It was misty again. It rolled into the foothills like waves, flowing around the taller rocks and swallowing the forest. Drusilla sat on the balcony of her mountain estate, safely hidden from the sun, weak though it was, by an awning of beautiful red silk. Small ribbons embroidered with goldwork vines and roses dangled from it, moving ever so slightly in the breeze and catching the sun. Drusilla wasn’t watching the ribbons, though, nor was she watching the birds that circled and flew between the lower peak. On days like these, she simply watched the mists play through the valley, reminiscing of bygone days. Of the one she had lost. Sometimes, when the mist swirled just right, she thought she could see a familiar silhouette dancing through its cool embrace. Sometimes, when that happened, she could swear that she heard the sound of her laugh.

  A gentle knock against stone brought Drusilla out of her memories. Beatrice, her head maid, stood in the doorway with her usual patient little smile. The woman had once been a nun for the Church of Luminance, and she still wore the vestments of her previous life. Maybe it was her mood, but Drusilla couldn’t help but to think of the woman as she had once been, with lustrous brown hair and warm, tan skin. Now, though? Beatrice’s skin was a sickly shade of blue, her eyes burned purple, and that hair was white like snow. Drusilla missed Beatrice’s old eyes the most. They had been green like spring, full of life and laughter.

  “Lady Sebastiane?”

  Drusilla blinked, nodded, and raised her goblet to sip from it. When she realised it was empty, she sighed, and placed it on her side table while clearing her throat, trying not to let her reverie show.

  “Yes, Beatrice?”

  “There are two matters,” Beatrice began, gracefully stepping out on the balcony. She side-eyed the way the sun played across the balustrade, a set of complex emotions playing across her face. Drusilla pretended not to notice the delay; she knew Beatrice was still coming to terms with things.

  “Firstly, the Dunley raid has-”

  “Expedition, Beatrice,” Drusilla reminded her.

  “Yes, my Lady. The Dunley expedition has returned safely, carrying plenty of cotton for the looms. We stand ready to outfit your servants in better armour soon.”

  “Excellent. Gift Lenora and Vitrisa a bottle of merlot from my personal collection, as a token of my gratitude.”

  “Of course,” Beatrice nodded. Then she hesitated. “As for the second matter… we have a visitor, come to see you. A servant belonging to Lord Augustian, who insisted on accompanying the expedition back home.”

  “Ah,” Drusilla sighed, suddenly understanding her head maid’s reluctance. “What does he want this time? Another hunting permit?”

  “I don’t know, my Lady. The servant refuses to see anyone but yourself. Lenora is sure the man is plotting to assassinate you.”

  “And Vitrisa?”

  “Vitrisa went straight to her coffin, my Lady. Should we wake her?”

  “No, let the girl sleep,” Drusilla said, waving one hand dismissively. “Very well, send him in.”

  “Is it… are you sure, my Lady?” Beatrice asked, a twinge of genuine concern in her voice. It was enough to make Drusilla smile as she stood up. Walking over, she took her head maid’s hands between her own, squeezing. Drusilla was the taller of the two, but somehow she felt small when around Beatrice.

  “I am sure, yes. How could I protect you all if I were unable to protect myself? Send him in, and return to your duties. I will ring the bell if I need you.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Beatrice nodded, smiling ever so softly. Had she been able to, Drusilla imagined the woman would have blushed. Beatrice had always had a deep, wonderful blush.

  “Now go,” Drusilla said, returning the woman’s smile and squeezing her hands before letting go. As Beatrice left, Drusilla turned to watch the mists once more. Focusing her magic, her weapon of choice materialised on her hip; a slender sword, its swept basket hilt shaped like slender vines of gold and its scabbard clad in a deep red velvet that matched her gown. Lacking a belt, it instead tied itself to subtle loops in the fabric of the gown itself. Drusilla’s left hand instinctively came to rest over the ruby pommel, and soon enough her right hand rested over the left. The blade comforted her, in a way that wasn’t proper. Not for a noblewoman of her calibre, at least.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, she quickly removed her hands, and instead smoothed her bodice. Then, on a whim, she held her hand out into the sun. The pain started immediately, a deep, aching warmth that pooled in her palm before radiating out along her fingers and up her arm. Her skin, white like fair porcelain, began to feel dry and painful, ready to crack if she so much as bent a finger. The ache grew, and grew, and grew, until any sense of the sun’s warmth was overpowered by a red-hot agony that sent searing lances of pain up into her shoulder.

  “Lady Sebastiane?!”

  Beatrice’s shocked cry caused Drusilla to pull her hand back into the shade. As bad as it had hurt, the limb remained outwardly untouched apart from wisps of grey smoke. Drusilla could feel the lingering interior burns, though. Her blood pulsed and surged at her command, swiftly reforming capillaries and healing her wounds. When she turned around, hand still smoking, she saw that Beatrice had brought the envoy, one of Lord Augustian’s thralls. If he was shocked by Drusilla’s stunt, he didn’t show it.

  “Lady Sebastiane, what an honour it is to meet you,” the man said, bowing low in the courtly manner. His voice was deep and smooth, if perhaps a bit too smooth. “My name is Harlan, and I have the honour of speaking for my Lord Augustian of the Reconquest. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

  “Of course,” Drusilla muttered. “Come, join me on the balcony. The mists are playing today.”

