Princess Isabella Tartaria rested on the bed. Still. Quiet. Dead. Her dress was in shreds. It was once white, but now it was ripped and bloodied. The material clung to her skin. Soft. Smooth. Revealing areas that were meant to be hidden. Her body was nearly intact. Nearly perfect. As if she were sleeping. As if she would wake up soon. But she wouldn''t.


    Her breasts, which had been held high and proud, now hung heavy and bare, nipples stiffened by the cold of death. Her dark, flowing hair streamed down her back, framing her death-tainted face.


    But her missing hand was hard to ignore. The stump was rough. Raw. An ugly end to something that once held power. It didn’t seem right on her. It didn’t fit with her face. With her soft skin.


    But somehow, it did. It made her stand out even more. Made her impossible to forget. Like a broken doll. Damaged. Ruined. But still beautiful.


    Her other hand dangled loosely by her side. Fingers curled. Grasping. But holding nothing. Whatever she had been trying to grasp in that last instant, she never did.


    Her legs were spread far apart, exposing her wet folds. In between them was a pool of blood, showing that she was in a lot of pain before she died.


    Her thighs were covered in scratches and bruises. Proof she fought hard. Her death had been violent, but her face didn’t show it. Her eyes stayed shut. Lips soft. Almost like she was at peace. Like she had won in some way.


    Her body told two stories. Her face and neck, delicate. Almost untouched. Almost gentle. But below, it was different. Wild. Fierce. Like she had been both prey and predator.


    The sight could make anyone weak. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to resist. The air was thick. Heavy. Blood and something else. Something sweeter. Hard to breathe. Hard to think.


    She was royalty once. Pure. Untouchable. Now she lay there. Bare. Exposed. A ruin of what she had been. The candlelight flickered. Shadows moved over her skin. It was easy to imagine. Too easy. Even now. Even like this. She could still be tasted. Still to be taken.


    Yosuhaku Kira sprawls across the crimson silk sheets. His chest heaves. Moonlight spills over him. It sharpens the angles of his face. It hollows his ice-blue eyes.


    His fingers shake. He grips something tightly. A severed hand. Small. Soft. Cold. The fingers still have a little give. Not stiff. Not yet. But the blood is gone. Drained. Princess Isabella’s hand. Once warm. Once alive.


    He stares at it. Unblinking. Searching. Maybe for warmth. Maybe for something else. But there is nothing. Just cold flesh. Just a piece of what was once whole.


    His fangs press against his lip. Her taste lingers. He inhales. Slow. Shaky. His thumb traces the gold ring on her finger. The sigil of Tartaria catches the candlelight. A glint. A reminder.


    Something twists inside him. Not hunger… not bloodlust. Something worse. Something deeper. Regret? No. He won’t allow that. He refuses.


    But this hand isn’t just a trophy. It is something more. Something he can never truly have.


    He exhales. His voice barely escapes his lips.


    “You were supposed to be mine.”


    Yosuhaku Kira stood at the edge of the stone balcony. The wind pulled at his cloak. Cold. Sharp. His breath came fast. Uneven. It fogged in the night air.


    He gripped the severed hand tightly. His fingers curled around it. Warmth long gone. He glanced back at the dimly lit room behind him. Just once. Then, without a sound, he leapt.


    Darkness swallowed him.


    The town stretched below. Twisting alleys. Lanterns flickering like dying stars. He moved through the streets like a ghost. Pale. Silent. Slipping through corridors and empty courtyards. The scent of blood clung to him. But hunger was gone. His mind was somewhere else. Somewhere, he couldn’t afford to be.


    Castle Twilight rose in the distance. A fortress of black stone and burning torches.


    He entered through the side halls. The sentries saw him. Pale faces. Hollow eyes. They said nothing.


    Inside, the corridors stretched forever. Shadows clung to the tapestries. Old whispers. Old memories. He stepped into the great antechamber. Murmurs stopped. Eyes turned.


    His father sat on the onyx throne. Yoshihiro Kira. Ancient. Regal. His crimson eyes cut through the dim light. His fingers tapped the armrest. Slow. Patient. His voice was deep. Heavy with centuries of power.


    "Yosuhaku," he said. "Where have you been?"


    Yosuhaku met his father’s stare. His own face was blank. Empty.


    "Out," he said. Nothing more. He turned and walked toward the stairway. His tattered cloak dragged behind him.


    Silence hung in the air. Then a soft voice broke it.


    "Let him be, Yoshihiro."


    Lady Saria Kira. Her voice was smooth. Calm. But firm.


    "Your son’s matters are his own. We have more pressing concerns."


    The others nodded. The Twilights were gathering.


