POV Natalie
Someone drops clothes outside my cell at dawn. Black dress, because apparently even vampire trials have a dress code. The fabric’s nice—silk that probably costs more than most people’s rent—but it feels like funeral attire.
Which, considering what’s about to happen, is probably appropriate.
The dress fits perfectly, which is either impressive attention to detail or deeply creepy. Probably both. Someone measured me while I was unconscious, or they’ve been keeping tabs on my body measurements for years. Neither option is particularly comforting.
I stare at myself in the small mirror they’ve provided—the first time I’ve seen my reflection in days. I look like death warmed over. Dark circles under my eyes, skin pale even by vampire standards, hair that’s given up all pretense of cooperation. The fancy dress doesn’t hide the fact that I look like I’ve been dragged through hell backwards.
Perfect look for a treason trial.
The walk to the council chamber feels like a death march. Stone corridors that I’ve walked a thousand times suddenly feel foreign, hostile. Every shadow seems to whisper accusations, every echo of my footsteps sounds like a countdown to my destruction.
Guards flanking me like I’m some kind of dangerous criminal instead of a vampire who fell in love with the wrong species. They’re not the usual friendly faces either—these are the stone-faced enforcers who get called in when someone needs to disappear quietly.
The corridor stretches endlessly ahead, lined with portraits of ancient vampires who probably never questioned a single rule in their entire undead existence. Their painted eyes seem to follow my progress, judging every step I take toward what might be my final performance.
The chamber doors are massive—carved oak that’s probably older than most countries. They swing open with the kind of dramatic flair that vampire architecture is famous for, revealing a room full of ancient bloodsuckers who’ve already decided I’m guilty.
Perfect.
The council sits in a semicircle, elevated on a platform that’s designed to make defendants feel small and insignificant. Lira’s in the center, looking like a queen about to pass judgment on a peasant who forgot to bow. Her expression is carved from ice, all sharp angles and cold calculation.
The other council members look like they stepped out of a Victorian nightmare—pale skin, dark clothing, the kind of timeless beauty that comes from centuries of never having to worry about mortgage payments or student loans. They sit with perfect posture, hands folded, the picture of supernatural judgment.
The gallery is packed. Vampires from every family, every bloodline, all here to watch the Nightshade heir get destroyed for the entertainment value. It’s like a gladiator match, except instead of fighting lions, I’m fighting decades of ingrained prejudice and species hatred.
I recognize faces in the crowd—vampires I’ve known since childhood, people who used to smile at me at family gatherings, now looking at me like I’m something they scraped off their shoe. The shift in their expressions is almost impressive in its completeness.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd as I walk to the defendant’s podium.
“Look at her.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Fell in love with a dog.”
“Betrayed everything we stand for.”
“Should have been exile from the start.”
“Nightshade blood runs weak these days.”
I keep my chin up, eyes forward. Let them whisper. Let them judge. I know what I did, and I’d do it again. Every single choice, every moment of happiness, every second of feeling like I was finally living instead of just existing.
“Natalie Nightshade,” Lira’s voice cuts through the chatter like a blade. “You stand accused of treason against your own kind. Of consorting with enemies. Of placing personal desires above the welfare of your coven.”
The formal language sounds ridiculous when what they’re really saying is: “You fell in love with someone we don’t approve of.”
“How do you plead?”
I look out at the sea of faces. Ancient vampires who’ve never questioned anything, never risked anything, never felt anything real enough to threaten their comfortable existence. They sit in their perfect rows, waiting for me to grovel, to beg forgiveness, to promise I’ll be a good little vampire who follows all the rules.
“I plead truth,” I say, and my voice carries across the chamber with more strength than I expected.
“Truth?” Lira’s eyebrow arches. “An interesting plea. Perhaps you’d like to elaborate.”
“The truth is that Björn Bloodfang has been playing both our species for fifty years. He’s the one behind the wars, the massacres, the endless cycle of violence that’s kept vampires and werewolves killing each other.”
The chamber erupts. Voices raised in disbelief, anger, confusion.
“Impossible!”
“Blasphemy!”
“Lies to save her own skin!”
“The truth,” I continue, voice getting louder, “is that he’s murdered four wives as sacrifices to gain power. The truth is that he orchestrated the summit massacre to make sure peace was impossible.”
“These are serious accusations—” someone starts.
“The truth,” I say, cutting them off, “is that werewolves aren’t our enemies. We’ve been manipulated into believing they are by someone who benefits from our mutual destruction.”
The room goes quiet. Dead quiet.
“And the truth,” I finish, looking directly at Lira, “is that the werewolf I was supposed to capture—the one I fell in love with—is the only person who’s ever seen me as more than a disappointment. Who looked at me and saw someone worth saving.”
Silence stretches like a held breath.
Then, from somewhere behind me, a voice cuts through the tension:
“Natalie Nightshade doesn’t deserve to be exiled.”