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Prince of Prophecy
The Taste of Blood

The Taste of Blood

— 156 Years Previously —

“Drink.”

The command, deep and sonorous, echoed through the dimly lit hall. A golden goblet, ornate and gleaming faintly in the candlelight, was extended toward the girl.

She hesitated, her rosy pink braid shifting as she reached out with trembling hands. Her pale fingers curled around the chilled metal. The contents of the goblet swirled darkly—an ominous crimson, thick and foreign. She tipped it to her lips, and the foul liquid coated her tongue, bitter and metallic. Immediately, she recoiled, coughing violently as the fluid burned its way down her throat. Her stomach churned, and she gagged, her body rejecting the unnatural substance.

“Pathetic.” The voice grew colder, slicing through her weak protests. “I said drink.” The man loomed before her, a figure of stark contrast: his black hair cascaded past his waist, blending seamlessly into the layers of dark fabric draped over his wiry frame. His alabaster skin seemed carved from marble, and his eyes were voids of black, unyielding as the night sky above Zilah’s endless forests.

The girl’s hands shook violently as she raised the goblet once more. Tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes as she forced the rest of the liquid down, swallowing against the rising bile. Her throat burned, and she coughed again, staining her white teeth with streaks of red.

The man’s lips curved into a thin smile as he observed her. “Do you know why you are here?”

She shook her head, averting her gaze.

His hand moved swiftly, slender fingers curling beneath her chin and tilting her face upward. “You died,” he said simply, his tone dripping with cruel amusement. “Well… you were murdered. But it’s all the same, really.”

Her green eyes widened in shock. Fragments of memory clawed their way to the surface of her mind—images she couldn’t fully grasp but instinctively feared. She looked down at herself. Her body was clothed in a tattered dress, white fabric faded and smeared with dirt and blood. The dress clung to her small frame, gaping in places where the material had been torn and crudely repaired.

Her skin was unmarred but riddled with scars, deep and jagged, remnants of wounds that should have killed her.

“What happened to me?” she croaked, her voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

“You died,” the man said, crouching before her with unnerving stillness. “Your heart stopped. You were butchered like an animal and left to rot. But I found you, little corpse, and I gave you a choice: rot… or rise.” His lips curved, baring sharp fangs. “And you rose.”

Her emerald eyes widened. She scrambled back, her bare foot slipping against the slick stone. “No. This—this isn’t real. I—I’m not…”

“You’re not human anymore,” he finished, his smirk growing. “You drank my blood, and it flows in your veins now. In two days, your body will transform. If you’re smart, you’ll thank me.”

Tears streamed down Delilah’s face as his words settled into her mind. Memories clawed their way back—shouting, pain, knives piercing her skin again and again. Her parents screamed that she was an abomination before leaving her for dead. The alley. The men.

A wave of nausea crashed over her. Tears streaked her dirt-smeared cheeks as the weight of his words sank in.

“You’re lucky I found you,” he continued, turning his back to her. “When a person dies, there’s a small window before their soul departs. If you drink the blood of a vampire during that time, you return—like this.”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!” she screamed, stumbling to her feet. Her balance wavered; she toppled to the ground as the absence of her right leg betrayed her.

“I saved you.” His voice was calm, almost bored, as he crouched beside her trembling form. “You’ll keep ageing until your first kill. I’d suggest waiting until you’re older. An eternity as a 14-year-old would be… unfortunate.”

“Who… who are you?” she whispered, shrinking away.

The man grinned, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs. “Orpheus,” he said, his name rolling off his tongue like a venomous promise. “King of Zilah.”

Her breath hitched. Orpheus—the name was infamous, spoken in hushed tones in the shadows of every town and village.

“Why?” she choked out. “Why did you do this to me?”

“I have many reasons,” he said, rising to his full height, his slender frame draped in layers of black fabric. “I need sharp teeth in my service, and you, girl, have shown me potential. You fought back even when you were weak and doomed. That is rare. That is useful.”

“Useful for what?” Delilah spat, her voice trembling but defiant.

“To become something better. A predator, not prey,” he said, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. “You will be trained. Moulded. You will serve me as one of my assassins, a dagger in the dark.”

