Leyla

Not twenty minutes after the Dralan had spoken his last word and left her trembling with fever to the core, a white rose arrived on a red velvet pillow, along with a pitcher of cold, fresh spring water. The rose was by far the biggest and the most beautiful she had ever seen, no doubt handpicked from the Dralan's private garden itself. It looked well nourished and pure, having been fed the proper sunlight each day.

After the Dralan's words, Leyla had felt just about ready to faint. She was to sing to nobilities and royals, and most importantly, in front of the Dralan himself. She was petrified. Her mother taught her to sing, but to be gentle and shy in company of males. Now she had to sing loudly and in front of a whole flock of them.

The mere thought alone made her shudder and had her stomach churning in a bilious way. Anxiousness attacked her and threatened to render her unconscious, or worse, made her want to vomit. The pressure was too much for her, but the Dralan had commanded it; it was to be.

She therefore knew there was only one thing to do; Pray to The Blithesome Miss for strength and perseverance. Now as she carefully took the rose from the pillow and placed it on the floor before her, she felt the slight rawness in her throat return; the burn in her stomach. Her thirst was getting worse, but she could still fight it off. She had lasted longer without blood than she had now. And for the Dralan, she would continue to last. Of that, she was certain.

Carefully, Leyla slipped off her dress as it was customary to pray naked. Nothing was to come between The Blithesome Miss and Her creations, not even the gentle threads of silk. A proper worship was performed naked, wherever the holiness felt strongest. That's why Leyla had placed the rose in the gleam of the sunlight that came in through the window, for what was stronger than the power of the sun?

Carefully and feeling exposed, Leyla sunk to her knees and folded her hands in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that the Dralan would not be back before a few hours. That should give her plenty of time to pray and to get dressed again before his return.

She couldn't even bare to think about all the stories she had heard about some females - Mihrs in particular - who had been attacked while performing the ritual of prayers, having been ambushed in their weakest moments and then forcibly been taken against their will, by males who had no honor, no respect for their time of prayer. All they saw were naked females, ready for the mauling. Ready for the raping.

Leyla shuddered. She ridded her mind of those haunting thoughts and cleared her head instead. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowly exhaling through her mouth. After two more repetitions, she then leaned forward until her forehead was pressed softly against her hands on the floor. She laid there while the sun shone upon her, cuddled her in warmth and pulled her into the state of relaxation.

Thoughts fled her mind... sounds disappeared... all the lights were gone and then she felt herself get embraced in that blanket of security she knew came from her Godly mother. She embraced Leyla, welcomed her to her sanctuary place between life and heaven where they could communicate. It was said only the purest of hearts could enter through to these realms, only the most good-hearted of people.

Leyla had been there a few times, no more than she could count on one hand. It felt the same as last, an emotion that was impossible to explain. All she knew was that no place on earth felt as safe as where she was now. No male or female heard her voice as clearly as The Blithesome Miss did there. She was home. The place of where she was born, a spiritual womb that safely nestled her and protected her while she was there. Her pleas were heard, but Leyla had but one plea.

"Sweet Blithesome Miss... give me strength."

Dohmenic

The Dralan remained impassive as he listened to the Bahk voice his troubles.

"Th-they attacked the village at n-night and took all our young females," He stuttered, obviously heartbroken by the suffering of his village. "S-said that we should bring a message to you, t-that... Phlague s-sends his regards t-to his majesty, the Dralan, and t-to t-tell him..." The Bahk's voice nervously died out.

"Tell me what?" The Dralan coldly seethed. "Speak up, Bahk."

The Bahk gulped anxiously. "H-he told us to tell you... to enjoy s-sitting on the throne f-for as long as you c-can."

Clenching his fist, he sent a glare to Callath who nodded and then told the Bahk that he was excused. He led the male out of the room, whereafter not a second later, the Dralan roared and sprung out of his chair. He grabbed the chair and hurled it across the room, seeing the wood splinter against the stone wall. The blood was pumping through his veins, anger painting his vision a crimson red.

Blood. He wanted blood on his hands, on his lips, wanted the guts of his enemy to be resting at the tip of his feet, where his cold, dead corpse would lie too, rotting under the sun.

