It was evening in Vampire Mountain. The night was drawing to a close, but the halls were as full of life as ever. Tonight was the final night of the Festival of the Undead, and after, the rest of Darren's Trials, and beyond even that, Kurda's investiture. It was an unusually busy time for the clan.

Kurda sipped at a mug of ale, musing it over as the raucous noise that typically accompanied the Hall of Kheldon Lurt surrounded his mind, providing an unappealing soundtrack to his internal monologue. Though the festival had officially come to a close a few hours ago, the party continued to rage long into the morning. Groups of vampires were flocked everywhere, fighting, singing, cursing, spilling ale and bat broth, and just generally causing a ruckus. Doing what vampires do best, as Arrow liked to say.

In the center of it all was Yebba, still high off the victory of his howl. Every twenty minutes or so he'd let out another aroooo while his friends cheered him on. It was getting on Kurda's nerves, but returning to his room required energy he was currently lacking. He sighed and tuned out the chaos (a skill he had gotten quite good at over the years) quickly becoming lost in his own thoughts once again. That is, until a couple young vampires swung by and slapped him hard on the back, congratulating him on his soon-to-be Princehood. Soon-to-be Prince Kurda mumbled some cheap thanks and sent the pair on their way.

He was sick of people talking about his princedom. Because every time someone brought it up he thought about it, which made him think about his investiture, which made him think of the plan, which made him so sick with guilt he could barely function. It'd been a long time since he'd had a decent sleep, as most days were spent turning over in his coffin for hours.

I'm trading a race for the world, he continually reminded himself. I'm saving them. It would be a small trade-off in the grand scheme of things, in the grand scheme of fate itself.

Except it wasn't.

His plan required the elimination of the princes. All of them.

Including Mika.

This was where the trouble lay. The rest of it, it was what it was. In the end, the majority of his kind would survive, would go on to skulk around the earth another night. They'd be furious, but within a few generations he was sure the trouble would pass and the vampires would be just another chapter in the history book he never got around to writing. He'd have died himself, of course. Well, executed, he supposed he should say. My life for the world was another one of his common reminders. There was something oddly comforting about it. He'd made his peace with it, long before the plan had even been proposed to the vampaneze. And yet the only thing he hadn't managed to get over was the idea of Mika dying by his hand.

He'd gotten drunk once and almost blew it. A few weeks before the Festival he'd left Mika's room, his internal turmoil so twisted he was sure everyone he passed could see it written across his face. Atlas held up the sky, and Kurda held up his own guilt. He wasn't one to drink, not usually, but lately, it was all he could do to cope. One drink turned into two, turned into a questionable number, and at some point he found himself outside the mountain with the six poisoned wine bottles clinking in his arms. The sun was just beginning to rise, coming over the horizon and reflecting off of the fresh snowfall. It stung his skin, but he didn't notice.

He had uncorked the first bottle and emptied it into the earth, the quiet glugging as it spilled out an oddly satisfying sound in the silence of the forest. But as he threatened to turn over the second one, he stopped, staring at the dark puddle that had seeped into the snow. There was something about the crimson gash, so startling against the clean white, that gave him pause. Like spilled blood, the horrible remains of a battlefield.

He put the bottle down and cried. And then he went back inside and returned the remaining five to where they hid in the corner of his room.

The next night Mika made fun of him for looking like Vancha with his red-tinged skin. Kurda only smiled, mumbling some excuse about missing seeing the sunrise.

As if on cue, Mika slid into the seat across from Kurda, pulling him out of his head and back into reality. He was dressed sharply in his usual colour, with a faint shadow of stubble decorating his cheeks. Fresh bruises were blooming on his skin from the fights earlier, and there was a cut above his left eye.

"Enjoying the festivities?" Mika asked sarcastically.

"As much as I can," Kurda said, inhaling the clean, cedarwood scent that seemed to constantly waft from Mika. Between that and the damp hair hanging in his eyes, he'd presumably just come from the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl.

"And socializing as usual, I see," Mika said, jerking his head towards the empty seats that surrounded them. Some unknown asshole had invented sarcasm, but Mika had perfected it.

"I've been swamped by visitors, but I told them I was saving the chair for you." Kurda quipped back. As much as he'd been trying to distance himself from Mika since the bottle incident, it never seemed to work. They were like magnets, always winding up in each other's orbit somehow.

"How nice of you." Mika replied, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I heard about your win on the bars the other day."

Kurda scowled. "That's all anyone has wanted to talk to me about since."

"Quite impressive, really. I'll admit, my money would have been on Arra."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Don't be mad. We really should name those bars after her at this point."

Whenever Mika spoke about his old assistant, the pride always showed in his eyes.

"Has she spoken to you about it?"

"No, although she seemed to be in a stormy mood when I saw her. I thought it was best not to mention it."

"Best not." Kurda agreed.

"I went to congratulate you, but no one had seen you since the howl of the night. Speaking of," Mika said, jerking his head distastefully towards Yebba as he set off yelling again, banging his fists on the table and sending mugs flying.

