What is a man, if not a vessel of agony—
a being of flesh that yet seeks the spirit,
in hope that the unseen might harbor comfort.
A dream… a dream of eternal silence,
for he can no longer endure the echoes from within.
Deep in the mountains, cloaked beneath a blanket of white and frost, a structure lay entombed in the bones of the earth. Carved millennia past, it was hidden from the sight of both man and the supernatural alike.
Here, before a platform hewn from the mountain's very bones and veiled in the breath of the cold, a figure stood—his silhouette carved in stillness. A great sword rested in his hands. His eyes were closed, as though lost in reminiscence of the past.
He swung his sword. Every fibre of muscle followed his will, contracting and expanding in perfect unity, each movement smooth, deliberate—fluid as water, precise as memory. Bare-chested, he held his stance, the air trembling faintly with each arc of the blade.
Every swing was remembrance.
A peasant turned warrior.
A warrior turned warlord.
A warlord turned nobility.
Nobility turned "god."
They should have let him die.
They should have used every means at their command to slay the monster. But instead of granting him death, they stood guard—watchful, resolute—until they could bring back an echo of his former self.
But at what cost?
He had lost everything dear to him. Yet his realm endured—though changed beyond recognition. They endured too, but not as men. They persisted in the form of the creatures he once loathed.
Time had passed. The sun had long set upon his reign, yet he remained.
Valek's swings came to a halt—swift, decisive. The motion was so refined, so exact, that it held a certain beauty to behold. He exhaled, a faint plume of breath escaping his lungs, quickly carried away by the whispering wind.
He did not feel the cold. Not anymore.
His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sun rose—a radiant ember piercing the distant veil. It painted the northern skies in a tapestry of fiery gold and deep crimson. Slowly, the light crept across the frozen peaks, touching the snow-capped mountains and silent valleys.
Once more, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The air was sharp, clean, ancient.
His tall frame stood alone against the encroaching dawn, unmoving, enduring—braving the day as it broke upon the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Selene gazed out through the tall, arched windows of the manor as the sun slowly encroached upon the world.
Soon, it was all she could see—daylight, unrelenting and pure.
It was time for the slumber of the vampires.
This was their night.
And yet, she remained awake.
Now clad in a loose, dark gown—simple but fitting for her kind—she stood still, lost in thought. The silence of the manor seemed to echo her conflict. Her mind drifted through the shadows of doubt and reason, torn by what she had discovered.
She had already confirmed, with troubling certainty, that Lucien might still be alive.
After treading the dark paths that led her back to the coven, she had sought out Kahn, who had listened intently to her account of the powerful Lycan she had encountered. When she told him that the creature might indeed have been Lucien, Kahn was skeptical, but not dismissive. After all, Kraven's tale had always left them questioning its truth.
She remembered the necklace—that familiar piece the Lycan wore—the same design Lucien had once carried. Her later research, buried deep within the oldest historical texts and chronicles of the coven, had confirmed it beyond reasonable doubt. The relic was Lucien's.
That realization had drawn her toward a single, dangerous conclusion: Kraven had lied.
If he had, then he was no regent… only a traitor wearing the mask of one. The thought alone was poisonous, threatening to unravel the fragile order of the coven.
Selene could not yet discern the entire truth, but she knew one thing with certainty—if Lucien still lived, then Viktor had to know.
Yet therein lay the problem.
It was not Viktor's turn to be awakened.
The vampire elders ruled in centuries-long succession—each rising to power when the last took to their rest. It was an ancient cycle designed to prevent infighting, to preserve balance. Each elder reigned as they saw fit, while the others slept, sealed away and unable to interfere.
Now, a century had passed, and Amelia—the current ruling elder—was nearing her time of slumber. Soon, it would be Marcus's turn to rule.
Of all the elders, Viktor was the one Selene trusted most. The one who had always listened. The one who would understand.
If her suspicions were true, and Kraven had betrayed them all, then Viktor was the only one who could act with the resolve required to stop him.
Urgency left her with little choice.
She would awaken Viktor ahead of schedule.
But even then,she needed proof—undeniable evidence that Lucien lived. She needed more than conviction; she needed truth that could stand before an elder.
Selene drew the heavy curtains closed, warding off the sunlight that crept through the glass like molten gold, and turned away. The room darkened once more, the shadows reclaiming what daylight had dared to touch.
It would be many hours until nightfall.
She would use that time to prepare.
Through the night before, she had searched tirelessly—sifting through every book, every scrap of history, every forgotten archive of vampire lore. She sought any record of an organization known as the Order.
Yet no matter how deep she searched, nothing surfaced. Not a single mention.
Their intelligence networks had failed to record such a group's existence, something that deeply unsettled her.. The Order existed—she had seen enough to be certain of that much.
If they were ancient, then there would be a trace. There was always a trace. She simply needed to dig deeper, into places long neglected or forbidden.
At times like this, she wished Viktor had not exiled the historian.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun's light crept over the snow-capped peaks, spilling its golden hue across the frozen range. Its glow stretched outward, reaching the platform of what had once been a monastery.
There, a lone figure knelt.
As the rays ascended the horizon, the light descended.
Valek remained still, his head bowed, eyes closed in solemn calm. Slowly, the sun's illumination crawled across his bare skin.
Sizzle. Sizzle.
The flesh began to redden, blistering as smoke rose faintly from his shoulders. Tiny cracks appeared, the surface of his skin rupturing in quiet agony. Yet he did not move. His face was expressionless—serene even—as though the pain belonged to someone else.
He burned.
Then, as the light grew harsher, a shadow fell across him. The sunlight receded from his body, cut off by the presence of another.
A voice broke the silence.
"My master."
Valek's eyes remained closed. "What is it, William?" he asked, his tone even, unbothered.
"Your meal is ready," came the calm reply.
Valek released a long, weary sigh. Slowly, he opened his eyes—the irises glinting faintly in the new light—and rose to his feet. His tall frame cast a long shadow upon the stone. Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the monastery's darkened interior.
The other man followed reverently, keeping a measured distance.
"It is Liam now," he reminded softly.
"I know, I know," Valek replied, dismissive, as though the correction were of little consequence. "I'll try to remember."
Liam's gaze lingered on his master's broad back—the stride steady, unhurried, regal even in exhaustion. A faint, wistful smile crossed his lips as he followed him into the cold silence of the monastery.