“I don’t want to!” Delilah shouted, her voice cracking. She tried to rise but stumbled, her balance faltering.

“Oh, but you owe me, Deelie.” His voice dipped, sharp and venomous. “My blood sustains you. Without me, you are nothing but a corpse. You are mine.”

She froze, the weight of his words sinking into her chest like a stone. Her hands balled into fists, but the fear in her heart kept her still.

“Take her to the servants,” Orpheus said over his shoulder, his tone dismissive as if she were a chore to be managed. “Feed her. Clothe her. Train her. When she stops trembling, bring her back to me.”

Two silent figures stepped out of the shadows, their movements smooth and soundless as they approached. Their hands gripped her arms, dragging her from the hall as she struggled weakly.

“Let me go!” she screamed, her voice echoing against the stone walls.

Orpheus chuckled, the sound low and cruel. “You’ll thank me one day, Deelie. You’ll see.”

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An indeterminate amount of time passed before Delilah’s eyes fluttered open. She lay nestled in layers upon layers of blankets and pillows, sinking into the soft, luxurious bed beneath her. The room around her was what she’d imagined royalty might sleep in: towering walls draped in heavy, silken curtains, an ornate chandelier overhead casting soft golden light, and a vanity adorned with gilded edges.

This must be the castle, she thought bitterly, her memory rushing back to her encounter with the King of Zilah. Delilah sighed and swung her left leg over the edge of the bed, but a heavy tug at her right thigh gave her pause.

Her breath caught as she pulled the blankets away.

The limb she had lived without for years was now replaced by an ornate prosthetic of polished bronze, its design as mesmerising as it was functional. At the back of the knee, a gleaming green crystal caught the chandelier’s light, casting faint reflections across the room. Intricate carvings adorned the metal, swirling into elegant, delicate patterns. The foot tapered into a graceful heel, cleverly designed to collapse flat—a detail that struck her as equal parts ridiculous and impractical.

She sat frozen, stunned by the craftsmanship. Her fingers traced the metal, feeling its cold strength. Testing it, she tugged at the prosthetic, but it didn’t budge. It was affixed to her as if it had always been part of her. Taking a deep breath, she shifted her weight forward and carefully stood.

She wobbled for a moment, her balance unfamiliar, but with a few tentative steps, she was walking. Her heart thudded as she made her way around the room. Five years of stumbling and struggling with a crutch, and now…

Her gaze fell on the black heel sitting neatly on a nearby table, tied with a long pink ribbon. The sight was almost laughable. She slipped it on, finding it a perfect fit. With the heel balancing her prosthetic, she walked more easily, each step more confident than the last.

Dressed in a thin robe, Delilah padded to the adjoining bathroom. The grandeur of it was almost overwhelming—gleaming marble tiles, a clawfoot tub, shelves of neatly arranged bottles. She rummaged through the cupboards, finding shampoos and body washes. A wave of relief washed over her as she turned the tap, hot water gushing into the tub.

Though her skin had already been scrubbed clean—no doubt by someone else while she was unconscious—she couldn’t shake the feeling of intrusion. Climbing into the bath, she sank beneath the bubbling water and scrubbed herself with ferocity as though trying to erase every handprint left on her body.

“Miss Dagon?”

The sudden voice startled her. Delilah tensed, sinking deeper into the bubbles. “I’m just in here,” she called hesitantly, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. “I’ll be out in a—”

The door creaked open, cutting her off.

A tall, slender woman entered, her dark skin flawless, her long braids neat and immaculate. Her eyes were concealed by a pale bandage wrapped tightly around her head. Delilah relaxed slightly, realising the woman couldn’t see her.

“Or… just walk in, then,” Delilah muttered, leaning back into the bath.

The woman set a towel and a long pink dress on the counter. “You will be joining My Lord for dinner. Please get ready soon.” Her voice was soft yet commanding, her smile unnervingly calm.

“What’s your name?” Delilah asked.

“Aster Kamaria. I’ll be assisting you from now on.” Aster’s smile widened briefly before she turned and left, her footsteps light on the stone floor.

