Hello, dear reader!
We are kicking things off with my first story. The story takes us to an ancient time written in blood, where curses suddenly rear their heads from the sands, and into the cruel, steel-hard, and dark world of vampires.
At this point, a story awaits you that deals with the centuries-old curse carried by the once-noble vampire, Vladis, and his journey to break free from it.
If you want to join in, you can start scrolling on this journey from grayness to crimson.
A few important notes:
The story contains scenes of extreme violence, blood, and killing.
The story includes sexual implications and elements of direct eroticism.
I especially advise individuals who have sensitivities in these areas or do not meet the age requirement to stay away.
Happy reading!
See you in the next story, guys!
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The velvet of the night was like a sea of ink, swallowing the gothic towers and pointed roofs of the Drakovan Manor. This mass of stone, standing on the same hill for centuries, resisting storms and the merciless teeth of time, was now nothing more than a stone reflection of its owner Vladis Drakovan's soul; a mausoleum, magnificent, ancient, but rotting from within, its corridors haunted only by memories and the ghosts of unceasing pain. Outside, a relentless autumn rain beat down on the foothills of the Carpathians, lashing the stone walls of the house like a whip, the water from the gutters pouring from the mouths of gargoyle statues with guttural sounds. Every drop was as numb as the blood that flowed slowly through Vladis's veins, neither warm nor cold, carrying only the monotony of existence. In the manor's vast library, the flickering light of the dying flames in the fireplace illuminated the gilded letters on the spines of thousands of volumes with fleeting shimmers before plunging them back into shadow. This room, dominated by red and gold, once full of life and knowledge, was now filled with the sweet, stale scent of dust and abandonment. Vladis sat in his high-backed, blood-red velvet-covered armchair behind the massive, claw-footed, walnut-carved desk in the center of the room. In truth, the verb 'to sit' did not fully describe his state; it was more a stillness that had lost all potential for movement and life, like a statue placed upon its pedestal.
He wore a jacket woven with the finest craftsmanship, as black as the night itself. Its cuffs, embroidered with silver thread, contrasted against his pale, long-fingered hand that rested almost perfectly still upon the desk. The only thing gleaming on his fingers was a silver ring bearing his family crest, set with a jet-black onyx stone in its center. His eyes watched the dance of the flames in the fireplace, but they did not see. His mind, as it did every night, was lost in the labyrinths of the past, in corridors that echoed with betrayal and loss. Decades, perhaps centuries, had passed. Time flowed at a different rhythm for immortals like him; sometimes as fast as the blink of an eye, sometimes as slow and agonizing as a drop of water wearing away stone. For him, time had frozen within the flames of Nydra's betrayal. Nydra... When that name surfaced in his mind, even the firelight seemed to flicker and pale for a moment. That stunning beauty he once worshipped, with her hair silvered by moonlight, her eyes shining as if made of stardust, and her lips as red as blood; for whom he had considered defying even the age-old traditions of his clan. That beauty was merely a mask, like a serpent's skin, hiding the deadly venom beneath. She had sown the seeds of discord that gnawed at his clan from within, turned brother against brother, and finally drowned the glory of the Drakovan name in blood and ashes.
And as the final, most cruel seal of her betrayal, she had left him that cursed talisman he wore around his neck. Vladis's fingers involuntarily touched his chest, beneath his jacket. There, stuck to his skin, was a talisman of twisted, tarnished silver, born from a dark ritual blending his blood with Nydra's. The moment he touched it, instead of the metal's usual coldness, he felt a faint, sickening warmth move beneath his skin. It was the curse itself, a parasitic entity that breathed with him, feeding on his power. This curse not only brought him fleeting, mind-clouding delusions but also turned his own ancient power into a rebel. Sometimes, in his calmest moments, his power would swell in his veins like a flood, challenging his control, causing objects around him to tremble with an unseen force, and the nearest windows to crack with a thin shriek. This was Nydra's final gift; to make him a prisoner of his own power, to slowly drag him to the brink of madness. Rumors whispered that after establishing her own vampire kingdom, Nydra had fallen victim to her own ambition and hunger for power, that a curse similar to the ones she crafted had wiped her and her kingdom off the map overnight. Neither witness nor ruin remained; only a legend told in fear, used to frighten children. Vladis wanted to believe this legend, but as long as the curse remained around his neck, he knew a part of Nydra's being still lived in this world, in his own flesh and blood.
