*(1440s, Village of Oak)*
The air stank of sweat, crushed garlic blossoms, and wet fur. Sunlight beat down on the village square, baking the cobblestones where the clans gathered—*all* of them. Humans huddled near market stalls, flinching when a werewolf's roar shook the air. Snake-people slithered past, their scales glistening like oil, tongues flicking at the scent of roasted boar. Fairies hovered, wings buzzing like angry hornets, magic glittering like dust on their fingertips. And the vampires… they stood in the shade of the great oak tree, pale as graveworms, eyes like red coins.
This was the day. The day the next King of Oak would be chosen.
For centuries, the crown passed through the Tournament of Claws. The strongest warrior from each clan—vampire, werewolf, fairy, beast, snake, human—fought in the dirt circle. Bones broke. Blood soaked the earth. The winner ruled. And always, *always*, the vampires won. Their speed. Their cold strength. Their teeth.
Old King Borin, a vampire with skin like cracked parchment, raised a clawed hand. Silence fell, heavy as a shroud.
*"Let the challenge begin!"*
A werewolf lunged first—thick-muscled, fur black as pitch. He slammed into a beast-clan warrior, a mountain of a man with tusks jutting from his jaw. They rolled, snarling, teeth tearing flesh. The crowd roared. A fairy zipped down, blasting the werewolf with violet fire. He howled, fur smoking.
*Weak. Too slow.*
I watched from the shadows. Ralph. Pure-blood vampire. Not royal. Not yet. Hunger coiled in my gut. Not for blood… for the *throne*.
The human fighter—a skinny boy with a rusty sword—lasted three breaths. A snake-woman struck, fangs sinking into his thigh. He screamed, skin graying as venom spread. Pathetic. Humans were fleas. Soft. Bleeders.
*My turn.*
I stepped into the circle. Dust clung to my boots. The fairy prince hovered before me, smug, magic crackling around his dainty hands.
*"Vampire filth,"* he hissed.
I moved. Not speed—*blur*. My fist shattered his pretty wing. He shrieked, falling. My boot crushed his throat. *Crack*. Silence. Fairy magic sputtered out like a dying candle.
The snake-warrior struck next. Fast. Venom dripped from her fangs. I caught her wrist, snapped it backward. Bone punched through scale. She hissed, collapsing. I stomped on her skull. *Wet crunch*.
Only the werewolf alpha remained. Ulric. Grey-furred. Old. Wise. He circled me, growls rumbling like thunder.
*"Ralph,"* he snarled. *"Power is a curse."*
I smiled. Showed my fangs.
He charged. I let him come. Let his claws rake my chest—shallow cuts. Pain was nothing. When his jaws snapped for my neck, I drove my hand into his mouth, *upward*. Through palate. Into brain.
He froze. Blood bubbled from his muzzle. I ripped my hand free, clutching his still-warm heart.
The square held its breath.
I dropped the heart in the dirt. Licked blood from my knuckles. Copper and rage.
*"Kneel,"* I said.
They knelt. All of them. Vampires first, proud. Then werewolves, heads bowed. Beasts. Snakes. Fairies trembling. Last… the humans. Pressing faces to stone. Weak. *Mine*.
Old Borin placed the crown—twisted obsidian, set with a single blood-red gem—on my head.
*"Long live King Ralph!"*
The cheer was thin. Fearful.
That night, in the palace of carved black stone, I didn't feast on boar or wine. I dragged the human boy—the one who'd whimpered in the dirt—before my throne. His eyes bulged, white as bone.
*"Please… Majesty…"*
I sank my fangs into his throat. Hot blood flooded my mouth. Thick. Sweet. *Power*. He gurgled, twitched, went still. I dropped the corpse, wiped my mouth.
Gasps. Shocked whispers from the vampire lords.
*"Sire! We… we don't drink human blood! It's forbidden! The curse—"*
I backhanded the speaker. He flew across the hall, smashing into a pillar.
*"Forbidden?"* I rose, the throne room icy. *"I* make the laws now. Humans are cattle. Fairies are tools. Werewolves… sacrifices for the Blood Moon."
I pointed to the dead boy.
*"Hang this from the Oak. Let all clans see."*
As they dragged the body away, something shifted. The torches flickered. Outside, the scent of blooming garlic fields turned sour, rotten. A distant howl cut the night—not a wolf. Something… wounded.
Old Borin clutched his chest, gasping. *"The blood… it taints the land… the curse begins…"*
I smiled. Let it. Let the sun burn us. Let the earth sicken. Power tasted better than sunlight. Better than life.
Beneath the palace, deep in forgotten vaults, a mirror ball—clouded, dark—quivered. As if something trapped inside… *smiled* back.