    Yoshihiro exhaled. Slow. Thoughtful. He watched the path his son had taken. But he said nothing.


    In the Grand Hall, they waited.


    The Kira. The Vermillion. The Duskborne. Ancient vampire houses. Their blood is thick with history. The obsidian pillars loomed over them. The air was heavy. Expectant.


    At the center of the hall, the great pyre burned low. Embers glowed gold. Shadows danced.


    Then, she stepped forward. One figure. One presence. Commanding. Divine.


    The Diosa del Sol had come with a message.


    Yosuhaku Kira was sitting on his couch, watching the mirror, when he felt the urge to jerk off. He glanced at Isabella Tartaria''s severed hand on the coffee table and grinned.


    "Might as well use this," he muttered to himself.


    He picked up the hand and brought it close to his face, admiring the intricate details of her fingers and nails. He could still see the faint outline of her veins and the pale, lifeless skin. It was a sight that turned him on.


    He brought the hand to his mouth and kissed each finger, savoring the cold, lifeless flesh. Then, he placed the hand on his lap and began to stroke his erect penis with it. The sensation was strange but exhilarating.


    He could feel the rough skin of her palm against his shaft, and the coldness of her fingers sent shivers down his spine. As he continued to masturbate, he imagined Isabella''s hand moving on its own, stroking him with a life of its own.


    He moaned softly as he approached climax, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, he came, spilling his seed all over Isabella''s hand.


    He let out a satisfied sigh and wiped his penis clean on her lifeless fingers.


    "I love you, Isabella," he whispered to himself, still catching his breath. He placed the severed hand back on the coffee table, feeling a sense of satisfaction and depravity that he couldn''t quite explain.


    Yosuhaku stood in front of the mirror. He stared at himself. The candlelight flickered. Shadows moved over his face. Sharp. Cold. Too perfect.


    His skin was pale. Almost white. Smooth but empty. Like stone. Like something not alive. His cheekbones were high. His jaw was strong. He looked like royalty. But not human. Not really.


    His eyes were ice blue. Strange. Hollow. Not warm. Not cold. Just deep. Like he was thinking of something he couldn’t reach. When the light hit them, they almost glowed. Like fire trapped in ice. His lashes cast shadows over his face. Made him look even more distant.


    His black hair fell over his forehead. Just a little messy. Just enough to hint at something wilder underneath. But not out of control. Never that.


    His body was lean. Strong. Like a statue carved to be perfect. His shoulders were broad. His torso was sharp and defined. He looked like a fighter from an old story. His dark silk shirt hung open at the collar. Just enough to show smooth skin. No scars. No marks. His hands rested at his sides. His fingers are long. Still stained with blood.


    He didn’t move. He just stared. His lips parted like he wanted to say something. But there was nothing to say. Nothing to find in the glass.


    The mirror gave him nothing. Just a vampire. Just a shadow of what he used to be.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Yosuhaku lay atop his bed, staring at the ceiling. The silk sheets beneath him were smooth, but he found no comfort in them. His body was still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. The scent of dried blood clung to his hands. Princess Isabella’s hand—now discarded in some forgotten corner of the room—no longer occupied his grasp, yet the weight of it lingered in his mind.


    He should sleep. He wanted to. But sleep never came easily for creatures like him.


    His throat felt dry. The faint pang of hunger stirred within him, at first ignorable, then persistent. It gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, turning his apathy into something more restless.


    With a sigh, he sat up, raking a hand through his dark hair. His hunger outweighed his indifference now. If the other families had gathered, there would be blood. He might as well indulge.


    Castle Twilight was vast, a kingdom within stone.


    As Yosuhaku descended the grand staircase, the full splendor of the castle unfolded around him. The walls stretched high, adorned with towering obsidian columns, each etched with intricate carvings of the old ways—vampiric history preserved in stone. Chandeliers of black iron hung from vaulted ceilings, their candle flames flickering like ghostly will-o''-the-wisps, casting golden light against the dark marble floor. The scent of aged parchment, smoldering incense, and something metallic—something rich and crimson—lingered in the air.


    His footsteps were light against the polished floor, yet the sound carried in the hush of the hallways.


    The grand hall awaited.


    The families were already gathered, their murmurs weaving into the ambient hum of the chamber. The vast room was built for spectacle—a throne of onyx sat upon an elevated dais, though it remained empty tonight. Tapestries of deep crimson and midnight blue draped the walls, each bearing the sigil of a Twilight house. Long banquet tables stretched beneath golden candelabras, but there was no food—only goblets, filled to the brim with dark, glistening liquid.


    Yosuhaku’s entrance was barely acknowledged, save for a few sideways glances. He moved through the space like a shadow, his presence neither welcome nor unwelcome.