As his thoughts spun in the same vicious cycle as always, he heard the sound that pierced the manor's age-old silence like a dagger. The sound of the door knocker striking three times, without hesitation, powerfully. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound passed through the oak door, echoed down the stone corridors, and reached the dimness of the library. Vladis's head turned slowly in the direction of the sound. The vacant expression in his eyes gave way to a sharp, predatory attention. The door of this manor had not been knocked upon in decades. No lost traveler would dare climb this desolate hill, nor would the superstitious folk from the nearby villages venture near this "cursed" place. Who could this uninvited guest be? For a moment, he wondered if it was a trick of the curse. A phantom sound created by his mind? But the sound was too real, too solid. A sound that cut through the howl of the rain and wind, undeniably made by a human hand. Slowly, with a faint creak of his joints, he rose from his chair. Despite his centuries-long existence, there was no sign of old age or fatigue in his movements; it was more like a long-unused mechanism stirring back to life. His shadow, elongated by the firelight, danced like a giant on the library walls as he left the room.
His footsteps were silent as he moved across the marble floor. He was a part of the night, and silence was his most natural companion. As he passed through the long, wide hall, the portraits of his ancestors on the walls seemed to watch him with their pale faces and dark eyes. Each was a silent witness to how mighty the Drakovan blood had once been. Now, all that remained of that glorious line was this cursed, lonely man. He paused when he reached the massive, iron-wrought oak door. He listened for the heartbeat of the presence outside. Yes, it was a human heart. Beating fast, but steady; it seemed filled more with a kind of determination or anticipation than fear. The breathing was similarly controlled. This was no ordinary traveler. Vladis slowly drew back the bolt of the small, iron-barred peephole on the door. The scene outside was like a painting blurred by the rain and the night. A man stood on the threshold, soaked to the bone, wrapped in a long, dark coat. His face was hidden in the shadow of the coat's wide collar and the hat pulled down over his head, but the raindrops trickling from his chin gleamed in the flickering lantern light. The man lifted his head slightly, as if sensing he was being watched. His eyes, glimpsed for a moment from beneath the shadow, had a piercing brightness even in the dark.
Vladis spoke in a cold, metallic voice. His vocal cords, as if rusted, vibrated with difficulty after such a long silence. "Who are you, and what do you seek at this door?"
The man, ignoring the threat and distance in the tone, spoke directly into the darkness of the peephole. His voice was clear and sharp despite the howl of the wind. "My name is of no importance. What I seek is you, Vladis Drakovan. Or rather, the thing you carry around your neck."
The blood in Vladis's veins froze for an instant. This man could not be an ordinary mortal. He knew about the curse. His fingers went to the massive bolt on the inside of the door. For a moment, he considered sending the man back where he came from without opening it. But curiosity, that damned emotion, that impulse older even than betrayal, stopped him. Slowly, with a groaning screech, he pulled back the bolt and opened the heavy wing of the door just a crack. The cold, damp night air flooded in, carrying the scent of rotted leaves and wet earth. "What do you think you know, mortal?" Vladis hissed. His single eye, visible through the gap, glowed like an ember in the dark.
The man did not step back. On the contrary, he seemed to have expected this cold reception. "I know of Nydra's last whisper, the word sealed in blood. I know the rumor that she was destroyed along with her kingdom. But I do not believe in rumors," he said. Then, he uttered the words that caused a lightning bolt to flash through Vladis's mind: "The old records of the Chain-Skull Clan tell a different story."
