From Sacrifice to Vampire Queen

I always knew something was wrong with my family. But I never imagined it would cost me everything.

My name was Elara Ashford, and two weeks from today, my twin sister was supposed to die.

At least, that was what everyone believed.

I stood in the corner of our living room, watching the scene unfold like I was watching a movie. My father, Richard Ashford, sat in his leather armchair, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had gone white. My mother, Victoria, was on the couch, clutching my sister Seraphina like she might disappear if she let go.

"The full moon," Dad said, his voice heavy. "Two weeks from tonight. The sacrifice must happen."

Mom let out a sob that made my chest ache. Not for me—never for me—but because I knew what was coming next.

"My baby," she whispered into Seraphina's hair. "My poor, sweet baby."

Seraphina was crying too, delicate tears sliding down her perfect face. "I'm scared, Mom. I don't want to die."

Nobody looked at me. They never did.

The Ashford family had a secret, one that went back three hundred years. A Blood Covenant with a vampire lord named Damien Thorne. The deal was simple and sick: every generation, when twin daughters turned eighteen, one would be sacrificed to Lord Damien. In exchange, our family got wealth, power, and protection.

When Seraphina and I were born on the same July night, a psychic named Madame Corvina came to test our blood. I was too young to remember, obviously, but I'd heard the story a thousand times. Seraphina's blood had boiled and smoked in the silver dish. Mine sat calm and still.

The verdict: Seraphina was marked for death. I got to live.

For eighteen years, my parents poured every ounce of love into her. Every wish granted, every whim indulged. She got the best of everything because "she only has eighteen years, Elara. You have a lifetime."

I understood. I really did. If I knew my daughter was going to die, I'd spoil her too.

But understanding didn't make it hurt less.

"Whatever you want, sweetheart," Dad said to Seraphina now, his voice breaking. "Name it. Anything."

"I just want to be normal," she whispered. "I want to get married. Have a wedding. Feel like a real person, just for a little while."

My stomach dropped before my brain caught up.

Mom looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "We can do that. We'll plan the most beautiful wedding."

I should have seen it coming. I really should have.

But I was still shocked when, the next afternoon, I found Marcus sitting on the garden bench, looking like he wanted to throw up.

Marcus and I had been engaged since we were ten. Our families arranged it, but we'd actually fallen for each other. Or at least, I thought we had. He was supposed to be mine—the one good thing in a life spent playing second fiddle to my dying sister.

"Hey," I said, sitting down next to him. I'd made him lunch. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks. What's going on?"

He didn't take the sandwich. Bad sign.

"We need to talk about the wedding," he said.

My heart started beating faster. "What about it? We're getting married in two weeks, right after my birthday. It's perfect timing—"

"That's the problem."

I stared at him. "What do you mean, that's the problem?"

Marcus ran his hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit I usually found cute. Today it just made me anxious. "Seraphina came to see me yesterday."

Oh no.

"She told me her dying wish." He looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before. Guilt. "She wants to be married. To experience being someone's wife. Even just for two weeks before..."

The sandwich slipped from my hands.

"You're not serious."

"Elara—"

"Marcus, we've been engaged for eight years!"

"I know." He grabbed my hands, "And we have our whole lives ahead of us. Fifty, sixty years together. She has fourteen days."

I yanked my hands back. "So what, I'm supposed to just hand over my fiancé like he's a borrowed dress?"

"It's not forever—"

"It is for her!" I was standing now, not sure when I'd gotten up. "She'll be dead, Marcus. And you'll have married her instead of me. How is that supposed to feel?"

"You're being selfish."

The word hit me like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"She's dying, Elara." His voice had an edge now, frustration creeping in. "Can't you think about someone other than yourself for once?"

For once. Like I hadn't spent eighteen years thinking about Seraphina. Like I hadn't given up new clothes because "Seraphina should have them, she won't get another chance." Like I hadn't skipped my own birthday parties because "it's too sad to celebrate when Seraphina's running out of time."

I felt something hot behind my eyes, but I refused to cry.

"I need to go," I said.

"Elara, please—"

I walked away before he could finish. Before I could do something stupid like say yes.

But I knew I would say yes. Because that's what I always did.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My left shoulder had been aching for weeks now, a dull throb that never quite went away. I pressed my hand against it, feeling the heat radiating through my thin nightshirt.

On impulse, I got up and went to the bathroom. Under the harsh fluorescent light, I pulled my shirt off and twisted to see my shoulder in the mirror.

The birthmark was glowing.

I'd had the crescent-shaped mark my whole life, but it had always been just a faint brown shadow. Now it pulsed with a dark red light, and when I touched it, the skin felt hot enough to burn.

My hands started shaking.

I thought about Madame Corvina, about the blood test, about how Seraphina had looked so healthy lately while I'd been getting weaker. About the dreams I'd been having—dark throne rooms and red eyes and a voice saying "wrong girl."

What if they'd made a mistake?

I grabbed my phone and searched "Blood Covenant sacrifice marks." The results made my blood run cold.

The true sacrifice bearer will develop a crescent mark on their left shoulder. As the eighteenth birthday approaches, the mark will glow red and spread silver veins throughout the body.

I looked down at my left arm. There, just barely visible, were thin silver lines starting to trace up from my wrist.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

I ran to my parents' bedroom and knocked hard. "Dad! Mom! I need to talk to you!"

Dad opened the door, looking annoyed. "Elara, it's eleven o'clock."

"I think there's been a mistake. About the sacrifice. I think it might be—"

"Not this again." Mom appeared behind him, her face tired. "Elara, we've been through this. Madame Corvina is never wrong."

"But look!" I pulled up my sleeve, showing them the silver veins. "The marks! I have the marks!"

Dad glanced at my arm and shook his head. "That's just stress. You're working yourself up over the wedding thing."

"It's not stress! Please, just listen—"

"Enough." His voice went hard. "Madame Corvina tested you both when you were born. Seraphina is the one. End of discussion."

He closed the door in my face.

I stood there in the hallway, my arm still extended like I was showing the evidence to ghosts.

They wouldn't listen. They never listened.

Two weeks, I thought. In two weeks, it would all be over.