MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The ballroom transforms in a single, horrifying heartbeat.
The chandeliers do not fall gracefully. They detonate. Crystal shards rain down like deadly snow, and Ivy ducks instinctively, her body reacting faster than thought, instincts screaming that something is profoundly, catastrophically wrong. The candles flicker out in unison, as if snuffed by an invisible hand, plunging the opulent room into a terrifying, echoing darkness. With the darkness comes a sound that will haunt her for the next thirteen loops: the collective gasp of four hundred vampires realizing they are not the apex predators they believed themselves to be, but rather prey.
Shadows do not pool on the polished marble floor. They rupture upward, tearing through the ballroom like living things, moving with purpose and malice. Ivy watches in paralyzed horror as they coalesce into shapes that are almost humanoid, almost comprehensible, before dissolving into screaming darkness. Vampires crumple mid-dance, their bodies locking in place, muscles rigid with an unnatural paralysis that silences their screams. The air fills with the copper tang of fresh blood and something else, something acrid and wrong that burns her lungs with each panicked breath, stinging her nostrils with its metallic bite.
A vampire lord near the orchestra collapses, his mouth open in a silent scream, his face frozen in an expression of absolute terror. Ivy tries to move, but her legs feel like lead, refusing to obey. A phantom pain in her neck flares white-hot, burning with a sensation that is impossible, familiar, and absolutely terrifying. She gasps, clutching at her throat, but her fingers find only smooth, unmarred skin. The chilling memory of a blade cuts through her mind, a premonition of what is to come.
Then she sees Hendery moving through the chaos. He is not paralyzed like the others. He cuts through the shadows with preternatural grace, his form a blur of dark silk and devastating purpose. His obsidian eyes have shifted entirely to crimson, glowing with a light that should terrify her but instead sends a conflicting rush of relief and dread through her chest. For one fractured moment, she forgets she came here to leave him, forgets the cold lies and the carefully constructed distance.
His gaze finds hers across the carnage, a burning beacon in the engulfing gloom. He moves toward her, vampire speed eating up the distance between them. But the shadows are faster. They coalesce in front of him, taking on a more solid form, and Ivy realizes with horror that they are being directed by someone, controlled with deliberate precision, not a random eruption but a targeted strike. The shadows form a blade, a shadow-blade, dark and terrible and impossibly real, shimmering with malevolent energy.
The blade thrusts directly at her heart. Ivy opens her mouth to scream, but no sound emerges. Her throat is suddenly tight, constricted by a fear that feels both new and ancient. She watches the shadow-blade arc toward her as if moving through water, slow and inevitable, a death she cannot escape. This is it. This is the moment her stupid plan to break up with the Vampire King comes to its gruesome, bloody conclusion. A bitter irony washes over her, cold and sharp.
Then Hendery steps in front of her.
The shadow-blade punches through his chest with a wet, tearing sound that will echo in Ivy's ears for eternity. His body convulses once, twice, then goes rigid, his muscles locking in place with the same unnatural paralysis that seized the other vampires. Blood, so much blood, impossibly red and hot, erupts from the wound and soaks the front of his midnight-black suit, a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
“No,” Ivy whispers, the word barely audible in her own ears, a desolate sound lost in the growing chaos.
Hendery’s crimson eyes never leave hers as he collapses. His body crumples to the polished marble floor, and for one fractured moment, the screaming stops. The entire ballroom goes silent, suspended in shock at the sight of their King, their vampire monarch, bleeding out on the elegant stone. His life, so vibrant and formidable moments ago, now spills across the floor, painting a gruesome portrait of mortality.
The shadows surge inward, sensing the opening, a gaping wound in the court’s defenses. More vampires fall. More bodies seize and go rigid, their forms twisting into grotesque statues. The blood-soaked marble becomes a canvas for slaughter, and Ivy realizes with crystalline clarity that she is the only one who understands what is happening, or perhaps the only one still conscious enough to truly care. A chilling solitude settles over her.
She drops to her knees beside Hendery, the fine fabric of her gown brushing against the cold, wet floor. His blood is warm against her skin, soaking through the midnight-blue fabric of her gown and pooling on the floor, a horrifying warmth. She presses her hands against the wound, knowing it is futile, knowing that no amount of pressure can save him from this. His breathing comes in shallow, labored gasps, each one a desperate struggle against the encroaching darkness.
“I am sorry,” she says, tears streaming down her face, blurring the edges of the horrifying scene. “I did not mean for this. I came here to end it, but I did not mean for this to happen. I did not understand what I was losing.”
Hendery’s hand lifts, trembling, and touches her cheek, his fingers cold, already losing the warmth of life. “You were always meant to survive this,” he whispers, his voice fading, becoming a mere breath of sound. “Run, little bird. Fly.”
But Ivy cannot run. Her legs refuse to move, anchored by grief and a sudden, crushing regret.
A figure steps out of the shadows behind her, tall, cloaked, utterly composed. His face is obscured, hidden beneath the cowl of his cloak, but his presence radiates a stark, unfeeling purpose that makes Ivy's blood crystallize in her veins. In one fluid motion, he draws a thin, dark blade from beneath his cloak, its edge glinting faintly in the dying light.
“Goodbye,” he says, his voice gentle and kind and absolutely final, a sound that promises both peace and oblivion.
The blade slides across Ivy’s throat with surgical precision. She feels the sharp bite of steel, the burning heat of her blood spilling down her body in a crimson waterfall, soaking her gown. Her vision blurs at the edges, narrowing to a single point of light where Hendery’s dying gaze meets hers. She tries to speak, tries to apologize, tries to say all the things she should have said before the clock struck midnight, before the world descended into this madness.
But there are no words left. Her eyes close as the darkness claims her for the first time. The phantom scar on her neck screams with one final, definitive pulse of agony. Then there is nothing. No light, no pain, no consciousness. Just the endless void, swallowing her whole.