Vladis's hand tightened on the edge of the door. The ancient oak beneath his fingers crackled with an unheard sound. The Chain-Skull Clan... They were the historians of the vampire world, the keepers of secrets. A clan long since scattered and forgotten, well before Nydra's rise. This man's mention of them could not be a simple coincidence. Still, Vladis could not set aside the distrust and paranoia etched into his soul over decades. "Nonsense," he snapped. "You waste my time with old wives' tales. Be gone from here, or you will end the night on this hill with your blood spilled upon the soil." His voice was filled with a deadly promise.
The man showed not the slightest sign of fear at the threat. "What if I told you she is still alive?" he whispered, his voice slithering in with the wind like a snake's hiss. "Not just alive, but growing stronger. And that curse you carry... it is not just a shackle. It is also a key. A beacon. One that allows you to find her... or allows her to find you."
This was too much. For Vladis, hope was the most dangerous poison. The walls he had built around himself for years to shield against this poison were trembling at the stranger's audacious words. "You live in a fantasy, fool!" he roared. "Nydra is a legend! A nightmare of dust and oblivion! Now, be gone from my sight!" He moved to slam the door in the man's face, but with surprising agility, the man thrust his hand into the gap. When Vladis tried to force the door shut, he felt the man's hand resist with superhuman strength. This man was mortal, his heartbeat said so, but his strength was something else. Rage surged through Vladis's veins like a flame. He was losing control. The talisman on his neck grew searing hot, burning his skin. His eyes turned completely red. He suddenly flung the door wide open and seized the man by the collar of his coat. He lifted him with one hand, his feet dangling off the ground. "I told you to leave!" he snarled, his voice no longer human but the growl of a beast. The man's face was now just inches from Vladis's. On his rain-soaked face, there was still no fear, only a calm expression, as if he had been proven right.
"Don't you... want to find her?" the man whispered, breathing with difficulty as Vladis's iron grip tightened on his throat. "Don't you want to be... free of this curse?"
A war began between Vladis's mind and his rage. He wanted to strangle him right there on the threshold, to erase his existence from this world, and to retreat once more into the safe shell of his loneliness and pain. But the man's words had already seeped into the deepest corners of his mind, into the dusty cellar where the last crumbs of hope were hidden. The Chain-Skull Clan. The Key. The Beacon. These words were seared into a corner of his mind, as if by a branding iron. Slowly, with disgust, he dropped the man to the ground. The man stumbled back, coughing and gasping for air. Vladis stood on the threshold, a dark silhouette whose shadow stretched into the hall. "Do not appear before me again," he hissed. "What you speak are the ravings of a madman. But if you set foot on these lands one more time, I will show no mercy."
Then, without giving the stranger a chance to reply, he slammed the door shut. The solid, metallic thud of the bolt sliding into place was the final word in the manor's silence.
Vladis stood motionless for a moment, his back to the door. He listened to the stranger's slowly retreating footsteps outside until they merged with the sound of the rain. Then, with slow steps, he returned to his library. The fire in the fireplace was almost extinguished, only the embers glowed. But a new fire had begun to burn within Vladis. For the first time in decades, the monotony of the night was broken. He had scorned the stranger, dismissed him, but his mind had begun to work like a clockwork mechanism. The clues the man had left behind had set the rusted gears in motion. That night, Vladis Drakovan did not sleep. For the first time in centuries, his mind held something other than the ghosts of the past: the whisper of a dangerous, perhaps impossible, future.
When the solid sound he had left behind the door rolled like a tombstone down the stone corridors and vanished into the depths of silence, Vladis found himself in a flood of
emotions he hadn't felt in decades. Anger, yes, that was familiar; a cold, aristocratic anger at the stranger's insolence, at the violation of his centuries-old solitude. But beneath it, there were far more disturbing, far more dangerous layers. The stranger's words had forced the rustiest locks of his mind, letting in a poisonous light: doubt, and even worse, the specter of hope. That night and the following day,