Chapter 4

After the seventeenth blood bag, Catherine's decay stopped.

From her calves to her thighs, the skin was a landscape of burns: charred, curled, crumbling at the slightest touch. But it was no longer spreading.

Her heart rate had steadied at twelve beats per minute. For a vampire, that meant she was out of danger.

I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her monitor, my nails carving white lines into the cane.

The TV in the room was on, volume low, looping a blizzard warning.

The broadcast cut away.

An emergency news banner filled the screen. The camera pushed in on Silver‑moon Plaza.

Arthur sat in a wheelchair, his right arm in a cast, a badge on his chest, his left hand holding something up high.

He held up a blood-stained fang.

Catherine's fang.

"The Crown has been infiltrated by vampires," his voice blasted through the speakers, echoing across the square.

"This is the monster's tooth. I pulled it out myself. Your princess broke my arm and crushed my ribs. All to protect this demon." He added.

The camera swept across the square.

A sea of faces filled the square.

The crowd held torches, crosses, and banners, their countless faces flushed with fanatical fervor.

Helen stood beside Arthur's wheelchair, gauze on her neck, full makeup, eyes rimmed red.

"She nearly killed me," Helen said, her voice trembling for the camera. "That princess isn't normally strong. Maybe she's also..."

She didn't finish.

But the implication was deadlier than any accusation.

The door to the hospital room burst open.

It wasn't Herbert.

Four members of the Order stormed in, the badges on their chests glinting coldly under the fluorescent lights.

"Elizabeth Windsor," the lead knight read from a sealed decree. "By order of the Order, on charges of harboring a heretic and treason, your command authority is hereby revoked."

I stood up. "How dare..."

"Please do not resist, Your Highness. Your Royal Guard has already been disarmed."

Footsteps and scuffling erupted in the hallway. Herbert's voice came from the distance, "Your Highness. Your Highness, they..."

A heavy thud sounded.

I heard someone being kicked to the ground.

Arthur's wheelchair appeared in the doorway.

He wore a badge, flanked by two knights who pushed him in, his face oozing satisfaction.

"Your Highness," his tone had changed, lofty and condescending. "Look at this face. It was once so regal."

His wheelchair rolled over Herbert, who lay crumpled in the doorway. The old man let out a muffled groan.

"Bring the cross." Arthur said.

Helen walked in with a dagger, her gaze sweeping over the unconscious Catherine, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smile.

"Your Highness, don't blame us for being rude." She pressed the blade against Catherine's throat, her nails painted a vivid red. "Hand over the monster, and the Crown's dignity can still be salvaged."

"Parliament might even thank you," Arthur added. "Sacrificing family for the greater good has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Four guns cocked simultaneously.

Muzzles pressed against my head and both shoulder blades.

Arthur pulled out a cross and held it high above his head.

"Kneel," he ordered. His voice echoed through the hospital room.

"Kneel and repent. Confess your sins before God and beg Him to forgive your corrupted soul." He added.

All four guns pushed an inch forward.

A sharp, blunt pain slammed into me from four directions: metal against bone.

Helen's dagger traced a shallow cut across Catherine's throat. Holy water seeped into the wound, and fine white smoke hissed from the skin.

Catherine let out a faint whimper in her unconscious state.

"Your Highness, I'll count to three." Arthur held the cross aloft, his tone utterly flat. "One..."

I lowered my head.

"Two..." Arthur said.

My shoulders began to shake violently.

Helen laughed, "See? She's scared."

Arthur laughed too, "The almighty princess herself turns out..."

Their laughter froze the instant I raised my head.

I was laughing.

A low, drawn-out laugh rose from deep in my throat, crawling along the walls, seeping into the cracks in the ceiling, reverberating down the entire corridor until it was deafening.

My eyes turned crimson under the fluorescent lights: pupils slit vertically, irises swirling with a thick, dark red.

A terrifying pressure erupted from my body.

"You think a pile of scrap metal can judge a god?" I said.