Delilah lingered in the bath, her mind churning. She didn’t want to meet the King again, didn’t want to sit at a table with him and pretend she wasn’t terrified. But what choice did she have? Sighing, she climbed out and wrapped herself in the towel, drying off before slipping into the pink dress.

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As she dressed, her gaze fell on the tall mirror by the sink. Curiosity overtook her hesitation, and she stepped closer, peering at her reflection.

Her green eyes widened in horror.

Scars crisscrossed her torso, arms, and legs—jagged lines and puckered skin marking every place she’d been stabbed. The wounds that had killed her had left their imprint, a permanent reminder of her death.

Delilah turned away quickly, focusing instead on finishing her dress. The fabric hugged her figure, covering the scars, though she could still feel them beneath.

When she stepped back into the bedroom, Aster was waiting patiently. The woman gestured for Delilah to sit at the vanity. She obeyed, and Aster began brushing her long pink hair with a silver comb.

“Forgive me for asking,” Delilah began hesitantly, “but are you blind?”

“I am,” Aster replied, not missing a beat. “I lost my eyes as a child, so they couldn’t regenerate. As someone born a vampire, we can age and develop scars or disabilities until our first kill—just like you. But we drink blood from the start, not milk.”

“How can you see what you’re doing?”

“I can’t see,” Aster corrected with a smile. “I sense. Losing one sense strengthens the others. I can navigate easily, and tasks like this are muscle memory.”

Delilah fell silent, watching as Aster plaited her hair into an elegant half-up style. After a moment, she asked softly, “Can I ask how old you are?”

“No.” Aster’s smile didn’t waver, but she offered no further response. She stepped back, bowed slightly, and left the room.

Delilah stared at her reflection, unrecognisable yet eerily familiar. Her skin was flawless now—no dirt, no bruises, no hollow shadows under her eyes. Her bright green gaze caught the flickering candlelight, shining with unnatural vibrancy. She tried to smile, but her fangs glinted in the mirror, sending a shiver through her.

Tearing herself away, she left the room, unwilling to look at herself any longer.

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The halls of the palace were shrouded in an oppressive darkness and an icy chill that seemed to cling to every corner. It wasn’t surprising, but the sheer depth of the cold and gloom exceeded anything Delilah had imagined. As she walked, the candles along the walls flared to life, their golden light chasing her steps as if acknowledging her presence. She passed door after door, each one closed and uninviting until the corridor abruptly ended in front of a set of heavy, intricately carved wooden doors.

With no other path to take, Delilah hesitated, then gripped the handle and pushed it open. Beyond was a spiralling staircase descending deep into the earth. She plucked a candle from its sconce, its flame wavering slightly as she started down the seemingly endless staircase. The air grew colder with each step, the flickering light casting long shadows on the damp stone walls. When she finally reached the bottom, she found another door, its iron handle cold against her palm. She pushed it open and stepped into yet another corridor.

Frustration bubbled inside her as she traversed one identical hallway after another, each ending with another staircase or another door. The pattern repeated—door, staircase, corridor, door—until her patience thinned into anger. Her steps became heavier, her grip on the candle tighter, as she threw open yet another random door in the endless maze.

A cold hand seized her wrist.

She froze. Another hand slid around her chin, tilting her head upward to expose her throat. Warm breath ghosted against her skin, and a low voice, smooth and predatory, whispered near her ear.

“You really shouldn’t wander around all alone, Deelie,” King Orpheus murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. “I’ve been waiting so patiently for you.”

“I— I’m sorry,” Delilah stammered, her throat dry as her pulse raced, though her heart no longer beat.

“Come.”

Without another word, he released her and began striding down the corridor. His movements were graceful and deliberate; his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Delilah hurried to keep up, her smaller steps nearly breaking into a jog to match his pace. They reached another set of double doors, which Orpheus opened with a wave of his hand.

The dining room assaulted her senses before she fully stepped inside. The aromas of roasted meats, spiced vegetables, ripe fruits, and decadent desserts flooded her nostrils. The grand table stretched the length of the room, and each dish was presented with perfect precision. Her surprise must have shown as Orpheus let out a low chuckle.