"Yes, plenty of high society in the mountain tonight," Kurda said, rolling his eyes. "I was hoping you'd win so I wouldn't have to hear him going on about it. Although, that would have meant I would have had to hear you going on about it, which probably wouldn't have been much better."

That granted a look of amusement from Mika. He opened his mouth like he was about to protest, then stopped and shrugged. "Probably not," he admitted. "So where were you?"

"With Seba and Darren. Oh, and Gavner. Seba needed spiderwebs to ease the boy's itching. We took him on a little tour, showed him the Hall of Final Voyage."

"Little morbid for a child."

Kurda shrugged. "He wanted to see it."

Mika nodded absentmindedly, tapping his fingernails on the table. "He's a good kid," he said after a moment. "He'll be a good vampire."

"I know. I've been telling you that." Kurda said, a hint of spite trickling out.

Mika sighed and took Kurda's hand across the table. "Look, I know you didn't want him to do the Trials. But he's been doing great. A few more and he's done."

"I know. He'll succeed, I'm sure of it."

"Larten has done surprisingly well with him."

Kurda raised an eyebrow. "Surprisingly?" he asked, and the two shared a knowing smile.

"Let's hope he turns out a little more… tame, than Larten," Kurda said.

"One Larten has been more than enough for a century," Mika added, chuckling.

Kurda laughed too. A smile from Mika was rare, let alone a laugh. But when he did, there was something so beautiful about the way his dark eyes lit up. The angles, the lines on his face, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, they were all so beautiful. He always wanted to remember Mika the way he saw him now.

As soon as the last thought crossed his mind Kurda felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He hated himself for it. Every time they shared a nice moment, Kurda ruined it by thinking about what was yet to come. And every moment like this made it so much harder.

If he thought Mika would agree to the plan he would have told him in a heartbeat. But Mika had too much pride and honour to ever go along with it. The hatred for traitors, that was a law that was written in the hearts of each and every member of the clans. Kurda hated himself for it too, sometimes. He never wanted to see Mika look at him with betrayal in his eyes.

But above all, Kurda would never tell him because it meant he was asking Mika to choose between him and his clan. Love is the death of duty as they say. And duty the death of love. In their own ways, Mika and Kurda would both always choose duty. That wasn't to say they didn't love each other. It just meant they each recognized there were things, issues that were far bigger than them. That was part of why Kurda loved Mika.

It didn't mean that it didn't hurt, however.

My world for everyone else's, he realized, as he gazed at Mika. That's what I'm trading. He pushed his mug away, suddenly feeling sick.

Mika's mouth was moving, but Kurda had missed what he said. He had to ask him to repeat himself.

"I asked if you were staying up. I have to go."

"Not here. I might go work on a map."

"Always with the maps," Mika said, rolling his eyes as he downed the rest of his ale.

"I have to occupy myself somehow when you're sitting on your throne all night. Do you expect me to just sit in the stands and gape at you until you're done?"

"No," Mika said as he stood up. "But it'd be nice once in a while."

"Narcissist."

"Whatever. Soon enough you'll be up there with me and you can stare as much as you like."

"Soon enough," Kurda repeated, his mind momentarily filled with visions of a future that would never come. It would have been nice, he thought. The two of us up there in the Hall of Princes, ruling together, changing the clan for good. They might have ended up as old as Paris and Seba. He wondered, not for the first time, where they would have put his throne. Besides Mika's, he had hoped. The sun and the moon, sitting side by side.

He smiled faintly, turning his attention back to Mika. He was still standing there, seemingly amused at Kurda's propensity to drift away.

"Imagining our future?" he teased, as if he was reading Kurda's thoughts. When a flush crept up Kurda's neck he smirked, knowing he had guessed correctly. "I'm flattered."

Kurda only shook his head, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle the smile that threatened his lips. "You wish."

"Indeed I do," Mika said. He cupped Kurda's face with his hand, rubbing the pad of his calloused thumb across his cheek for a second. "Don't stay up too late," he said, staring deep into his eyes. "Or if you do, try to have some fun for once in your life."

"You should take your own advice once in a while," Kurda grumbled.

"I give advice. I don't take it." Mika called over his shoulder, then swept from the room. Kurda watched him go, then picked up his discarded mug and threw it back in one swallow. A few vampires tried to call him over as he left the hall, but he waved them away and set off towards his room.

The one uncertainty, he mused as he walked through the halls, is whether or not I can do what needs to be done when the time comes. With that thought burning in his mind, he settled into his coffin, silent tears streaming down his face.

After his trial, when they led him up to the pit, Kurda couldn't help but feel the slightest bit relieved. He couldn't honestly say whether or not he'd have gone through with it in the end. But his single solace, the one comfort he clung onto in the face of death, was that he never had to exist without Mika Ver Leth in his life.

Later on, some of the vampires would testify they saw him smile right before he was dropped onto the stakes.