    "She left thirty-five minutes ago." The voice was hushed, but the words carried through the room.


    "Tch. The Diosa comes and goes as she pleases. I’d rather not sit waiting for another speech about balance and order."


    "Balance?" A scoff. "And what of the Silverblade family? Their envy drips from their very pores."


    "I hear Pierre walks as if he already owns half of the night."


    "He believes he does. But his father still breathes, does he not?"


    "For now."


    A soft chuckle rippled through the gathered families. The name Silverblade carried weight, but it was not spoken with admiration tonight. The eldest son, Pierre, was the subject of quiet intrigue, his ambition a little too sharp, his arrogance a little too obvious.


    Yosuhaku took a seat at the far end of one of the tables, curling his fingers around a goblet. The scent of fresh blood curled into his senses, rich and warm.


    He took a slow sip, listening to the whispers, the laughter, the schemes unfolding around him.


    The night was young, and hunger was not always for blood alone.


    Dorothy Vermillion moved like liquid fire through the gathering, her steps slow, deliberate—an elegant predator in a room full of her own kind. The scent of fresh blood clung to her, mingling with the delicate perfume of roses and burnt amber. She was drunk on it, her crimson lips stained darker, her pupils wide with indulgence.


    She was exquisite, even by vampiric standards. Her hair, long and rich as molten copper, cascaded down her bare shoulders in thick, silken waves. The candlelight caught in its strands, turning it into a halo of ember and flame. Her skin was porcelain-pale, smooth as untouched snow, marred only by the faintest blush of stolen warmth from the blood still coursing through her. She was dressed in deep scarlet, the fabric clinging to the curves of her body, as if stitched from sin itself. The low neckline exposed her collarbones, the elegant dip of her throat—a throat that had, mere moments ago, been slick with another’s lifeblood.


    Her eyes, twin pools of smoldering gold, settled on Yosuhaku with lazy amusement. She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, before sauntering towards him.


    "Yosuhaku," she purred, her voice thick with intoxication. "Always so alone, so cold. Do you ever indulge in anything at all?"


    She leaned in, her breath still sweet with the remnants of her last feast. One of her hands, slender and tipped with dark-painted nails, traced a line from his shoulder to his jaw. Her fingers were cool against his skin, but her body, heated by fresh blood, radiated warmth as she pressed against him.


    "Let me remind you what it means to be alive," she whispered, tilting her face up, her lips parting as she moved to capture his in a sensual kiss.


    Before she could, Yosuhaku’s hand came up—firm, decisive. He caught her wrist and pushed her away, his grip cold and impersonal.


    Dorothy staggered back, a look of stunned disbelief flashing across her face before it twisted into irritation. She scoffed, her golden eyes narrowing.


    "Impotent little prince," she spat, her voice dripping with scorn. "You spend too much time brooding. No wonder you reek of death instead of desire."


    Yosuhaku said nothing. He barely looked at her.


    She waited for a reaction, but when none came, she let out an exasperated breath and turned away with a dramatic swirl of her crimson gown, moving towards a more willing companion.


    Yosuhaku exhaled softly and lifted his goblet to his lips once more. The taste of blood was far more satisfying than whatever fleeting pleasure Dorothy could offer.


    Dorothy Vermillion moved through the room like fire. Slow steps. Smooth. Confident. A predator surrounded by her own kind. The scent of blood clung to her. Roses and burnt amber mixed with it. She was drunk on it. Her lips were darker. Her pupils were wide.


    She was beautiful. Even for a vampire. Her hair spilled down her shoulders like molten copper. Thick. Silken. The candlelight turned it into flames. Her skin was pale. Soft as untouched snow. The only color was the faint blush of stolen warmth. Her dress hugged her body. Deep red. Sin stitched into fabric. The neckline dipped low. Her collarbones and throat were bare. Moments ago, that throat had been slick with blood.


    Her golden eyes locked onto Yosuhaku. Amused. Lazy. She licked her lips. Slow. Deliberate. Then she sauntered toward him.


    "Yosuhaku" she purred. "Always alone. Always cold. Do you ever indulge in anything at all?"


    She leaned in. Her breath was sweet. Blood still fresh on her tongue. Her fingers traced from his shoulder to his jaw. Cool skin. Dark nails. But her body was warm. Flushed with stolen life. She pressed close.


    "Let me remind you what it means to be alive," she whispered.


    Her lips parted. She tilted her face up. She moved to kiss him.


    Yosuhaku''s hand shot up. Firm. Unmoved. He caught her wrist. Pushed her away.


    She stumbled. Her face twisted. Shock. Then irritation. Her golden eyes narrowed.


