Crimson Desire: Blood and Shadows

Maeve's gloved fingers traced the embossed edges of the invitation. The ornate lettering gleamed in the soft light: Grand Masquerade Ball, Imperial Court. Her eyes lingered on the name written in bold strokes—Maeve Corsande Solen.

With a measured exhale, she folded the paper neatly and slid it back into its envelope. The ball was an event of unparalleled prestige, held once every ten years. This year, it marked Empress Lysandra's 500th birthday, a milestone that promised an influx of nobles from every corner of the realm, even the distant Shadowlands.

Her gaze drifted to the gowns displayed before her. She had been searching all day, her patience wearing thin. The last three boutiques had been a disappointment, their offerings uninspired.

Maeve rose gracefully, inspecting the latest selection. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her gloved hand brushed a gown of flimsy fabric. "No. Do not bring me this," she said curtly, flicking her wrist to dismiss the attendant.

The young woman stammered an apology before retreating, her head bowed low. Maeve sighed, glancing back at the invitation resting on a side table. This ball was critical- a chance to assert herself, even if her father's shadow loomed large.

The creak of the showroom door cut through her thoughts. She turned sharply, her annoyance flaring. This was a private space, reserved for those of her rank.

Her irritation deepened when she saw who had entered. Lorien, of House Kael.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes lighting up with recognition. "Is that Maeve I see?" His voice was smooth, rich, and annoyingly self-assured.

Maeve's brows arched. "And is that the brute Lorien I see?" she retorted, leaning back against a velvet chair.

He strode forward, his dark boots muffled against the plush carpet. He'd changed in the twenty-five years since their last encounter- his once-boyish features now sharper, his blonde hair dyed black and cropped close. But Maeve's sharp gaze didn't miss the ring on his left hand.

"Humans and their customs, vampires and borrowing said customs," she mused aloud, tilting her head. A smirk curved her lips. "What an ugly rock. Tell me, did you buy that for your wife?"

His grin widened, infuriatingly unaffected. "Still as charming as ever, I see."

Maeve rose to her feet, the faintest click of her heels accompanying her movement. "And you're still as insufferable as I remember," she said coolly.

Lorien's gaze flicked over her, appraising. "I'd say you've improved with time, but that might be too generous."

Her fingers twitched, itching to summon a spell or hurl the nearest object. But she simply smiled, a dangerous edge to her expression. "Careful, Kael. You wouldn't want to end up unhorsed. My aim's improved."

He chuckled, low and rich. "Ah, but I still remember how gracefully you fell. Shall we relive the moment at the ball?"

Maeve's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened. This wasn't a chance meeting, it was calculated. Lorien always had an angle, and she intended to uncover it.

"To what honor do we owe this… visit?" Maeve's voice was smooth, but her eyes narrowed as she watched the attendees discreetly slip from the room. It was customary to grant privacy to nobles of the Great Houses, but Maeve suspected Lorien enjoyed the theatrics.

Maeve Solen, second child of Lord Vincent Solen. Lorien Kael, second son of High Commander Alistair Kael. Their titles alone demanded attention, though neither seemed eager to bow to the other.

"Surely they didn't skip your name on the invitation list for the ball?" Lorien's tongue-in-cheek remark was accompanied by that irksome smile. Even the lowliest feeder humans couldn't fathom Maeve Solen absent from the ball, but Lorien thrived on provocation.

"You should abandon your current trade and take up comedy," Maeve replied coolly, though her fingers twitched at her sides. What was he doing here? This boutique hardly catered to men unless for exceptional occasions. Unless-

A sharp snap of fingers drew her back to the quiet room. Lorien's grin widened as though he'd caught her in some private misstep. "If you'd been listening, I'd have continued. Father insisted I come. My brother has some… matters to attend to."

Maeve's eyes narrowed at his hesitation. Matters? What could possibly take precedence over the ball? Her mind turned over the possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Political tables could shift in a single evening, and she doubted House Kael would allow its seat to go unguarded.

Her spine straightened as she spoke, her tone biting. "Your father must think highly of your abilities, then, if you're the stand-in for your brother. Should I congratulate you on your promotion?"