“You don’t seriously think we eat people, do you?” he asked a hint of mockery in his tone.

Delilah flinched, embarrassed but unwilling to answer.

“Vampires eat real food,” he continued, easing into his chair and gesturing for her to sit beside him. “We don’t need it, strictly speaking, but we enjoy it. Blood keeps us alive; food keeps us… living.”

Delilah sat hesitantly, her gaze lingering on the plates that materialised before her. Piles of warm, inviting food and a single goblet of dark red liquid waited. She ignored the goblet, diving hungrily into the meal. Each bite was a revelation—flavours she hadn’t tasted in years, textures she barely remembered. After surviving on scraps and starvation for so long, this was pure indulgence.

Orpheus watched her, his sharp etiquette contrasting with her ravenous appetite, though he showed no sign of disapproval. Finally, he tilted his goblet toward her.

“Come now, Deelie,” he said, the nickname grating in its familiarity. “You must drink. I can’t have you dying on me so soon.”

Delilah bristled but reluctantly reached for the goblet. The dark liquid swirled ominously, its scent rich and metallic. She hesitated, nausea churning in her stomach, but she forced herself to take a sip.

The taste was unlike anything she’d expected—sweet, warm, intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savoured it, her body responding to the blood in ways she couldn’t understand. She drank deeply, draining the goblet without pause, her earlier reluctance forgotten. When she placed it down, she saw Orpheus watching her, his head propped on interlaced fingers, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he asked.

Delilah nodded mutely and returned to her meal, but nothing compared to the taste of the blood.

Once the meal was finished, Orpheus escorted her back to her chambers. His hand hovered just above her back, a silent warning that she was under his watchful eye. When they reached her door, he stopped.

“Don’t try to leave,” he said softly, his tone as smooth as silk yet heavy with menace. With that, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.

Delilah tested the door handle as soon as it clicked shut. Locked, as she’d expected. She sighed, defeated, and turned her attention to the windows, but they, too, offered no escape. Finally, she changed into a pair of silk pyjamas and ran her fingers through her hair, undoing the carefully styled locks until her pink strands fell loose around her shoulders.

Climbing into the plush bed, she stared at the stark white ceiling, the events of the day swirling chaotically in her mind. Fear, exhaustion, and confusion tangled together until they pulled her into a restless sleep.

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— 4 Years Later —

“Again,” Orpheus demanded, his voice like steel cutting through the training hall.

Delilah lunged forward, her twin daggers gleaming in the low light. She aimed for his chest, but he sidestepped easily, catching her wrist and twisting. She yelped as her blade clattered to the ground, his foot sweeping beneath her legs and sending her sprawling.

“Pathetic,” he said for the third time that morning.

Delilah hissed through clenched teeth, rolling to her feet. Her bronze prosthetic glinted under the moonlight, streaming through the high windows. “Maybe if you didn’t fight like a snake, I’d have half a chance!”

“Excuses won’t save you in battle,” Orpheus said coolly, circling her like a predator stalking its prey. “Your enemies won’t hesitate to kill you. They won’t give you second chances.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t need second chances if my lord taught me instead of using me for target practice!” she snapped.

Orpheus paused, his lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful, Deelie,” he murmured, stepping closer. “You’re not indispensable yet.”

Delilah bristled, her grip tightening on her remaining dagger. She hated him, hated the way he looked at her like she was a tool. But deep down, she hated herself more for needing him—for the way his blood kept her alive, for the power it gave her.

“I’m done,” he said suddenly, tossing his sword onto the rack with a metallic clang. “Go clean yourself up. We’re celebrating tonight.”

“Celebrating what?” she asked, suspicion lacing her voice.

“You’re eighteen,” he said, his smirk returning. “Old enough to make your first kill.”

Her blood ran cold.

“I’ve picked a target for you,” Orpheus continued his voice calm but laced with malice. “A gift. A chance to tie up loose ends.”

“What are you talking about?” Delilah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Your parents,” he said simply.

Her heart stopped.

“Tomorrow, you’ll go to them,” he said, stepping closer until his breath brushed against her ear. “And you’ll finish what they started. No hesitation. No mercy. Do you understand?”

