Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

It was the hour of midnight and the lamp burnt low but steady on the desk, its warm glow pooling over an open book.

Ruelle's head rested against the page she had been reading, her breathing slow, lashes still. Somewhere in the quiet, the tick of the clock counted each second into the dark. The faint scrape of a key in the lock broke the silence and her brows drew together as she stirred, lifting her head.

The door opened, and Lucian stepped inside, closing it with the same quietness with which he entered. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, dark hair damp and dripping, as though the night had followed him in. The lamplight seemed to dull when he moved past it, shadows stretching.

She glanced at the clock. Past two.

Lucian crossed the room without a word, his steps unhurried until he disappeared behind the folding divider.

Closing the book, Ruelle picked up the lamp. She made her way towards the couch until something caught her attention and she halted. The lamplight caught faint drops along the floor, trailing from the door to where he had gone. Not water. Darker. Thicker.

Blood.

Her gaze lifted just in time to see his hand reach for the back of his shirt, pulling it free in one motion. The fabric slid from his shoulders, shadows running over the shape of his back before tapering into his trousers. She heard the brief rush of water from the faucet before it went quiet again.

When Lucian emerged from behind the divider, bare from the waist up, the lamplight caught the wet gleam on his skin. And in that moment, Ruelle saw his bruised knuckles.

"...Did you hurt yourself?" she asked softly.

Lucian didn't look at her. "No."

The word was flat, the air around him seeming heavier now. He crossed to the cupboard and pulled out a clean shirt.

Ruelle was aware that vampires healed quicker than humans, but how quickly often depended on the depth of the wound.

She wondered what had kept Lucian out until this hour. She was curious, but she knew better than to ask. Not only because it would be prying, but because the air around the pureblood vampire seemed darker tonight.

Two afternoons later, the memory of Lucian's bloody knuckles lingered faintly in her mind, while the sun streamed through the tall windows of the dance hall. The music was already in motion when Ruelle found herself on the polished floor, paired with Kevin. At the far end, a pianist's hands moved over the keys while two violinists and a cellist wove a soft melody.

"Chin up! The floor already knows where it is. Look ahead," the instructor spoke loudly over the music. "Step, slide, lift, turn."

Kevin's shoulders stayed stiff under her hand, like he was holding the dance in place so it wouldn't break. On the next turn, his timing slipped. One wrong step sending him back too far.

"Kevin—" Ruelle's fingers caught his arm, halting him before he collided with a vampire couple.

The vampiress he'd nearly collided into gave a slow, mocking sneer, "Why bother teaching peasants the Nocturne Quadrille? They'll end up scrubbing floors and holding doors for us."

"Or serving as refreshments," added the vampiress's male partner with a lazy roll of his eyes.

Kevin's grip tightened, but Ruelle moved them to the other side of the floor. "Mistakes happen," she assured him. "Don't worry about it."

He gave a short, nervous laugh. "You're a quick learner in everything."

She smiled faintly. "My sister took lessons for a month before she quit. I went with her, so… maybe I picked up a thing or two. But watching and actually dancing?" She shook her head. "Different things."

"You're right." Kevin's steps stayed careful, the faint tension in his fingers never quite leaving. He tried to match her ease, but each time she steadied him, something in him shifted—made him wish the roles were reversed.

Ruelle had a way of coming through, whether it was the test results or the game of Hunt and Stake. She walked out in passing colours, while he had left with a limp.

When the bell tolled, the music thinned into silence. Ruelle followed Hailey to the bench along the wall, the polished floor still echoing with retreating footsteps. Kevin followed them. The instructor lingered near the corner, speaking in a low voice with the musicians.

"Third time," Hailey muttered, rubbing her foot. "I swear he was aiming for my foot."

Ruelle's gaze lowered briefly to Hailey's foot. Being paired with an Elite vampire could be punishing in its own way. Not always from cruelty, but from the careless strength they carried. She knew Hailey's mutter wasn't just complaint. The vampire's precision had likely come with little thought for her friend's toes.

"Hey, Kevin," a lanky first-year called from the doorway. "Coming to the underground?"

Kevin shook his head. "Not today."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go on." He waved his hand dismissively.

Ruelle tilted her head and asked, "Underground?"

Hailey leaned in, narrowing her eyes like she'd uncovered a scandal. "You're not sneaking off to do something you're not supposed to… are you?"

"It's just a sparring platform." Kevin shrugged casually. "Most of the guys go."

"I've never heard of it." Hailey leaned back against the bench.

"You wouldn't like it," Kevin replied. "Humans—especially women don't go there. It's mostly Elites, Halflings, a few Groundling men. The fights are intense… messy."

Ruelle frowned. "And it's allowed?"

"If the Elites and Halflings have no problem, why would the faculty?" Kevin asked and it made sense, thought Ruelle to herself. "With the stakes up, the faculty, in fact, encourage it. Not to mention it helps people learn to fight."

Hailey's head turned towards Ruelle, and she brightly said, "We should go see it." Her curiosity was like a cat pressing its nose to a half-open door.

