Dohmenic

He was so thirsty.

"Callath, please tell me you bring good news."

"I'm afraid not, Sire. I searched every part of town and the ones surrounding them, and still nothing. I even went through the lower parts. I know you are getting desperate, but the Mihr population is decreasing drastically. Your Lathras are doing what they can to stop the nature of the--"

Letting out a roar, the Dralan punched the wall. "I don't care about what my Lathras are doing, I need a Mihr, Callath, I need to feed! Unless you want your Dralan to die and the last of the pureblooded vampires to die out, find me one. And soon, or else I am going to make you feed from the hounds on the street until you know just what I am going through!"

Callath didn't wince, but the threat settled within him. "As you command. But please just remember there is only so much I can do. I have every male you put to my disposal out searching for a Mihr for you. They are working day and night--"

"It's not good enough!" He snapped, turning to his longtime friend. "Take more males, take my Kathmirs, take them all! Get them to search their hometowns, ask their friends, ask their family, I don't care! If I don't feed soon, I am going to die, Callath. The kingdom will be left without a King and..."

The floors suddenly spun and he had to grip onto the window sill not to topple over. He felt weak, exhausted, drained, a state of hebetude he hated with all his might. His throat was starting to ache, begging for what it craved more than food. But alas he could not feed before the blood of a Mihr was presented to him. If he drank from someone impure, he would automatically give up his right to the throne, and his land would be without a leader. He couldn't offer that to his people, the ones that stuck by his side even through the toughest of times, as they were now.

"As you command, Sire," Callath offered him a deep bow before he turned on his heel and left him alone. He had seen his moment of weakness and knew that if he didn't hurry, he would come back to a fallen kingdom.

Callath had helped him find Mihrs even since they were kids. He was his only true friend, the only one that took his temper tantrums and didn't cringe when he yelled. He also offered his own sister as a tribute to him, but sadly she found a mate only weeks later. As a gift and a show of gratitude for her service, he had even wed them himself. A true honor for a Bahk to be wed by her Dralan.

By the sweet Miss, he needed to find a Dralaq, he thought to himself, as he closed his eyes and tried to stop the world from spinning. With shaky feet he walked up to his bed and sat down on the edge.

If he found a woman to his liking, someone worthy of the throne with clean, pure blood and a pliant, submissive and fertile nature, he would wed her. For the sake of the kingdom, he would do it, even if she was the most unappealing female to walk the earth. Having a Dralaq would save him the trouble of having to find a Mihr every other week or so. He could feed from her veins and she would bare his children; Like a true Dralaq was supposed to do. And as a Dralan, he would keep her safe and dose her with gifts and tokens of his loyalty to her, but only if she fulfilled her purposes. If not, she was no better than the Lathra he killed not 24 hours ago.

Sighing to himself, he laid down on the soft covers of his bed and rubbed his face. He was parched. He feared he might soon lose all his strength, but even if it came down to his last breath, he would not leave this world without a fight.

But he needed pure blood. And soon.

Leyla

Leyla was settling in fine. Ahrron kept her company most of the time, but some days she was bound to be alone. The Lathras weren't as bad as she expected, despite their reputation with females. Most of them were nice - authoritative, but nice. She helped them get out of their armor at night when they came home, attended to their wounds and called for a Kischmir of their choice if they needed to feed, to heal from their wounds. Apparently they had preferred choices of females.

All in all, things were going great. She hadn't felt this safe in years, knowing that the only way to detect a Mihr was to to sniff the vein in her throat; The throat that was covered up by the tightness of the neckline on her dress. She had no idea what she was going to do when Ahrron would need to feed. Even though she liked him and felt like he was a genuinely nice male, you never knew. If she told him she was a Mihr, there was no telling how he would react. The word alone was like an aphrodisiac to the males, a word that could lead them into a frenzy, even before they tasted them. But perhaps she could trust Ahrron. Only time would tell.

A late afternoon, she was working just by the border of where the castle split; the part where only the Dralan's closest could pass and no one else. But it was really quiet for some reason. She was the only one around, or so she thought.

A scream pierced the silence. A terrified scream, and then she saw a Kischmir come running away from something down a narrow hall, tears streaming down her face. Standing up, Leyla quickly ran to the trembling female.

"Shh, calm down, tell me what's wrong," Leyla tried, but the female kept trembling, trying to free herself from her grip.

"The Dralan! H-he's dead, oh sweet Blithesome Miss, he's dead! He's lying on the floor, he doesn't move, h-he, oh sweet Miss, he died from starvation!"

"Starvation?" Leyla blinked confused. "Hasn't he been feeding from his Mihr?"

The female kept on shaking, nearly collapsing to the floor on her wobbly legs. "There aren't any! They're all gone, and now our Dralan is, too! I have to inform Callath!"