Delilah’s throat tightened as she met his dark gaze. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to refuse. But deep down, she knew he wouldn’t let her.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

Orpheus’s smirk deepened as he stepped back, his towering frame casting long shadows in the dim light of the hall. “Go now,” he said, waving her away like she was nothing more than a servant. “Rest. You’ll need your strength.”

Delilah didn’t move at first, her legs frozen beneath her. The weight of his command sank into her chest, suffocating her. She clenched her fists tightly, her nails biting into her palms. Finally, she forced herself to turn, her bronze prosthetic clicking softly against the stone floor as she left the training hall.

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The corridors stretched endlessly before her, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through tall, arched windows. Her footsteps echoed in the silence, but her mind was louder than the halls around her.

Her parents. Their faces flooded her memory like a tidal wave, blurry but filled with the unmistakable sting of betrayal. The screams. The knives. The cold, unrelenting hatred in their eyes as they abandoned her left her broken and bleeding in the street. And now, Orpheus wanted her to kill them.

Her heart ached with confusion. Could she do it? After all they had done to her—after they had stolen her childhood, her limb, and left her for dead—could she take their lives in return? She felt the familiar sting of tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to cry. Not here. Not where his eyes might be watching.

When she reached her chambers, the sight of the pristine, ornate room felt like mockery. The soft silks, the gilded edges, the pink tones—all of it felt so wrong. She wanted to tear it apart, to scream, to claw at the perfect walls until they crumbled around her. Instead, she stood in the centre of the room, staring at the untouched bed and the vanity’s glinting mirror.

Her reflection stared back, her green eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. The scars on her neck and arms were partially hidden by her training tunic, but she could still feel them, like whispers of the past etched into her skin. Her prosthetic caught the light, its intricate carvings mocking her with their beauty.

She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, her head falling into her hands. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from anger. Orpheus had taken her, moulded her, trained her, and now he wanted to push her over the final edge. He wanted her to become something unrecognisable, something she wasn’t sure she could stomach.

“Delilah?”

The voice startled her, soft and hesitant, coming from the doorway. She looked up sharply, her hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at her side.

It was Aster.

The blind woman stepped cautiously into the room, her head tilting slightly as though she could sense Delilah’s turmoil. “Are you alright?” she asked her voice calm, measured.

Delilah let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “No,” she muttered. “Not even close.”

Aster moved closer, her movements fluid and precise despite her lack of sight. She perched lightly on the arm of a nearby chair, her bandaged eyes turned toward Delilah. “The King gave you your task, didn’t he?”

Delilah’s head snapped up. “How do you know that?”

“I know him,” Aster said simply. “And I know what he expects from you.”

Delilah stared at her, the weight of her anger and confusion bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “He wants me to kill them,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My parents.”

Aster’s expression didn’t change, but her head tilted slightly. “Do you want to?”

Delilah froze, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. Did she want to? The thought of her parents—of their betrayal, their cruelty, their hate-filled her with rage. But beneath the rage was something else. Pain. Doubt. Fear.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally, her voice cracking. “They deserve it. After everything they did to me, they deserve it. But…”

“But?” Aster prompted gently.

Delilah’s hands clenched into fists. “But if I do it, I’ll be exactly what he wants me to be. A killer. His weapon.”

Aster was silent for a long moment, her bandaged gaze fixed on Delilah. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but firm. “Your choices are your own, Delilah. Not his. Whatever you do, make sure it’s what you want—not what he’s forced you into.”

Delilah stared at her, the words sinking into her mind like stones. Aster stood gracefully, her footsteps light as she made her way to the door. “Rest tonight,” she said. “Tomorrow will come whether you’re ready or not.”

The door closed softly behind her, leaving Delilah alone with her thoughts. She lay back on the bed, staring up at the canopy above her. Her mind raced, the storm of emotions refusing to settle.

Her parents’ faces haunted her, their hatred etched into her memory. Orpheus’s voice echoed in her ears, cruel and commanding. Aster’s words lingered, a quiet reminder that she still had a choice.

But as the hours ticked by and sleep evaded her, one thought repeated itself over and over.

Tomorrow, everything will change. One way or another.

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