"I don't think you'd like it." Kevin's reply came too quickly, his gaze sliding to Ruelle and lingering a moment too long.

She hesitated, fingers resting loosely in her lap. If it was only watching… "I don't see the harm," her voice was soft.

In less than ten minutes, Ruelle and her friends descended the narrow stairway, the stone steps dimly lit by fire torches fixed along the walls. The air turned thick as they went lower. As they got closer, the laughter and shouts reached her first as a dull hum, only to end up getting louder with every step forward.

When they stepped into the underground arena, Ruelle's gaze went immediately to the raised platform in the centre, where two vampires moved in a vicious fight, the flash of teeth and the drops of blood falling on the ground. Light fell on them from the open circular ceiling, which was sealed with thick panes of glass.

Some spectators stood close to the platform's edge. Others had taken their seats on the steep, tiered benches, their figures half-swallowed by the dim light. The heat in the air was heavy, carrying the scent of iron and sweat, but no one seemed to mind it.

"Reynolds! I thought you weren't coming," the lanky first-year from earlier waved Kevin over, a worn leather bag hanging loosely from his wrist. His tone carried the eager confidence of someone who believed fortune favoured him tonight. "How much are you planning to wager?"

Kevin slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a coin. He sighed, "Not more than a nickel. On Jagger."

"Oh, man. Not a shilling?" The young man's brows shot up. He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, then turned toward Ruelle and Hailey. "How about you women?"

"I'm just here to watch," Ruelle replied with a small, polite smile. Her gaze drifted upward and stopped on a figure a few benches higher.

Lucian was seated with his friend, Sawyer. One of his arms rested along the back of the bench, the other on his knee, fingers relaxed. The torchlight caught the edges of his black hair, turning them to dark silk, and when his head angled, the light struck his eyes—red, sharp, and cold enough to seem forged from ice.

He watched the fight below without the slightest concern, as though the outcome had already been decided.

"Same here," Ruelle heard Hailey speaking. "Not that I have money to spare."

"If it's money you're short on, some of the Elites will lend to those in need," their classmate offered casually, nodding toward a group of Elites in blue robes and some wearing masks where they were seated apart from the rest.

"For free?" Hailey's eyes lit up with an edge of temptation.

"Of course not," the person grinned. "If you win, they take fifty-five percent profit."

"And if you lose?" Ruelle asked him. Gambling never gave without taking more in return—her father's debts had been proof enough, lingering like a stain that no payment could wash away.

"If you lose, you pay three times what you took," he replied without a hint of shame, before shifting his attention to someone who wanted to wager.

Ruelle looked back at the raised platform, the roar of the crowd swelling as one vampire's fist connected with his opponent's jaw, sending him staggering to the edge of the platform. The crowd roared, the sound reverberating against the stone walls, until the fallen vampire lifted a hand in surrender.

The winner straightened, breathing hard but smiling faintly, the kind of smile that thrived on dominance. He stepped down, while the other one was helped out of there. For a moment, the platform was empty—until another vampire walked up.

Ruelle didn't remember ever seeing this person before. This one felt different. There was an erratic energy around him.

"Who will spar with me?" His voice resonated as his pupils looked just a fraction too wide in the light.

Ruelle's brows knit faintly. "Is that… a rogue vampire?" she asked under her breath. If he was, then someone had been reckless—dangerously so—to let him in here.

"Damn. Lost again. He always wins," Kevin muttered beside her, feeling the emptiness in his pocket.

Ruelle turned slightly toward him, ready to offer some mild remark, when she realised the noise in the space had gone quiet. The silence was sudden, pulling her attention back to the platform.

"Where are you going?" the vampire called, a smirk pulling at his mouth. "Why don't you fight me? Unless you are too scared to run."

He bared his fangs—not to the crowd, but to someone beyond the circle of light.

She followed the line of his stare. Lucian.

He stood a short distance away, half-turned as if about to leave, the torchlight catching faintly along the sharp edge of his profile. One hand of his rested loosely at his side, the other tucked into his coat pocket, as if the challenge were no more than an idle inconvenience.

Everyone's eyes soon turned to Lucian and the vampire standing on the platform.

Lucian didn't move, not at first. Then he turned his head, the motion controlled. His eyes fixed on the challenger, cold and still, like a predator deciding whether to bother with the kill.

"It would be better for you," he stated, his tone soft enough that it carried only because the space had gone utterly quiet, "if I didn't."

The movements of the vampire on the platform carried a restless edge. The kind of volatility that seemed more chemical than temper.

"Are you mocking me, Slater?"

So he was an Elite too, Ruelle thought. That much was obvious from the way he addressed Lucian. But there was something about him that didn't sit right, the way his shoulders twitched as though his body was already ahead of his mind. His eyes flicked too quickly, pupils wide and drinking in the light.

Lucian's eyes didn't waver. "No." A pause, almost courteous. "I'm warning you."

A ripple of irritation passed over the person's face. He demanded, "You think you can stand there and threaten me? Why don't you come up here and prove it?"

