At the grand Archaic Manor of the vampire coven, a sleek black vehicle burst through the wrought-iron gates and tore down the rain-slicked road.
In the high windows of the manor, shrouded by drapes of crimson and shadow, Kraven stood watching. His reflection fractured in the glass, a portrait of rage barely contained. It was too late—he could not stop Selene. She had gone.
His jaw clenched as he turned from the window, his fangs slightly bared in bitter frustration. What is wrong with her? he thought. This relentless obsession with the Lycans—this endless crusade to purge them from existence. To him, the past was a wound long healed, a history better buried. The future was what mattered now—his future.
Kraven's ascent had been swift. Regent. Soon, perhaps, the only Elder to grace the coven's throne. The thought alone fed his arrogance, warming his cold veins. Yet Selene, the one he had intended to make his bride, had refused to bend her will to his. She defied him still—driven by ghosts, by a war that should have died centuries ago.
His steps echoed with anger as he strode from the chamber, the hem of his tailored coat flaring behind him. He did not glance at the computer left open on the desk, its blue light flickering faintly against the dark walls.
On the screen, a single image remained.
A man's face.
A file of credentials.
The name: Michael Corvin.
The cursor blinked beside the name like a silent heartbeat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Far away, beneath a dark sky, an ancient fortress loomed over a desolate landscape. Once a stronghold of nobility and power, it now lay ravaged by centuries—its spires broken, its battlements strangled by creeping vines and the weight of forgotten time.
A convoy stood motionless at the base of the ruined castle, its black vehicles gleaming faintly in the dim light. The engines idled low, the sound of machinery strangely reverent amid the stillness. This was a place untouched by humanity's reach—unclaimed by empire, progress, or memory.
Men in black trench coats waited beside the cars, their silence absolute. At their center stood a tall figure draped in a coat of white fur, its immaculate texture stark against the decay surrounding them.
Ironic.
Valek Varn.
A name erased from history, remembered by no one—not even by those who once trembled at it.
Before them stretched a graveyard swallowed by moss and frost, tombstones leaning at odd angles like weary sentinels. The inscriptions upon them had long been devoured by time; their names were whispers in the dirt.
This was one of the last strongholds of Voivode Valek von Varn, warlord of ancient Transylvania—a ruler whose dominion had once stretched into the heart of the Hungarian Empire. And it was here, amid the ruins of his kingdom, that everything had ended.
Valek's boots sank softly into the overgrown soil as he advanced through the graveyard. His breath, faint and unneeded, drifted into the cold air like a ghost's sigh. Ahead, a mausoleum loomed—its marble skin strangled by ivy, its door half-buried in the earth.
They entered.
Within, the air was still, untouched for centuries. Three tombstones stood before the group, pristine and well-kept despite the decay outside. The flicker of torchlight danced over the stone, revealing names carved in a language older than the empire that birthed them.
A soft gasp escaped Valek's lips. The tremor in his voice. He approached the central tombstone, trembling as he fell to his knees. His hand—strong enough once to crush a man's throat—now trembled as it caressed the rough surface.
Above the tombs, a painting hung on the far wall, miraculously preserved. The candlelight breathed life into its aged pigments—a woman with dark, silken hair and a complexion pale as moonlight. Her eyes seemed kind, maternal, and infinitely sorrowful.
By her side stood two children. A young woman with her mother's grace rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, while a small boy sat upon the woman's lap, reaching toward the unseen painter with innocent eyes.
The painting had survived the ages—untouched, unspoiled—like a relic defying death itself.
Valek's hand brushed the frame, fingers trembling. His lips parted in a whisper barely audible.
"Oh, my dear Celia… my children… what have I done?"
Behind him, Vij raised a hand to signal the men to withdraw. They obeyed without a word, their footfalls fading down the stone corridor.
Outside, the air bit cold and sharp. The convoy lights gleamed dimly through the mist as Ivanov approached, his trench coat fluttering like a dark banner.
He glanced toward the mausoleum, then at Vij, understanding passing silently between them.
"What did you find?" Vij asked, his voice low.
"Not much," Ivanov replied. "But something is off. The Lycans are searching for someone—I couldn't learn who or why, but this person seems central to Lucian's scheme."
Vij nodded, expression unreadable.
"Very well. It does not concern us, as long as they are discrete with their war. This city holds no value to the Order. I believe the Lord will not wish to linger here. We shall be gone before their plans unfold."
Ivanov nodded slightly.
"Liam and Alexander will deliver their reports soon," Vij continued. "But ensure our forces are ready. If the Lycans strike before we leave, I want every measure prepared."
"Yes, sir." Ivanov turned, glancing once more at the mausoleum before heading toward the convoy.
"Dylan," Vij called to another, this was the one he rode with in the lord's presence, "have the drivers ready for departure."
"At once."
As orders rippled through the camp, Vij withdrew quietly to the edge of the cemetery, standing in the veil of mist. He waited there, giving his master the solitude he required. The wind whispered through the dead grass, carrying faint echoes of prayers long forgotten.
Inside the mausoleum, Valek remained kneeling before the tomb. His shoulders trembled.
Valek, Conqueror.
Valek, Ruler.
Valek, Warlord.
Valek, Voivode.
Now… nothing.
"I am alone," he whispered.
The words fell into the silence like drops of blood into still water.
"I killed them… all of them. The love of my life. My children.... My heir…"
His voice broke, the confession more painful than any wound he had ever suffered. He lowered his head until his forehead touched the cold stone.
In that moment, the power, domination and now immortality—all of it meant nothing. He was not a conqueror. He was not even a man. Only a shadow of what he once was.
From the darkness, his eyes lifted—twin coals burning in the gloom.
Their hue shifted, deepening into a terrible crimson that seemed to glow with the reflection of a thousand buried sins.
He was no longer human.
He was... a monster.