The scent of salt clung to the air as the district sat near the mountain harbor. Laughter rolled like tidewater across the crowd.

  His two guards trailed close behind.

  “This is madness,” muttered Sir Kayen, his knight-commander. “Your Highness, parading yourself half-naked in a den of witches and monsters—”

  “It will be more suspicious if we stand out,” the Prince said smoothly. “What better way to blend in than to do as the locals do?”

  The female knight, Dame Maelis, had her arms folded tight across her armored chest. “You only say that because you want to.” Her glare deepened when she noticed women in the crowd wearing little more than strips of cloth.

  The Prince only laughed. “And what of you, Maelis? Will you join me in these scandalous festivities?”

  “I will find the most modest scrap of cloth they carry,” she snapped.

  They purchased attire from a vendor’s stall, much to Maelis’ dismay, and soon the three of them waded among locals and tourists alike. The Prince dove from a high ledge into the sparkling water, resurfacing with a grin that belonged to a boy half his age. Kayen cursed under his breath but followed. Maelis waded stiffly, her modest black one-piece clinging tightly to her well-fit form, which she awkwardly tried to hide.

  The district was a riot of color and sound. Vendors hawked skewers of charred squid and spiced crab; children splashed in ankle-deep streams running across polished stone. Kayen muttered about disease, Maelis muttered about impropriety, and the Prince drank it all in with a wide grin.

  “Blend in, you said,” Kayen growled as he yanked a dripping tunic back into place. “You look like a fool.”

  “A happy fool,” the Prince replied, shaking water from his hair. “And that is the most dangerous kind.”

  It was then that the Prince saw her.

  Lounging by the largest pool, stretched out on a flat rock warmed by the sun, was a woman unlike any other. Long black hair spilled around her shoulders, golden eyes half-lidded, a faint smile curling her lips as though the entire world amused her. She wore dark, flowing fabric cut daringly, practical yet alluring, her skin pale as ivory. Those slightly pointed ears betrayed her elven blood. A simple crystal pendant glimmered faintly at her chest, catching the sunlight, though it seemed little more than an ornament at first glance.

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  But it wasn’t the necklace that caught him. It was the way she held herself — utterly at ease, as though the ruin of the world could collapse around her and she would only laugh. His eyes lingered too long, his heart lurching with a strange mix of awe and irritation.

  “Who is that?” he asked, though he already knew no answer would satisfy.

  Maelis followed his gaze and groaned. “Don’t.”

  He ignored her. He swam to shore, slicking water from his hair, and approached. The woman tilted her head, studying him with idle curiosity.

  “You’re beautiful,” the Prince said, confidence unshaken.

  Selene’s smile widened faintly, though her gaze was cool. “I'm aware. Unfortunately for you, I, too, enjoy beautiful things.”

  For a heartbeat, he blinked—then remembered. He was in disguise. The plainness of his false face mocked him. For the first time in his life, his looks had failed him. It was almost insulting.

  Selene’s eyes lingered on him. “You look so certain of yourself,” she murmured. “Like a man who hasn’t yet been told no.”

  The words should have stung. They did sting. But more than insult, they fascinated him — no court lady had ever spoken to him with such casual dismissal.

  He laughed softly, though it carried a bitter edge. “Perhaps another time, then.” He bowed slightly and turned away, his guards waiting with identical looks of exasperation.

  Night fell heavy and velvet. The 8–9 district was nothing like the water-bright spectacle of Leviathans. This was the realm of Vampires, where alleys coiled like veins and spires pierced the night sky like obsidian fangs.

  The Prince pushed through double doors into a place he thought was a tavern—only to be swallowed by a world he had never seen.

  This was no common bar. Music pulsed like a heartbeat, stringed instruments twined with drums, deeper and more aggressive than courtly dances. Chandeliers dripped crimson light, shadows swaying across the floor where men and women moved in sensual rhythm. It was like a ball, but the masks were of hunger, the steps of desire, the air thick with perfume and iron.

  In the corner, a couple swayed together too slowly, their embrace strangely rigid. The man’s head tilted back in languid ecstasy while his partner’s lips lingered at his throat, drinking deeply. A napkin fluttered from his limp hand to the floor, spotted with red. No one gasped. No one even turned. Feeding, it seemed, was as casual here as sipping wine.

  Kayen stiffened immediately. “We shouldn’t be here.”

  The Prince only grinned. “On the contrary, Kayen. I think we’ve found the heart of the city.”