From the benches, another Elite's voice cut in. "It's been a long time since you've stepped in there, Slater. I think a few of us would enjoy the reminder."

Lucian's gaze slid to the speaker. He remarked, "That absence applies to you as well. Shall we correct it? You might even finally manage a win somewhere."

The Elite who had spoken his jaw tightened. He smiled anyway. "Unfortunately for me, Huxley wants to spar with you. I'll raise the stakes. Winner takes my Humbridge estate."

On the platform, Huxley cracked his knuckles, grinning like the prize was already his. "Now that's something! Let us fight!"

Lucian barely glanced at the earlier speaker. "Keep it. It wouldn't suit me."

The words landed without weight in his tone, yet leaving no room for dignity on the other side.

The challenger waited, fists flexing. The offer of the estate still hung in the air like a lure for lesser men. Lucian regarded him in silence long enough for the tension to edge toward unease.

"Come, Slater. One round," Huxley encouraged him.

"I told you—it would be better if I didn't." Lucian's eyes swept over the platform, slow and dismissive, before he began to walk. The sound of his footsteps erased every other sound in the space. "But if you insist… who am I to refuse the invitation?"

The crowd that had gone quiet suddenly erupted in chatter and the Groundlings began to place their last coin to wager on who would win.

Ruelle's fingers pressed lightly to the sides of her skirt.

Her gaze stayed fixed on Lucian. He had been returning to the room at night with bloody knuckles, but right now the backs of his hands had gone back to being smooth. Across from him, the vampire named Huxley shifted his weight, shoulders twitching with an energy that had no patience.

"Who's your coin on?"

"I heard Slater's only fought here once. You think he even—"

"Quiet—don't you remember the corridor fight? Put a man's head through the wall," another voice cut in, low but clear enough for Ruelle to catch where she stood.

"I've never seen Huxley lose," someone else murmured, leaning in. "Also, I saw him drink something earlier that didn't look like blood."

The fight began without warning. Huxley moved, leading with speed and force meant to impress. The strike was met with Lucian's block that appeared almost careless until one noticed the precision in the angle, the way it left no room for follow-through.

The first minutes were pure exchange—hand to hand, every strike and dodge clean. Huxley lunged, while Lucian shifted. The latter didn't chase, didn't press. He simply let Huxley's aggression collapse under its own weight.

"They're both good. This is how good the Elites are," someone whispered. "Not a single hit yet."

"Huxley's better," another murmured. "He hasn't let Lucian land a strike."

But as minutes dragged on with the anticipation building in the atmosphere, frustration bloomed in Huxley's mind. Suddenly, his hand dipped into his belt and he pulled out a sharp dagger. He then lunged with it.

Were there no rules here? Ruelle thought, catching the glint from where she stood.

But Lucian didn't so much as blink. The dagger came in fast towards him—but stopped. His hand clamped around Huxley's wrist mid-swing. No strain in his arm. A clear crack of bone split the air, and the dagger hit the stone with a dull clatter.

His other hand lifted, palm open, and closed over the side of Huxley's throat. There was no visible violence, just a steady pressure of his thumb into the hollow where vein met bone.

The space seemed to shrink, and Ruelle could hear Huxley's ragged breath. The vampire's hands clawed at Lucian's wrist, but the grip didn't budge. The pressure deepened, almost idle, as if Lucian were merely testing the resistance of flesh beneath his hand.

Then, in the next second, the skin tore. A hot rush of blood spilt down Huxley's shoulder, soaking the collar of his shirt before spilling on the ground.

Lucian's gaze didn't falter. Instead, a faint curl touched his lips, so slight it might have been missed—yet several in the crowd turned pale.

When he finally released the person, the vampire's legs folded instantly, the body crumpling in a heap at his feet.

"I warned you," Lucian murmured, as if they'd just finished a polite conversation. He stepped past the fallen vampire as if there were nothing on the floor but dust, the hem of his coat brushing faintly against the fallen man's arm.

Ruelle's breath caught, the metallic scent of blood rising sharp in the air. Her eyes stayed on the vampire on the ground, who tried to cover the wound on his throat, before she looked back to Lucian, who didn't so much as glance at the faces that followed him.

Lucian's footsteps cut cleanly through the silence until the darkness at the far end of the arena took him in.

For a long moment, the underground held its breath. Then the murmur began, quiet at first, then moving through the crowd in cautious bursts.

"That wasn't luck," a Groundling said from the benches.

"Of course not. Did you see his control?" Another replied. "It's… not just strength. It's precision. Like he's been doing this his entire life."

"I heard his training started early," a senior Halfling offered.

"That would explain it," someone muttered. "Did you see that in the end? That—" The person broke off, as though it was better left unsaid.

Ruelle's gaze didn't leave the black doorway where Lucian had disappeared. On the platform, blood crept toward the edge, glinting faintly under the torchlight before dripping down to the dirt below.

"Someone take Huxley to the infirmary," an Elite snapped, his tone sharp enough to break the spell Lucian had cast. A pair of Groundlings moved forward, careful not to meet one another's eyes as they lifted the limp weight of the fallen vampire.