The Vampires innocent Prey のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

Charlotte lingered by the edge of her bed longer than usual that morning, fingers twisting the sheets as though they could offer her some kind of answer. Sleep had been restless; the palace was too large, too quiet, and too strange compared to the life she was used to. Every creak of the wooden floor, every faint echo through the endless halls had kept her half awake. When the knock of a servant came and went, announcing that breakfast would soon be served, she sighed and rose. The soft carpet cooled her bare feet as she crossed to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes. The sky was pale with dawn, but something about the air felt… unsettled, like a storm that hadn’t yet arrived. She dressed slowly, smoothing the folds of her gown, adjusting the ribbon at her waist. Maybe today would feel more normal. Maybe she could blend in without drawing too many stares. Gathering her courage, she stepped into the corridor. The palace, however, was not wrapped in its usual stillness. Whisp

The kitchens always smelled of woodsmoke and yeast, the scent clinging to the very stones. It should have been comforting, but tonight it wasn’t. The servants huddled close after their evening chores, as though warmth could shield them from what their whispers carried. “I tell you, I saw the guards come in myself,” Mara insisted, eyes wide. “Their armor was ripped clean through. Ripped, as though by claws.” Ansel frowned, skeptical. “Claws? Come off it. A blade could do the same.” “Blades leave edges,” Mara said sharply. “These were tears. Rents in the metal, like teeth had worried it. And the blood—” “Enough,” Cook Hilda snapped, pounding dough against the counter. “You’ll scare the girl.” Sophia, standing by the doorway with a basket of folded cloths, stiffened. They thought she wasn’t listening, but every word slipped under her skin. Claws. Teeth. Wolves. Her brow furrowed. Wolves? That was nonsense. Wolves were stories told by firelight to frighten children into obedi

Charlotte stepped out of the library, her skirts whispering against the polished stone floor. She almost collided with Sophia, who had been walking quietly down the hall, her head bent in thought. Charlotte halted, eyes narrowing in irritation as though Sophia’s presence itself were an offense. “Watch where you’re going,” she said, her tone clipped and imperious. Sophia stiffened. “I—I’m sorry,” she murmured, trying to step aside. But Charlotte didn’t move. Instead, her sharp gaze lingered, sweeping from the plain cut of Sophia’s dress to the way she carried herself, and a faint, disdainful smile tugged at her lips. “Strange,” Charlotte murmured, as if speaking more to herself than to Sophia. “You walk like you don’t know what you are. Not quite a lady. Not quite a servant. Something in between. Misplaced.” Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled against her skirt, though she forced her expression into stillness. Charlotte tilted her head, her smirk deepening

Azriel closed the heavy doors of his chamber behind him, the hollow clang echoing in the dark. The air inside was cool, still, touched faintly by the lingering scent of old wood and iron. This was his haven, a place carved for silence, where the world’s noise and weakness could not reach him. Normally, it would settle him, draw his thoughts back into the precision he demanded of himself. But tonight, silence did not soothe. Tonight, silence mocked him. He crossed to the tall window where the night pressed its black face against the glass. Beyond, the courtyard lay drowned in shadow, the torches already guttering low. The moon struggled behind a drift of cloud, light pale and fractured. His reflection bled faintly into the glass—hard eyes, a face that gave nothing away. And yet beneath that mask, his mind was not obedient. It wandered. To her. Sophia. Azriel exhaled slowly, fingers curling against the sill as if gripping the cold stone would anchor him. The memory returned unb

The dining hall gleamed with cold morning light, pouring through tall arched windows and casting pale gold across the long table. Silverware glinted, polished to perfection, while bowls of fruit and steaming platters of bread were set out by silent servants who moved like shadows at the edges of the room. At the head of the table sat the King, his broad shoulders squared beneath a robe of deep crimson. He tore a piece of bread with deliberate calm, but his eyes—storm-dark and heavy—were fixed not on the meal before him, but on the figures gathered. The Queen sat opposite him, serene in posture but sharp in gaze. Her goblet of watered wine remained untouched, fingers resting lightly on its rim. A single glance from her could quiet an entire hall, and this morning was no different. Azriel, the Prince, occupied the place to his father’s right. His dark hair caught the light when he shifted, but his expression was carved from stone, unreadable as always. He moved with quiet precision