Phlague. A male who many years ago had thought little of him taking the throne after his father died. He was a male who no longer believed in the reign on the pure-blooded, thought their entire legacy was poppycock and that they should have no rights to the Mihrs above the rest of them. That the royalties were a pompous, selfish pack who only wanted the Mihrs to themselves. So he made sure they got none.

For decades, this war had been going on. The Dralan had ordered Phlague's head on a stick and his heart with his father's red dagger through it, but despite his ridiculous propaganda, Phlague was clever. He knew to stay hidden and let others do his dirty job, and that's where the Mihr hunters came in; while they weren't his actual recruits, they were males who supported his opinion. Males who wanted to taste the blood of innocent females who had done nothing but what they should. They worked for Phlague and he had issued but one law for his followers; that if a Mihr be found, she should be ridded of her innocence.

- From there, the males had gone their creative ways.

Rape. Beatings. Forced them to suck on their cocks and kept them as personal slaves until they got enough of them and rejected them like scum. While The Dralan knew females didn't hold any status and shouldn't, he still didn't appreciate them being mistreated. Especially if they had done nothing wrong.

"I want him dead!" The Dralan roared, picking up another object he didn't pay attention to what was, before it was smashed against the floor and broken into unrecognizable pieces. "He dares threaten me? He will motherfucking die at my hand!"

Callath who swiftly avoided getting hit by one of the flying pieces of broken wood, came up to the Dralan and gave him a grim look. "He will pay, Dohmenic, but you can't lose your temper. That's what he wants. You gotta stay stolid. Show him his threats do no affect you."

But they did affect him. Phlague was taking all the Mihrs in hopes that one day, the Dralan would thirst to his death or succumb to drinking from a Bahk - thereby denounce his throne. But that would never happen. Phlague's inveigh jeremiads could continue for all he cared, he would never drink from a Bahk - not that he needed it, now that he had his Mihrisa. He would be damned if he ever let her go. She was under his tutelary and would remain so until he found a Dralaq.

"What was the last we heard of his whereabouts?" The Dralan growled after a moment of gathering himself. His pulse was still racing and his vision was still red, but Callath was right; he could not lose his head over threats. Once Phlague faced him like a true male, then he could lose every inhibition he had until his hands were covered in the reds of his enemy.

"He has taken his refuge in Plagahris," Callath told, crossing his arms. He looked as morose as the Dralan, but he managed to keep his temper under lids. "The Lathras who were sent up there never returned. I fear they've passed on in battle."

The Dralan sent a short prayer up for the males who had died for him and then closed his eyes as more wrath consumed him. Behind his closed lids, he saw Phlague's malicious face smirking provocatively at him while he fed on the blood of an innocent Mihr who was scared to her bone as she knew what came next. He even smelled the fear in his nose though he was only imagining it, but it was enough to have him letting out a small hiss.

"Send thirty of my Lathras out to every village in all of Drala," He ordered with hatred fueled through his words. "Have them stand by by each town's gate and tell them to not let anyone of questionable character pass through. Set up safe monasteries where the females can hide themselves, and should Mihrs turn up, send them my way. Heavily guarded," He barked. "If Phlague thinks he's powerful, he will taste what real power is when we take his passels down by the bunch."

"Yes, sire." Callath strongly replied and gave a deep bow before marching out to fulfill his orders. He could smell the anger steaming from his good friend, knowing he was just as passionate about saving the kingdom as he was. Phlague's inveterate ways weren't enough to stop either of them from doing what was the purpose of the Dralan still sitting on his rightful throne; protecting the people. He would sooner kill himself than fail at the job his father entrusted on him upon his demise.

Still enraged by the news he had received today, the Dralan angrily marched out of the room, his Lathras and Kathmirs hurriedly making way for him as he stalked out, targeted on one thing. There was but one thing he wanted right now, and that one thing was waiting for him pliantly in his chamber.

Leyla

She couldn't help but prink herself silly before the mirror in her last few minutes before she knew the Dralan would return. It was evening now, the sun had disappeared, and his meal she had prepared for him was ready and set to be eaten, presented just as beautifully as yesterday.

For bringing her a flower and for bestowing upon her the task of singing at the Bhrakla Aurora which she now after praying saw as a gracious honor, she wanted to make herself extra pretty for his liking. She hoped he would notice the way she had tinted her cheeks by rubbing a red rose petal upon them and how she had lifted her hair up in a beautiful bun to accentuate her neck and vein to him. With no other tools at her disposal, it would just have to do. She hoped he would be pleased.

