The destruction of the Sultan's Wrath had bought the Capital a moment of stunned silence, but it was not a victory. It was merely a pause for breath before the scream.
The wreckage of the lead Dreadnought was still burning on the surface of the Azure Sea, sending plumes of oily black smoke into the sky. But behind it, the Iron Sultanate's fleet was adjusting. The "Steam-Carriers"—flat-bottomed, iron-plated landing craft—were cutting through the debris, heading straight for the harbor walls. They carried the Sultanate's elite infantry: the "Iron-Jacks," soldiers equipped with pneumatic exoskeletons capable of punching through stone.
Kael Light stood on the battlements, his hand still dripping golden-violet ichor into the Radiant Engine's receptacle. His breath came in shallow rasps. The "Piercing Dawn" beam had drained him more than he expected; using his own blood as a catalyst bypassed the usual mana-regeneration cycle, pulling directly from his life-force.
"They are landing," Ignis warned, looking through the telescope. "Three thousand troops. The City Guard can't hold the docks against Iron-Jacks. They'll be in the lower districts within the hour."
"Then we go down and meet them," Kael said, pulling his hand away from the machine. He wrapped a strip of his tattered cloak around the wound.
"You will not reach them in time, Father," Garret rasped. The werewolf was crouched on the parapet, his hackles raised, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "But they will."
Garret pointed toward the eastern cliffs.
A mist had rolled in from the sea—not the grey industrial smog of the Sultanate, but a crimson-tinted fog that smelled of copper and old roses. It moved against the wind, flowing over the harbor walls like spilled liquid. Inside the mist, shadows moved with a speed that defied the human eye.
The Sultanate's landing craft closest to the cliffs suddenly went silent. Then, screams erupted—high-pitched, terrified wails that were cut short by wet, tearing sounds.
"The Leeches," Garret spat. "They don't fight a war. They eat a meal."
From the crimson mist, a single figure detached itself. It didn't climb the Great Spire; it simply appeared on the battlements, coalescing from a swarm of bats and shadow into the form of a man.
He was tall, dressed in the rotting finery of a nobleman from a century past. His skin was the color of moonlight on marble, and his eyes were a deep, hungry red. But beneath the elegance, Kael could see the decay. The man's skin was tight against his skull, his fingers were skeletal claws, and the aura he projected was one of desperate, starving thirst.
This was Ambassador Voros of the Sanguine Courts.
Ignis leveled a mana-pistol at the vampire. Garret roared, preparing to lunge.
"Hold," Kael commanded.
Voros bowed, a movement of fluid, aristocratic grace. "The 'Blood Weeper,'" he said, his voice sounding like silk dragged over a tombstone. "The rumors do not do you justice. You smell... intoxicating. Like a sunrise bottled in flesh."
"You are trespassing, leech," Garret growled, stepping between Kael and the vampire. "Go back to your crypts before I mount your head on a pike."
Voros ignored the werewolf completely. His red eyes remained fixed on Kael's bandaged hand. "We are not here to trespass, Wolf. We are here to beg."
Kael stepped forward. "Beg?"
"Look at us, Weeper," Voros said, gesturing to his own face. He let the glamour slip for a second, revealing the horror underneath—skin peeling away to reveal grey muscle, teeth that were too long for his mouth, eyes that were frantic with starvation. "We are the Failed Vessels of Aethelgard. Like you, we were made to hold power. But unlike you, we cannot generate it. We are leaking cups. For centuries, we have survived on the scraps of mana found in the blood of mortals. It is a pitiful, half-life."
Voros took a step closer, the glamour returning. "But you... you generate the 'White Sun.' One drop of your blood is worth a thousand mortal lives. It does not just feed us; it cures us. It fills the void in our bones."
Kael looked at the vampire, then down at the harbor where the Iron-Jacks were breaching the gates. He saw the "Little Suns" forming a jagged line of defense, armed with nothing but rusted pikes and courage. They would be slaughtered.
"You want a trade," Kael said flatly.
"A treaty," Voros corrected. "The Sanguine Courts will hold the harbor. We will break the Iron-Jacks. We will sink their carriers. In exchange... we ask for a tithe. A weekly draught of the King's Blood for the High Lords of the Court."
"You ask for a lot," Ignis muttered. "He isn't a keg to be tapped."
"The alternative," Voros said, looking at the smoke rising from the lower districts, "is that you fight this war alone. You may destroy the ships, Weeper, but can you be everywhere at once? Can you stop every soldier from putting a bayonet through a child? We are fast. We are lethal. And we are very, very hungry."
Kael felt the "Stable Agony" in his chest. He thought of the hollow boys, of Martha, of the people who looked to him for protection. He had promised to heal the world, but sometimes, healing required a transfusion.
"One vial," Kael said. "Once a week. Only for the High Lords. And you do not touch the citizens of this city. If I find a single bite mark on a civilian, I will burn your Courts to ash with the Dawn-Mana. Do you understand?"
Voros smiled, revealing needle-sharp fangs. "A King's decree. We accept."
Kael unwrapped the bandage on his hand. He squeezed his fist, letting the golden-violet blood flow into a small crystal phial that Voros produced from his coat. The vampire watched the liquid with a look of religious ecstasy.
When the phial was full, Kael tossed it to him. Voros caught it, bowing low.
"The Sanguine Courts serve the Sun," Voros whispered.
He turned and leaped from the battlements, dissolving into a cloud of crimson mist mid-fall.
Below, the battle for the harbor changed instantly. The crimson fog swept over the Iron-Jacks. The soldiers, confident in their pneumatic armor, found that steam-pistons offered no defense against creatures that moved like smoke and struck with the strength of hydraulic presses.
Kael watched as the vampires tore through the Sultanate's lines, their red eyes glowing in the gloom.
"You just fed the sharks, Saint," Ignis said, lowering his pistol.
"I know," Kael whispered, re-bandaging his hand. "But at least they're our sharks."
He looked at Garret. The werewolf was staring at him with a mixture of fear and awe.
"The Moon and the Blood," Garret rumbled. "You gather the monsters, Father. Are you building a kingdom, or a pack?"
"I'm building a wall," Kael said, turning back to the telescope. "And I'll use whatever stones I have to."