The Vampire King's Virgin Mistake

Prologue - Author's POV

The first time the Sanguinari appeared was during the early hours of the morning. One could barely call it dawn being that most of the world still slept. It was that that time when the early morning mist had not yet lifted from the hills, and the valleys lay quiet and exposed. This was the hour that they came.

They did not ride in. They did not march. It was like they simply appeared.

The Sanguinari were silent beings. They did not shout or threaten. They did not bargain. They moved with singular purpose. Breaking down doors. Slaughtering whole families.

By the time the first scream was heard, it was already too late.

Nothing stopped them, because nothing could.

Many were drained of blood and left lying where they fell. Others were taken, young women, dragged into the mist, their cries fading as the Vampires disappeared back into the hills. By midday entire villages were gone. Families that once lived on same lands for generations were wiped out in a single morning.

One could not call this war.

There was no chance at a fight. It was simply deliberate destruction.

And it did not end there.

It became a recurring nightmare. Every full moon they came, and before long men began to fear the lunar event. People stopped sleeping through the night. Farms were abandoned. Bells rang with no one left to answer them. With the fear came the realization that they could not fight what was hunting them.

In time, five families met in secret to find a solution, a way to survive.

The Stratfords, Rivenstones, Merryweathers, Grahams and one house whose name has since been erased from history.

They gathered in a ruined barn beyond the village, far from listening ears. The air was thick with dread. Each man knew why he was there before a single word was spoken.

A Sanguinari stood before them, pale and fearsome. How he had been summoned and by whom no one could say. Only that he was there, waiting.

One by one the heads of each of these houses made their pledge.

They would give their virgin firstborn daughters to the Sanguinari.

The girls would serve as blood source and sexual companion. In return, the Sanguinari would spare their families.

It was an agreement born of terror, not honour. Men wept as they spoke their vows.

And at first it seemed to work, a small victory at best.

The attacks stopped. The Sanguinari withdrew into hidden lairs, and the villages were left alone. People began to believe that monsters could be controlled if the price was high enough.

Then the pregnancies began.

Under the full moon, the girls’ bellies swelled. It was discovered that vampires could father children as mortal men did.

The vampires dared to hope.

That hope did not last.

When the time for birth came, nothing went right. Women screamed in pain as their bodies failed them. Every child was stillborn. Every mother died soon after.

There were no exceptions.

Until one woman lived.

A daughter of House Stratford carried her child to term and lived.

A half-blood infant male, small and perfect, was delivered.

It was discovered that before her conception, her father had committed a forbidden act. Desperate to bind his family to the Sanguinari forever, in exchange for wealth power and protection, he had drunk an elixir mixed with a single drop of elder vampire blood.

That single drop changed the Stratford bloodline.

From that day on, it became tradition. Every Stratford son, upon reaching maturity, drank the same mixture. A seal meant to last generations.

Thus, the Sancta tradition was born.

First daughters were formally named and pledged by blood oath to the vampire world. They were not given to just anyone.

In time, three powerful vampire houses rose. Matesson. Oldermann. Aldercrest. Each house sworn to by a human family.

Laws were created and enforced. No house could claim another’s Sancta. No vampire could touch her unless fate bound them as mates.

Fate rarely intervened.

For a thousand years, Stratford daughters bore strong sons for House Matesson. Always one. Always male. They appeared human, but their blood carried strength and longevity. They served as heirs and protectors.

Then the daughters stopped being born.

Generation after generation passed with only sons born to House Stratford. Still, the Matessons waited. They guarded land, wealth, and power through war and disease, believing the Sancta line would return.

And then, on a cool autumn night, a daughter was born again.

The first in more than a hundred years.

She was named in a private ritual seven nights after her birth. The house was sealed. Candles burned low as the elders gathered in silence.

When the ritual began the vampire she was sworn to stood among them. He did not speak. He did not interfere. He only watched. His presence heavy in the room. His attention fixed on the child in her mother’s arms.

She did not cry when he stepped closer.

The name was chosen with care.

Rosalinda for beauty, for rarity, for something precious that could survive even the harshest conditions. A reminder that value could grow where it was least expected.

Grace for the patience of House Matesson, for the hope carried through generations of waiting, for the promise of an heir long denied.

By blood and oath, her future was sealed before she could understand its cost. The bond was acknowledged. Witnessed. Accepted.

Rosalinda Grace Stratford.

The first Stratford Sancta in more than a century.