The door was slammed open - a gesture that had happened twice today - and made her spin around on her foot, only to nearly get knocked off her feet when a pair of hands grabbed her, picked her up like she weighed nothing. Stifling a scream, she looked up and saw her Dralan looking down at her with dark, unadulterated eyes that conveyed everything he was feeling. The whiff of anger that laced through her nose felt like a knife, but she could smell it was not directed for her. For as the smell of anger was strong, another smell overpowered it; lust.

She was thrown onto the Dralan's bed with dominance and it had her gulping down a mouthful of fear; He had walked straight past her dinner table and targeted her directly, like a male possessed. Perhaps he was.

"M-my lord," She stuttered as he crawled on top of her, his electric blue zinging into her soul as they glared down at her. His nostrils flared as if he was smelling her fear and was loving it. "My lord, a-are you alright?"

"Mihrisa," He uttered and then acted; His body covered hers in one swift movement - laid on top of her fragile body within the next second and had her trapped right where he wanted her. The thick musk seeping from his body wafted into Leyla's nose and nearly had her moaning as his arousal took hold of her, kindled her own.

"My lord," She whispered, meeting his storming eyes.

"Give me your vein." He demanded in a hard voice. "Now. Feed me."

Gulping heavily, Leyla submissively turned her head and exposed her neck as much as she could, hearing the Dralan purr in satisfaction. He moved on top of her, and suddenly, she felt his male hardness press firmly against her pelvis, stab her as if it claimed her as its next victim.

"Such a good female," He lowly whispered in her ear, grinding his hips a little against hers. Her pulse shot through the roof and her body began trembling.

The hardness that throbbed against her made her feel wet between her legs. Her hands were itching to touch him, but she kept them clutching the mattress instead, fearing what he would do if she tried.

"M-my lor--"

"I dare you to speak right now, Mihrisa," He growled as he leaned down to her throat where her vein was throbbing powerfully. "I dare you to even make a sound."

He thrust his hips towards her and had her biting down hard on her lip not to make a sound. A whimper wanted to escape, but she kept it locked in, silent.

"You are so pliant," He murmured, a note of male pride lacing through his heavily aroused voice. "You do whatever you can to please me, Mihrisa. It's endearing. Your Dralan is very proud of you."

She had to speak. Needed to. The words erupted from her lips before she could stop them; "Take my vein, sire. Please!"

He hummed lowly at her desperation and let his nose tickle her vein feather lightly. "You want your Dralan to sink his fangs into you, don't you?"

"Yes, please," She begged and squirmed beneath him, so impatient. The ecstasy that came with the feeling of when he stabbed her with his long, sharp fangs was not unlike when she had entered the holy place between life and heaven earlier. The Dralan's dominance made her feel... safe. Even when he held her like this, rough and dominantly, there was not a moment Leyla feared for her safety.

She slowly felt the Dralan's fangs elongate against her skin, extend to long daggers. She shivered with anticipation when he let them brush softly over her velvet skin, tease her vein that throbbed so loudly, it was the only thing piercing the silence between them.

A dead-silent moment passed... and then he stabbed.

Leyla cried out as the Dralan latched onto her vein and pulled at it, quaffed her blood in heavy, esurient gulps. Her hands flew to his mane of black hair, even though she tried to stop herself, they had a mind of their own. They buried themselves in his thick, soft locks and gripped onto his roots, pushing him further into the crook of her neck. The gulp, gulp, gulp of his throat swallowing her blood, the feeling of it leaving her system and entering his, it made her dizzy with lust. She could hardly sense what was up and what was down when something hard stabbed her again, made her soak between her legs.

"Oh!" She trembled with fever when she felt him press his member hard against her spot, the thin fabric of her silk dress and his breeches the only thing that separated them. She nearly got blinded by the intense emotion; feeling his strong frame atop her petite one, his fangs sunken into her neck, pulling at her veins, and that hard, impressive size digging into the spot between her legs, tormenting her. She felt as if she was going to explode.

But then with a long groan, the Dralan took his last heavy drag from her vein and detached himself, licked her neck languidly from any last specs of her pure blood and then made sure her puncture wounds were nursed properly. Leyla was drained, but shook with fever; she was pink with arousal.

"Now," The Dralan huskily whispered against her neck, "let's eat."