With no further explanation, the female shook out of Leyla's hands and ran down a hall. Left frozen in her spot, Leyla felt a deep sorrow take its place within her chest.

The Dralan had died from starvation. How could that be? She knew he could only feed from Mihrs, but he was the Dralan; Surely he had to have Mihrs flocking him, catering to his every need?

But the look on the Kischmir's face had been undeniable; It was true horror, the kind of horror from seeing your Dralan lying dead before you.

She felt a pull in her stomach, a tremendous pull telling her to go see her Dralan, to respect him. If he truly was dead, he should not be left alone.

Carefully walking down the hall the Kischmir had come from, crossing the border in the process, she hesitantly walked down the corridor. It was dimly lit, but she could just see a door at the end. Without hesitation, she ran for it, for some reason knowing that it was his private chamber. When she entered, she nearly doubled over on her feet.

Lying sprawled out on the floor on his back, a giant male laid unconsciously. He had the most ferocious body she had ever seen, rippled with masculinity and packed with power and strength. The navy-colored shirt and black breeches he wore did nothing to hide that fact. His face was a sight of pure beauty, even if his lids were closed and his mouth was slightly parted.

Leyla could not stop staring at her Dralan, her master, her leader. He had the blackest hair she had ever seen, the plumpest, most shapely lips in the world. So feminine for a male. His eyelashes were resting against his high cheekbones which carved out his face, along with his prominent jawline. He was... a beauty.

A dead beauty, Leyla reminded herself. She didn't realize she was welling up, before she felt a single tear fall from her eye. She brushed it away from her cheek, but just as she did, she caught a sound.

It was weak, barely even audible, but she heard it. She then saw the Dralan stir, even so slightly. His forehead creased in pain.

Without thinking, Leyla fell to the floor besides him and cupped his face between her tiny hands. She brushed his cheek and tried to see if that got a response from him. "My lord? My lord, are you alive? Please..."

What a silly question to ask, really. Asking someone if they were alive. He was barely - but even so, he still breathed.

He stirred again, the crease between his brows growing deeper. His lips parted even more, as if he tried to speak.

Tried to drink.

Leyla realized then she was the only one who could save him. She could save the world from the loss of their Dralan and she could save the Dralan from dying the most painful death known to them.

She brushed up her sleeve until it nestled in a bunch by her elbow and brought it to her Dralan's lips. "Drink, my lord, please. Accept my blood, I beg you. Feed from me."

His nostrils flared, perhaps catching her pure scent and then without a moment of hesitation, his lips parted on their own accord, and a pair of enormous fangs extended. Leyla let out a scream as he within the next second, and with incredible speed, pierced her skin and latched on to her, sucking hungrily, greedily for her pure blood.

Leyla gasped and felt a tingle in her body as the Dralan fed from her, growing stronger by the second. The feel of his fangs pulling at her vein, his lips sucking her skin, his tongue catching every drop of her... It was entrancing.

Without warning, he suddenly shot up into a seated position and grabbed her by her throat, startling a scream from her. With brute force, he released her arm, pinned her down on the floor and rolled over her, staring into her eyes with wild fervor.

"Mihr," He rasped, his voice the most delicate, deepest baritone she had ever heard. All she could do was stare up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

His eyes...

Then, again without warning, the frenzy took a hold of his body, and he grasped her head, only to crane it to the side to access her neck. She saw the flash of his fangs extend before he leaned down to her neck, yanked her collar down and pierced her skin there, too.

Leyla cried out and tried to writhe beneath him, but his impressive size and strength kept her pinned where she was. His chest pressed against hers, his warmth seeping into her heart, as he drank from her, the heavy gulps of his throat making her nether regions grow wet with a need she wasn't familiar with. All she knew was that every gentle sweep of his tongue against her skin and every powerful pull on her vein made her toes curl and her stomach tighten. She had never experience this before.

He drank and he drank, his hunger insatiable. Leyla started to grow weaker beneath him, stopped struggling in his hold. Instead she let herself grow limp, as her king drank from her, trying to sate his thirst. He was drinking too much.

"My lord," She whispered. When there came no response, but just another suckle, she tried again. "My lord."

With the last of her strength, she cupped the nape of his neck with her hand and threaded her fingers through his lush mane of hair. How soft it was. The deepest of groans rumbled from his chest as he continued to drink, draining her.

The darkness was descending. She knew if she didn't find a way to stop him, he would kill her.

"Sire..." She whispered, her eyelids closing by themselves. She was tired. "Please... have mercy... on me..."

He groaned again and swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing, the last thing she sensed. Then the darkness came, dragging her down to a black, soundless pit.