  He looked up, and there she was again.

  Selene leaned on a bannister above, her golden eyes surveying the dance floor like a queen surveying subjects. Selene’s dress was cut from dark crimson silk, a shade that shifted in the light like fresh-spilled wine. It clung to her waist and shoulders with an almost feral grace, the bodice simple but the skirts layered in jagged, uneven hems. The fabric was rich, but the stitching had a wild edge, as if the garment had been coaxed from nature rather than sewn in a tailor’s hall. It's fort opened much too low for the comfort of more modest company.

  Her sleeves bared her forearms, where faint golden runes pulsed like veins of molten ore beneath her skin. It left little to the imagination, but the Prince still found his mind in a tailspin of wonder. Around her neck hung the aquamarine pendant. The gem was large enough to catch every flicker of candlelight, glowing faintly. The stone rested perfectly in the hollow of her chest, between the curves of her bosom. The Prince once again caught himself staring too long. His focus only returned when a tall vampire with silver hair and aristocratic grace approached her. She listened, smiled faintly, then shook her head. Rejected, the suitor faded back into the crowd.

  The Prince’s pulse quickened. “Her standards are quite high,” he murmured, smirking. “I wonder if I'll meet them?”

  Kayen groaned aloud. “Gods preserve us,”

  Maelis muttered a prayer under her breath. A confident smile over the prince as he turned to leave.

  They left the club briefly, only to return transformed. Kayen in somber finery, Maelis in black velvet, and the Prince himself—finally unmasked. When he stepped back through the club’s doors, he was no longer the plain-faced wanderer. He wore a suit cut in the old Valenfor style—Victorian in its sharp lines, modern in its fit. The jacket was a deep, blood-red velvet trimmed with black satin, its high collar framing his throat like a crown of shadow. A waistcoat of darker crimson clung close to his torso, its embroidery catching the candlelight in subtle thorn-like patterns. The shirt beneath was stark white, open just enough at the throat to hint at the warmth of skin, while the trousers tapered cleanly to polished black boots.

  The attire was chosen with precision, a deliberate echo of the dark red Selene wore above. Where her dress was wild and untamed, his suit was tailored and regal, yet the hues spoke the same language of desire and danger. The cut revealed the strength of his frame in a way most courtiers never would have guessed: broad shoulders, trim waist, the lithe, honed muscle of a man who trained as much as he feasted.

  Heads turned as he crossed the floor.

  The moment he entered, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even the musicians seemed to play harder, sharper. He walked with elegance born of breeding, and the crowd parted around him like water.

  But Selene did not look at him.

  She was walking toward the balcony.

  Ignoring the eager eyes on him, he strode through the throng, waved off his guards, and slipped past the heavy curtains onto the balcony.

  Selene stood at the railing, the city lights of the Vampire district sprawled below like embers. She did not turn when he entered.

  “Go away,” she said lightly. “I’m waiting on someone.”

  He stepped past the threshold, his true face illuminated faintly by the glow of the city. “Are you sure that someone isn’t me?”

  Selene giggled; the sound rang like bells. Without lifting her gaze, she snapped her fingers. Behind him, the balcony doors slammed shut. A glowing seal crawled across the wood, locking them in.

  At last, she turned, still leaning with lazy elegance against the railing. Her golden eyes met his blue ones, sharp and knowing.

  “Indeed it is… Crown Prince.”

  For the first time, he smiled—not with arrogance, but with genuine amusement. “Well,” he said, tilting his head. “This is awkward.”

  Selene tilted her head, her golden eyes glinting like coins caught in firelight. “Awkward would be if I screamed. If I told every predator in this hall that the heir of Valenfor had come to their den.”

  He chuckled, though his heart quickened. “No, that would be fun. What's awkward is you know me, but I'm at a loss as to who you are, lovely lady.”

  “Indeed,” she said softly, pushing off the railing. “Well, let's play a game. I'll give you three guesses. ”

  The Crown Prince stepped confidently forward,

  "What do I get if I win? I hope nothing cliche, like my life."

  “Perish the thought,” Selene murmured, her smile curling like a blade. “Three guesses. Three questions. If you’re clever enough to win, you earn your answers.” Her golden eyes flicked to his throat, then back to his lips. “If you fail, you give me something in return.”

  The Crown Prince stepped closer until her perfume mingled with the sharp tang of wine in the air. He smirked, steady. “Three guesses? I’ll only need one.”