The creature that would one day begin the
war did not come from this land nor from this time.
Its story began over four hundred years ago, during the rule of Vladarin the Third.
He ruled these lands with firm authority, and it was during his rule that one of his own sons rose against him.
The castle groaned with screams and steel the night it happened. A battle raged beyond the walls, fire licking at the sky, steel clashing against stone.
The doors of the king's hall burst open.
King Vladarin sat on his gilded throne; his head felt heavy, as if poisoned by the wine he had drunk, and then he saw him: the cursed child Draven.
He stood at the threshold, eyes burning, blood staining his hands. In his grip was the severed head of the guard, who had once stood watch at the doors.
The king didn't flinch. He knew what his son had become because of his own mistakes.
Draven tossed the head across the hall. It rolled and stopped at the king's feet.
"Your men are weaker than hounds, father." The cursed prince said in a cold voice.
The king roared. "How dare you set foot on this castle after I exiled you?"
Draven smirked, "Why? I am the rightful heir."
"You are a mistake. Your brother will be the one who wears the crown!", The king shouted.
"Because I'm cursed?" he started walking towards the king, "Cursed because of your
greed? Because of your broken promises?"
The king couldn't answer him because he couldn't deny the guilt.
The boy continued as he slowly walked forward. "I was robbed of my childhood, of my mother's love, of my throne because you were a coward. You have planted a demon within me."
"You are the demon! You spawn of curse blood!"
The word curse, blood struck deeper than any blade. The king stood up with a giant axe in his hands. The one that drank the blood of his enemies, and now it craves the taste of his sons.
In an instant, the prince vanished.
And then—he was there, inches from the king. King's eyes widened.
He saw the look in his son's eyes. There was
nothing human in his son's gaze. No light. No soul..
Then his eyes turned. Iris thinned like that of a serpent.
The king had only one thought: "Behead the creature his son had become."
It was the only way to end him.
The king swung the axe, but Draven caught it mid-swing, barehanded. With a single blow
from his palm, he hurled the king across the hall, the force cracking the stone beneath his heels.
Draven's eyes got distracted by the sound of the footsteps of someone running towards him, the second son, the twin brother, Ionel.
The favourite child of King Vladarin.
Without a word, Draven turned and hurled the axe toward the archway above the doors. The weapon struck stone, and with a thunderous crash, bricks and mortar collapsed, sealing the passage. Ionel skidded to a halt behind the fallen debris, dust rising around him.
But through the cracks and settling rubble, he could see.
He could see everything as he was moving the giant concrete block.
He saw Draven walking toward the king. As the king stood up, Draven grabbed him by his throat.
The king lost his ability to move, and his eyes were stuck on his son's.
Ionel screamed; he knew what was about to happen.
With all his might, he lifted the massive rubble.
As the cursed prince tilted his head, his teeth stretched into fangs.
And then the pain began.
The king's blood flowed freely as the prince bit into his neck, draining the very life from the man who had created him.
The throne turned crimson with the blood of the king.
Ionel tore through the last of the rubble. He stumbled into the hall only to find the corpse
of his beloved father, slumped and lifeless.
Beside him stood his brother, smiling, Blood dripping from his lips.
"What have you done?" the twin shouted while tears dropped from his eyes.
"I punished the man who tore us apart, brother, " the cursed one said softly, "Now we can be together again."
Ionel had the utmost love and respect for his father. The rage was boiling through him as
he drew his shiny sword from the side of his waist.
The cursed prince saw that as a challenge, an invitation for war.
He also drew his blades. Not a sharp steel from his belt, from his fingers. Long nails that were black as the night and sharp enough to cut through the bones of those who stood in his way.
Then the brothers clashed. The hall echoed with the clashing of the blades.
Ionel, with the sword gifted by his beloved father, A blade forged in honor, now burning with vengeance.
Draven with the claws he was cursed with.
Both fought all out while holding rage and hatred in their hearts for each other.
Ionel was the only one who could rival his brother. He had that power in his blood.
Their battle shook the very foundation of the castle.
But they were not alone. Something watched from the shadows.
It watched carefully as if it were writing the history as it unfolded in front of it.
Something that would narrate this chronicle.
The fight between two brothers will shape the war that will emerge in the coming centuries.
The written history later turned into folklore:
"He is neither man nor beast.
His face is human, yet his soul is not.
He walks like one of us, but feeds like the
damned.
A creature who wears a smile to hide the
hunger.
A being who feasts on the blood of kings...
and brothers alike."
For generations, it was told only as a story,
passed from one age to the next.
Or so people believed.