In the cold heart of the Vampire Kingdom, beneath the towering obsidian spires of the Royal Citadel, a deep, low chime echoed through the halls of power. One by one, the kingdom's highest-ranking figures filed into the war chamber—an ancient, circular hall beneath the castle, carved directly into black stone, its walls draped with blood-red banners of past conquests.
At the center stood a wide circular table, etched with the ancient crest of the Vampire Royal House: a coiled serpent biting its own tail, surrounded by 12 runes representing the king's sons. The torchlight danced across the crimson armor of the generals and shimmered on the elaborate robes of the Elders, who stood with quiet superiority.
The King sat at the head of the table, his expression carved from stone, eyes like molten onyx. Flanking him were the 12 vampire princes, each donned in dark armor, varying in age and demeanor. District heads and Generals—battle-hardened vampires with eyes like dying embers—stood in silence, awaiting orders.
The room grew quiet as the Elder Varnis stepped forward. His pale skin was like stretched parchment, and his voice held an unsettling calm.
"Your Majesty, the scouts confirm that the Western District of the Werewolf Kingdom remains the weakest among the four. Their Alpha presence is minimal, and their borders are loosely guarded. If we strike now, we can breach their outer defenses before reinforcements arrive from the Central District."
One of the princes leaned forward. It was Dravien, the fourth son. "We should unleash our new army on them. Let the newly turned feed first. It'll stir fear among the wolves."
Another son, Nerez, countered. "Too reckless. That would risk exposure to the witches' scrying. We need precision, not just blood."
General Rhaziel cleared his throat. "Our plan must hinge on subversion. We infiltrate, plant sleeper agents. Then, we release the hybrid. Let the wolves feel true fear."
A murmur rippled through the room. All eyes flicked to the King.
"Kenneth," he said softly, almost musing. "The anomaly."
The Eldest Elder stepped forward. "He has not broken, even under the strongest potions. But we believe his body is reaching the limits of resistance. His mind is fraying. His soul... bendable."
The King steepled his fingers. "We do not need him loyal. We need him lethal."
District Head Kaelor added, "A weapon of fear. His hybrid form alone will break the morale of the western clans. His presence will draw out their hidden champions."
"And we cut off the head of their resistance," another general said.
The discussion grew heated as each strategist proposed plans to exploit Kenneth: chaining him with arcane runes, poisoning his mind further with false visions, or simply unleashing him as a wild beast and guiding his rage.
Finally, the King raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.
"Enough," he said. "We will move in six months. That is our window. While the wolves rally their annual harvest, we will strike their exposed flanks. We will shatter their district before they can howl to their Alpha."
He stood slowly, the room shrinking under his presence.
"We will use the hybrid to bring them to their knees."
Moments later, outside the war chamber, a guard was dispatched with silent urgency.
---
Seraphine Morigel stood quietly in the corridor, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and dread. When the guards approached, she said nothing, merely turned and followed.
The throne room was darker than usual. At its far end, the King sat in his ironwood chair, flanked by two massive vampire guards. The heavy scent of incense curled in the air.
"Seraphine," the King said without looking at her. "You have been given the gift of mercy. You breathe because I allow it."
She bowed her head slowly. "Yes, my King."
"Your loyalty is under question. But your usefulness... has not yet run dry."
She looked up, warily.
"We are going to war. Against the Werewolves. Kenneth will be our harbinger of death. Our angel of slaughter."
Her breath caught.
"You will be the one to guide him. Feed him. Nurture the bond he believes exists between you. Use it. Convince him. Command him. And when the time comes... release him."
Her voice trembled. "I cannot. He is not a weapon. He is not your pawn."
The King tilted his head. "No?"
He snapped his fingers.
The chamber doors burst open. Two guards dragged a boy—barely fifteen. Her younger brother.
"No," Seraphine whispered. "No, please."
The King gestured lazily.
One of the guards slit the boy's throat.
The scream that escaped Seraphine was inhuman. She fell to her knees, trembling, reaching for a ghost.
"Convince him, Seraphine," the King said. "Or you will watch your entire bloodline rot."
He waved his hand, and the guards pulled the body away.
She said nothing. Only nodded, tears falling silently.
As she walked out, the King leaned back.
"A broken heart is a sharp leash. Let us see how far it can pull the beast.