Aleiya hated games.

  The fey were the most playful sort, but they liked to twist the rules as it suited them. The fey did all they could to win—but the Crystal Princess was never allowed to lose. Ordered never to fail, because failure always had dire consequences.

  When this man, this Magnus, arrived, Aleiya could feel his presence before he ever stepped a single foot into the Great Hall. Even the colorless strings that floated just beyond her vision whipped with urgency, a force so violent she could almost hear the brutal snap.

  They shuddered in disgust at the sudden swell of arcane influence, curling away as if molested. An arcane territory was opened, creeping in like thick fog that tumbled from the mountain. A devouring frost that consumed all within its path.

  It felt just like when her mother had once smiled a little too sweetly.

  That same saccharine chill bled into his voice—the gentleness of sugar left out in the rain.

  A rotting sweet.

  She saw that as it commanded, the guests obeyed without hesitation, as if resistance had never once crossed their minds. A familiar sight.

  And as always, Aleiya was put on guard and left to survive the oncoming storm. A tempest surely as destructive as her mother, but was made of locusts instead of wind.

  In between breaths, as Magnus approached the head table, the threads of fate convulsed and writhed. They twisted upon themselves with a force that her own insides mimicked with painful accuracy. Their blackened threads trembled, warning of death.

  But Aleiya didn’t need the strings to know.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She had eyes.

  There was something about this man that was just… not… quite right.

  It was like a stench of mold and rot and decay. She felt so unclean from it. Everything about him looked human—ashen-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, a sculpted mouth as if meant to kiss angels. But it all felt wrong.

  Twisted.

  He was quite simply repulsive.

  Moonlit eyes traced the palm of his open outstretched hand, bewildered. What was it that he asked for again? She replayed his words from his entrance, to his greeting Sullivan, and then…

  ‘A vision of beauty?’

  She was not familiar with this game.

  She did not know the rules.

  She didn’t have a “vision of beauty” to give—nothing on her, anyway.

  She didn’t even have pockets to her name!

  The strings snapped into place, forming a thick barrier between her and the impossibly sick, dangerous man before her. She had never seen them so rabid—so alive with a warning she wished she didn’t understand. But she swallowed the feeling down.

  She had to.

  It didn’t matter that the nausea twisted deeper, that her insides screamed, that her vision swirled. She had been asked for “a vision of beauty”. She needed to find it—whatever it was.

  A frantic glance confirmed it—she had nothing. Still, she pried herself from Sullivan’s grip to find it. Her wrist flicked intuitively, landing a light smack on the back of his hand as he tried to reach for her again.

  It wasn’t in defiance—in her mind—but a need to give herself some room to search.

  The ancient Vampire Lord’s hand hovered where she’d struck, his fingers curling through the crackling of his mana burn as if testing for real pain. It was a tap—nothing, really—like rain hitting steel. But it somehow stung his pride.

  He had half a mind to snatch her back into his arms—the feeling akin to a snake ambushing its prey. Only centuries of practice held him still—far too aware of every single drop of blood in the room. Their scrutinizing gazes pressed like hot coals into his skin.

  He couldn’t allow them to find fault with him.

  His plans would unravel otherwise.

  Even Magnus’s gaze was a subtle warning, a hunter’s grin pressed edge-first to Sullivan’s throat. He didn’t want his game interrupted. He was entertained. Eager for her response. His head tilted slightly, lips pressed to stifle the glint of glee.

  Though he liked the wind-up-doll, the frightened mouse was just as delightful—her wisps of panic far too amusing.

  What exactly was the silly girl trying to find?