  “The… mists?” Harlan responded, momentarily caught off guard. He quickly gathered his wits, stepping out to join her with an easy smile - though he remained near the door, far away from where the awning’s protection stopped. “I am honoured you would invite me.”

  Drusilla waved her hand, and the carved balcony doors shut behind him. Beatrice’s worried face was the last thing Drusilla saw before they closed, after which she turned her attention to the envoy. Harlan was a well-built young man, his white hair artfully rough and his skin a corpse-like green. Like all vampiric servants his eyes burned with purple flame, and his noble outfit, slick and crisp with a gem-pinned cravat, matched his eyes.

  “I am sure you must be most busy,” Harlan began, his words flowing with practiced ease. “So let us proceed straight to business. My Lord is, as ever, your steadfast admirer, and wishes to extend an invitation to join him at his estate to discuss a more permanent alliance.”

  “An alliance?” Drusilla asked, sitting down in her recliner. “Is that what he calls it now? I have no interest in his advances, and he knows it. If Lord Augustian wishes for a bride, he will have to look elsewhere.”

  Harlan’s smile grew tense, and then began to falter. “My Lady, you must understand, Lord Augustian is a suitor without compare. The Reconquest proceeds with speed, and it will not be long before he controls all of the Dunley area. My Lord will soon take up the crown that Dracula left behind, and you could stand at his side!”

  “Oh, I fully understand the man’s ambitions, and I want no part of them; not as an ally, nor as a bride. Especially not as a bride. You may leave now, Servant. Inform your master that I am done with his games.”

  “Alas, it hurts my soul to see love go unanswered,” Harlan sighed, his smile replaced by a poor attempt at pity. “I will deliver your response to my Lord, but first-”

  Harlan drew a hidden pistol, aiming and firing in a single smooth motion. Drusilla barely managed to conjure a shield in time; the bullet struck a field of roiling purple-pink energy, a gentle ripple spreading around the impact as it sunk into nothing. Then she thrust her left hand forward, and the field folded into a lance of fire that shot forward. Harlan sidestepped the attack at the last moment, the spell leaving a jagged cut in his waistcoat that smouldered with pink embers. His expression shifted from surprise to anger to fear and then settled on pure, bestial rage, fangs showing as he snarled.

  “How dare you deny Lord Augustian! Just die!” he screamed, raising his gun to fire once more - but just as he did so the balcony doors slammed open. The bullet managed to penetrate one of the heavy oak doors but not the other, lodging itself in the wood.

  “My Lady!” Lenora shouted, bursting through and coming to a skidding halt in front of Drusilla. Her massive shield was already raised to intercept any further shots, while her mace - shaped like the Church of Luminance’s holy symbol - already glowed golden-hot with holy energy.

  “Are you hurt?” Beatrice asked as she arrived a moment later, slipping in between Lenora and Drusilla. She held her staff in one hand, a mote of light flickering like a candle in her free palm. Drusilla shook her head.

  “I am quite alright, thank you. Lenora? Take out the trash.”

  “Yes, my Lady!” Lenora responded, thrusting her mace forward; the golden energy surrounding it shot forward in a glowing orb, but once more Harlan dodged to the side. Lenora burst forward, building up holy energy during her dash, and slammed her shield into him as he tried to recover. With a thunderclap Lenora unleashed her light through the shield, a shockwave that sent Harlan careening off the balcony with a scream. As he fell through the air the sun burned him, until nothing but ash and scraps of cloth came to rest on the rocks below. Lenora kept an eye on him, but made sure to keep away from the sun; though her skin was more human than that of most thralls, merely sickly pale, she was still a vampiric servant.

  “My Lady!” Lenora said, whirling around. Drusilla could see how upset she was, worry and fear fighting with relief across her youthful face. “My Lady, please don’t act so hastily! You could have been hurt, o-or worse!”

  “I know, Lenora, I know,” Drusilla said, placatingly raising her hands. “But I had to know. If I had asked for your presence, Harlan might not have gone through with the attempt on my life. Now that we are certain of Augustian’s attention… Beatrice?”

  “Yes, my Lady?”

  “Gather our forces as they return from their expeditions. Augustian will have felt the demise of his servant, and the time to prepare is short. Lenora, fetch Vitrisa. I need you to look into the garden for me, and then we will rendezvous by the iron mine. We will punish Augustian for his misstep while Beatrice safeguards our lands. Understood?”

  “Yes, my Lady! We will leave at once!” Lenora clicked her heels together and stood at attention before hurrying off to fetch her partner. Beatrice, meanwhile, sighed and leaned on her staff.

  “My Lady, the garden…”

  “She will come there,” Drusilla insisted, her gaze drifting over to the mists. “She will.”

  Beatrice watched her for a moment, her expression that of a mother unwilling to shatter her daughter’s hope. She reached out a cold hand to stroke Drusilla’s hair, tucking a strand of raven hair behind one pointed ear.

  “If you believe in her, my Lady, then so shall I,” Beatrice said, her thumb rubbing Drusilla’s cheek. “But it has been so very long… longer than I have served you. Much longer. How are you so sure?”

  Drusilla took a deep breath, as if pushing back tears she would never again cry, before leaning into Beatrice’s palm and letting it out.

  “Because I love her, Beatrice.”