    "Impotent little prince," she spat. "You brood too much. No wonder you reek of death instead of desire."


    He said nothing. Didn''t even look at her.


    She waited. Nothing. Just silence. She scoffed. Annoyed. Then she turned with a swirl of red silk. She went looking for someone else. Someone easier.


    Yosuhaku exhaled. Slow. He lifted his goblet. Took a sip. The blood was warm. Rich. Far better than whatever pleasure she had to offer.


    The torches burned low. Shadows stretched long across the grand hall. The whispers died. The murmurs faded. The air grew still as the servants entered.


    She lay on a gilded wooden slab. Bound at the wrists and ankles with silken cords. Wrapped in nothing but sheer white linen. A cruel joke. A mockery of innocence. Her skin was smooth. Unmarked. The candlelight made her glow. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. The scent of her blood spread through the room. Warm. Rich. Untouched.


    They placed her on the long banquet table. The centerpiece of the feast. She whimpered. Her breath came fast. Her wide eyes darted from face to face. She struggled against the bonds. Weak. Useless. The moment the servants stepped away, the first vampire moved.


    A man from the Duskborne family lunged first. His fangs sank into her thigh. A scream ripped from her lips. It set the others off. They swarmed her. Clawing. Grabbing. Tearing.


    Teeth sank into her arms. Her stomach. Her shoulders. Blood soaked the linen beneath her. Crimson ribbons spilling out. Someone ripped the cloth away. More flesh. More to feed on. Her body convulsed. Her screams turned to choked gasps. A final snarl. Fangs at her throat. A sharp tear. Blood sprayed across the table. Across hungry hands and eager mouths. Thick streams dripped onto the marble floor.


    Dorothy Vermillion dipped her fingers into the gaping wound at the woman’s belly. She scooped up something pulsing. Something wet and raw. She licked her fingers. Slow. Savoring. Then she pressed the bloodstained tips to her lips.


    "Exquisite." Her voice was soft. Pleased.


    The frenzy didn’t stop. Bodies pressed close. Moving. Devouring. A dance of hunger. Of need.


    Yosuhaku didn’t move. He just watched. His fingers traced the rim of his goblet. His hunger was already gone. The scent of blood still called to something deep inside him. But it wasn’t enough to pull him in.


    The woman was silent now, or at least whatever was left of her.


    The only sounds were wet slurps and flesh tearing.


    Yosuhaku let out a slow breath.


    The first sound was a crack. Sharp. Wrong. Then the windows exploded. Stained glass shattered. Red. Blue. Gold. Sharp shards rained down like falling stars. Wind and snow rushed in. The torches flickered hard. The candle flames swayed.


    Then they came.


    A blur of silver and black. Snarling jaws. Flashing steel. Werewolves.


    They crashed into the hall at the same time. Perfect. Synchronized. Trained killers. They moved like they had done this a hundred times. Heavy boots slammed against marble. Armor gleamed. Muzzles curled back in snarls. Their golden eyes burned. They tore into the vampires with no hesitation.


    Gunfire filled the air.


    Silver bullets cut through the room. Each shot is precise. Each hit is lethal. A vampire screamed. A bullet tore into his shoulder. His skin smoked. Flesh rotted. Another vampire flew back. A silver blast ripped into her gut. Her ribs cracked apart. Blood poured onto the floor.


    Dorothy Vermillion leapt at an attacker. She was fast. Too fast. But the werewolf was faster. He caught her midair. His claws closed around her throat. He slammed her down. Spine-first. The table broke beneath her. Blood splattered everywhere.


    Screams. More gunfire.


    Yosuhaku turned—too late. A boot.


    It slammed into his chest. The hit sent him flying. He hit the floor hard. Pain shot through his ribs. Before he could move, someone stood over him.


    Tall. Heavy armor. Dark leather. Silver-plated steel. Luna Nocturiana.


    Her helmet caught the dim light. The crest of the Sacrament gleamed on the forehead plate. Smoke curled from the barrel of her pistol. Her other hand curled into a fist.


    "Get down on the ground!" she barked. Sharp. Cold. No nonsense.


    A vampire lunged. Fast. Yosuhaku saw it. But she was faster. A flicker of steel. The click of a trigger. A bullet hit the vampire’s skull. He dropped. Dead before he hit the ground.


    Yosuhaku lay still. His breath came fast. Around him, his family—his bloodline—was being slaughtered. Some were already dead. Some were on their knees. Silver chains around their throats. Their arms were pinned behind their backs.


    The grand hall—once drenched in luxury—now stank of war.


    Luna lowered her pistol just a little. She looked at him. Through the slit in her helmet, her golden eyes locked onto his.


    "Stay down! You are under arrest!"