Page 13 of Embers of Fate
I whisper urgently to Dristan, “Is that truly Ivan Lockhart?” The elusive vampire lord rarely ventures out of his lair in the United States, yet rumor has it he personally requested this summoning from none other than the Grand Witch herself. Who hasn’t heard the stories of the legendary love affair between them centuries ago?
“My youngest fledgling, yes,” Dristan confirms, pride and concern warring in his voice. “Tonight’s ritual is... personal for our family.”
Before I can inquire further, he stiffens, gaze fixed over my shoulder. “Here comes the devil himself now,” he murmurs.
I turn to see a dark figure stalking towards us, powerful and elegant. So this is the fabled Ivan. His piercing jade eyes burn with quiet outrage as they set on his maker.
“Dristan?” he asks imperiously. “What is the meaning of this?” His smooth voice drips condescension.
I bristle at his arrogant tone, though we’ve barely met. Clearly, the rumors of his haughty temperament ring true.
Lockhart’s searing gaze bounces from me to young Clarissa. Just then, I notice Gavriil watching us from across the room, his expression hardening. He’s ready to break up this meeting in the most hot-headed way. I need to get out of this situation before he causes a scene over nothing.
Dristan remains unruffled, accustomed to his mercurial fledgling’s moods. “I met these lovely ladies outside. This is Miss Clarissa Draken and—”
I interrupt with a decisive step forward, my voice laced with urgency. “Shall we proceed? I’d like to get over with this quickly.” I put on a snobbish mask as I saunter away and join my brother. His hand finds mine almost immediately, and I know full well there will be consequences for my audacious behavior.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Gavriil murmurs in my ear, a quiet promise underlying the mild words. My stomach drops—that conversation will be anything but pleasant.
But my chaotic thoughts come to stillness as Juliette’s commanding voice echoes off the marble floors and gilded walls, calling all creatures to listen and obey. The very air hums with gathering might in answer.
“Come, let’s take our seats.” Gavriil leads me through the horde. He pulls back the head chair opposite Juliette’s seat and I sit beside him—the Ursa Princess that plays by the king’s rules, if only for this evening.
8
NIK
Acool misting rain trickles down as I make my way back to Draken Manor, the quiet night enveloping me, soothing away the restlessness that has plagued my soul for as long as I can remember.
Today has been a journey of rediscovery as I meandered the vibrant streets of Paris on foot for the first time in over a decade. I indulged in a leisurely meal on the bustling Champs-Élysées, watching well-dressed Parisians rush by. Later on, at the Louvre, I marveled at artifacts of my lineage’s storied past—ancient texts referencing other dragon shifter clans, including the enigmatic Drachenstein clan, medieval tapestries depicting fierce warriors with our family crests, paintings of my ancestors, including the formidable Lord Willem van Draken. In one wing, our family’s more recent history unfolded through displays about my grandfather’s business empire and philanthropy.
I lingered in that modern wing, gazing up at photos of my parents cutting ribbons at various grand openings and charity balls, forever immortalized in their youth and idealism before tragedy struck. Bittersweet nostalgia overwhelmed me, there in that quiet gallery housing remnants of the dynasty I was born into but which still feels alien, like glancing at strangers wearing familiar faces.
As I stroll along the serene banks of the Seine, streetlights casting wavering reflections on the inky water, I can’t help but reflect on that history. Our clan first came to the City of Lights centuries ago upon the marriage of Dutch dragon shifter Willem Draken to the renowned French enchantress, Juliette Deveraux.
In the greatest time of turmoil for our kind, their union brought together two powerful magical bloodlines and sealed our family’s ties to Paris. Though our noble ancestry now feels distant to me, this city has been Draken home ever since. I was but a boy when I last laid eyes on its aesthetic streets and ancient buildings wearing the marks of time with dignity.
Much has changed in the intervening years, for both the Drakens and me. Yet in the evening’s soft hush, I feel the strands of the past whispering to me, reminding me that I still belong, if only I dare to reach out and grasp them. This place holds the missing fragments of myself, if I can find the will to seek them out and make myself whole once more.
And yet, the artifacts of my ancestors’ towering legacies only sharpen my sense of inadequacy, the enormity of their shadows in which I languish. I am the scion of a revered lineage, yet I have built nothing that could be placed in a museum wing carrying my name.
Alpha or not, the burden of a legacy rests upon the shoulders of its heirs. As I ponder this heavy responsibility, my thoughts turn unbidden to passionate maroon eyes—framed by long, dark lashes fluttering in blissful rapture. Is it possible that one day I will find a woman who ignites my soul as fiercely? A love that could rival the enduring legacies of my ancestors? For now, she remains a tantalizing phantom, teasing my imagination with promises of a future beyond measure.
The more I think about the alluring stranger from last night, the more it haunts me that I may never see her again. Fuck. The thought leaves an ache in my chest. In a sprawling city like Paris, the odds of us crossing paths again feel vanishingly small.
I should have acted before we parted ways, taken some leap into the unknown. But what was I supposed to say—“Thanks for the mind-blowing experience, let’s do it again soon?” No, I couldn’t be so crass with her. I curse myself as a fool, afraid to grasp what I desired in the moment. And she didn’t offer her number either, so I’m not alone in my hesitation…
Sam.That’s what her friend called her when she cut short our tryst. An incomplete fragment. But now that name is emblazoned in my mind, seared into my very soul. I turn it over and over, savoring the way it feels on my tongue, the way it echoes in my heart.
Sam. Short and sweet, a name that suits her perfectly. But what could it be short for? Samantha, perhaps? Or maybe something more unique, like Samira or Sammia?
I lift my gaze and take in the daunting silhouette of Draken Manor against the clear moonlit sky. A clash of emotions stirs within me at the sight. The house stands cold and lifeless now, yet hints of the warmth it used to hold still remain.
I’ve been away long enough that the old traditions feel distant, like childhood toys packed safely in the attic. But I cling to a few cherished memories—the spiced aroma of burning Yule logs, dancing wildly around Beltane bonfires, feeling unfettered joy and belonging.
I climb the manor steps, hands buried in my pockets against the damp chill. Wisps of white mist sail from my lips as I exhale. The night air bites sharply—Samhain is here. The wind howls with unseen spirits. Not the most promising omen.
Inside, I find the foyer crowded with at least a dozen strangers whose voices echo loudly off the marble floors. Who the hell are these people? Before I can inquire, the studio doors violently burst open.
