The sun never truly rose over Duskveil. The sky lingered in a perpetual gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of storm and ruin. The keep's walls seemed darker now, not just from stone or shadow, but from the weight of loss and anticipation that hung over its halls.
Aelric walked through the corridors, his boots echoing like drumbeats of war. Every corner held the ghosts of Velmora: the screams of the dead, the ash of the fallen, the memories he could never forget. His fingers brushed the cold stone as he passed the training rooms, where recruits were already sparring in the dim morning light.
The clang of steel rang sharp in his ears. A young vampire, no older than fifteen, swung a wooden sword against his instructor. Each miss, each block, each strike brought Aelric back to the first day he held a weapon. The first time he'd stood against something that wanted him dead.
Kaelen's words echoed in his mind: "Patience. Calculate. Wait. Then strike." But patience had grown thin.
---
In the war room, the council gathered again, tension heavier than the storm outside. Maps littered the table, candles flickering shadows over rivers and forests.
"Reports from Galdar's Reach are worse than we thought," Lady Seralyn said, pointing to black marks over the valley. "Entire patrols gone. No survivors. The demons are not only attacking—they are learning, adapting."
Miren grunted, tapping a clawed finger against the map. "So we strike first. Hit them before they regroup. That's the vampire way."
Kaelen shook his head. "Rash action gets us all burned. The demons know our moves already; they expect retaliation. We need strategy, not blind rage."
Aelric leaned forward, voice low but firm. "We've watched too long. They take villages while we debate. Every moment we hesitate, more innocents die."
Kaelen's crimson eyes flicked to him. "And if you lead your men into slaughter?"
"I won't hesitate," Aelric said.
---
That night, the scouts returned with grim faces.
"They're massing near the Black Crossroads," one said, shaking. "Hundreds… maybe thousands. Their general… he's unlike anything we've faced."
Aelric's blood ran cold. "Var'eth," he whispered, the name tasting like ash.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Then we prepare for war."
---
The first patrol left at dawn. Aelric rode with fifteen of Duskveil's finest, his sword strapped across his back, his senses alert to every sound. The forest of Ashmar lay before them like a dark ocean, each tree a wave ready to crash.
They didn't have to wait long.
The first demon ambush struck without warning. Shadows burst from the fog—forms twisted and terrible, teeth bared, claws ready. Screams echoed through the trees.
Aelric leaped from his horse, silver sword flashing. One demon fell before it even touched him. Another lunged—he sidestepped, spinning and slicing, the blade meeting its spine with a sickening crack.
The battle was chaos. Claws raked armor, fire hissed against stone and metal, and every scream was mirrored by another.
In the midst of it, Aelric saw something impossible: a shadow moving faster than the eye could follow, darting between demons and vampires alike, striking silently, perfectly.
When the dust settled, half of his patrol lay dead. The forest was silent again, save for the labored breaths of the survivors.
Aelric wiped blood from his blade, knelt, and whispered, "This is only the beginning."
---
Back at Duskveil, Kaelen waited, pacing in the high tower. His eyes never left the western horizon. When Aelric returned, he didn't speak immediately. His cloak was soaked, his armor scorched, his eyes burning.
"You disobeyed direct orders," Kaelen said sharply.
Aelric bowed his head. "I followed the demons to their lair. We know what we face now."
Kaelen's hands clenched. "And the lives you lost?"
"They were already doomed," Aelric said quietly. "But now we have a chance to fight back."
Kaelen studied him, the weight of centuries in his gaze. "And the blood of the innocents?"
Aelric didn't answer. Not yet. He didn't know if he would ever forgive himself.
---
Later, in the darkness of his chambers, Aelric felt it — the whisper of something ancient and hungry. It called to him from the shadows, promising power, revenge, and fire.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
No answer came. Only the heartbeat of the night.
And somewhere far away, in the burnt forests of Velmora, a figure watched him through the fog. Eyes glowing violet, wings hidden in shadow, lips curved in a
sinister smile.
The war was no longer at the gates. It was inside.
Inside him.