Her jab landed, if only slightly. Lorien's smile faltered, though it quickly returned, sharper than before. "You always did have a sharp tongue, Maeve. But tell me, how does House Solen fare these days? Still bearing the Silver Chain with pride?"

Maeve bristled but kept her composure. "Always. And you, Kael? Still clinging to your father's coattails, or have you learned to stand on your own?"

The tension between them crackled like a drawn blade, but neither dared to strike first. Whatever game Lorien was playing, Maeve intended to outmatch him at every turn.

"I assumed we'd outgrown this childish sparring," Lorien said, waving her aside. He crossed the room with deliberate ease, his gaze settling on a gown Maeve had dismissed earlier with a wrinkle of her nose.

Maeve's eyes followed him, her mind churning. He must have come to pick something up, for his wife, presumably. The thought gnawed at her for reasons, not jealousy, surely but something uncomfortably close. How had he managed it, putrid personality and all? Marriage, especially within their ranks, was no small feat.

She folded her arms, her brow furrowing. Lorien couldn't be that much older than her, yet here he was, playing the dutiful husband. Maeve herself was approaching her seventy-seventh birthday- still firmly in her youth, by vampire standards.

If memory served, House Kael, like her own, held fiercely to traditional values about siring pure-blooded vampires in the upper echelons. Courting as a noble was a labyrinth of obligations and appearances, and scandals were its inevitable byproduct. She could recall whispered rumors at court: secret trysts, sabotaged engagements, and alliances forged through thinly veiled threats.

Lorien reached for the gown, his fingers brushing the fabric with a surprising gentleness. Maeve's lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever he was here for, it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Before Maeve could interrogate the attendant, a figure emerged, bowing low. She granted them a terse nod, her patience already thin.

The attendant handed Lorien a neatly wrapped bag, the contents concealed but large enough to house a dress. Maeve's sharp eyes flicked between them, her curiosity piqued.

"Well, my time has been far spent. I bid you farewell, Lady Solen," Lorien said smoothly, offering a shallow bow. He didn't wait for a reply, striding out as swiftly as he had arrived.

Maeve stared after him. Typical. Always leaving questions in his wake.

Her attention snapped back to the attendant. "You quickly attended to him. Why? Am I now a lowly peasant in your eyes?"

The words cut sharp, and the attendant paled, bowing lower still. Soon, the room filled with bustling staff eager to assist, eager to avoid her ire.

After a whirlwind of opinions and discarded fabrics, Maeve finally settled on a gown, a masterpiece of midnight silk adorned with silver filigree. She nodded in satisfaction, her temper easing.

By the time she left the boutique, night had fallen. The soft glow of street lanterns illuminated her path as she made her way to the waiting carriage. Without the fatal sunlight to contend with, her lady-in-waiting was dismissed for the evening.

The carriage clattered over cobblestone streets, heading toward the other side of town. A matching mask was her next goal, and as the boutique faded into the distance, so too did any lingering thoughts of Lorien.

 —

The ball was just a week away, and Silverhearth thrummed with anticipation. Even during the day, the city seemed alive, its streets bustling with carriages and chatter. Humans, commoners, and minor nobles eagerly prepared for their chance to visit the castle grounds. Though they wouldn't attend the ball itself, the opportunity to glimpse its grandeur was enough to stir excitement.

For once, Maeve found herself caught in the same fervor. She reclined in her chambers, sipping crimson liquid from a goblet, the blood staining her lips a deeper red. Her eyes drifted to the parchment on her desk—a letter from her pen pal, Ravenquill. It had arrived almost a month ago, its elegant script now well-worn from rereading.

Two years of correspondence had built a connection she couldn't deny. Ravenquill knew she hailed from House Solen, but he remained a mystery, revealing nothing of his own lineage. Yet his knowledge of courtly matters suggested he was a noble, perhaps from House Voss or House Dorian. Maeve's imagination ran wild as she tried to place him, but no answer ever seemed to fit.

She set the letter down with a wistful sigh, her thoughts drifting to the ball. Could this be the moment their paths finally crossed? The thought sent a rare thrill through her.

Perhaps this meeting would bring promises as rich as the blood she drank.