Morte Tiel Mortdevori

Damien Nevermore, The Vampire King

The return trip was a silent affair. Regret hung heavy in the air, a thick fog muffling any attempts at conversation. I dismounted the horse first, leading her by the reins as I guided her back to a slower trot. Isabella remained perched awkwardly on the mare's back, her body stiff with a tension that mirrored the awkward silence between us.

Hindsight, as they say, is a cruel mistress. This grand escape on horseback, this attempt to offer her a taste of freedom, had backfired spectacularly. The jolt of the gallop, the press of my body against hers – it had all been a colossal mistake.

Isabella. The image of her face, flushed and panicked, flashed in my mind. Shame burned in my throat, acrid and bitter. Even after assuring her the ba……