The shadows clung thick to the high spires of the vampire citadel, casting an eerie red hue over the inner sanctum as Seraphine stepped out of the dungeon.
She didn't speak. Her fingers trembled against the cold walls as she walked the narrow corridor, a whisper of pain lodged in her throat. Kenneth's voice still echoed in her ears—fragile, broken, calling her mother like a child lost in some haunted dream. The way his hands had reached for her in the dark, trembling, the way he whimpered when she tried to clean his wounds.
The scent of blood had coated her fingers, not from some enemy or battle, but from someone she once knew as radiant, protective, and kind. And now, seeing him like this, barely human, hurt more than any blade ever could.
Her footsteps slowed, halted.
The memory struck her without warning.
---
She was six. Small, curious, and always trailing behind her father like a shadow. He was one of the Queen's personal guards then—respected, fearless, and devoted. Her name, Seraphine, was chosen by the Queen herself, a kind gesture from Seraphina to the man who had saved her life in the southern raids. Seraphina adored her, always smiling when she entered the royal chambers, always kneeling down to tuck a flower behind her ear or offer her a warm slice of honeyed bread.
Kenneth had been a prince, yes, but not the kind that lorded over others. He'd run barefoot through the gardens with her, dirt streaked across his face, leaves in his hair, and that bright, dazzling grin that made the other vampire children envious. He never acted like royalty with her.
When she tripped, he caught her. When she cried, he dried her tears. When she was afraid of the dark, he sat outside her chambers with a toy sword and promised nothing would ever hurt her as long as he breathed.
And he kept that promise—especially the day the Firstborn Prince threatened to kill her father for disobedience.
---
She remembered the sound of her panicked footsteps as she ran to find Kenneth. He had been training then, blood-drenched blades dancing through the air like silver ribbons.
"Kenneth!" she had screamed, tears streaming.
He turned immediately, dropped the blades, and ran to her.
"What happened? Who hurt you?"
She could barely speak through sobs. "The Firstborn... he wants to kill Father. Please... please stop him."
Kenneth didn't wait.
By the time he arrived at the courtyard, the Firstborn Prince was already lifting his blade.
"If you do this," Kenneth had said, his voice a controlled snarl, "I will end you."
The Firstborn had laughed. "You? You don't even belong here. You're not one of us."
But Kenneth had stepped in front of her father and caught the descending blade with his bare hand. The blood spilled immediately, but his eyes burned with something terrifying—power and rage that didn't belong to a child.
He didn't need a weapon. The blood from his hand twisted and shot like a living serpent, coiling around the Firstborn and driving him to the ground. He didn't stop there. He almost killed him—and maybe would have if the Queen hadn't arrived.
That day marked the shift.
The whispers started. The other nobles began to fear him. Not because he was cruel—but because he could be.
And now? That same boy was shackled in chains, tortured daily in a dungeon.
---
Seraphine wiped a tear that slid down her cheek as she reached the surface courtyard. The moonlight was cold, biting against her skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the night, "I'm so, so sorry."
She didn't know if she meant for not saving him, for not fighting harder, or for being too afraid.
---
Far away, deep in the royal council chamber, the twelve sons of the Vampire King gathered in silence.
The Firstborn sat at the head of the obsidian table, arms crossed, fangs partially exposed.
"The hybrid," one of the middle sons began, "is a threat to the throne. The knights fear him. The elders fear him. Our soldiers speak of his rampage in hushed tones. If he escapes—"
"He won't," the Firstborn said calmly, his voice like chilled steel. "Not yet."
"Yet? So you admit you'll let him go eventually?"
Another brother slammed his palm on the table. "He killed hundreds. His power keeps growing. We should end him before he destroys everything."
"He's still useful," the Firstborn replied. "Let the King use him against the wolves. Let him carve a path soaked in blood. Then when he's served his purpose... I'll deal with him myself."
A long silence settled.
"You're obsessed with control," a younger brother muttered. "You always were."
"I'm the only one thinking strategically. He may be stronger than most of us now, but he's unstable. Once he's served his use, I will put a dagger through his heart. Personally."
---
Far below them, beyond the southern cliffs and the tower guards, Malrik stood beneath a withered tree, his fingers tracing its bark. His eyes were distant, half-closed, but his mind wandered years into the past.
He had trained many, seen many fall, but none like Kenneth.
He remembered the first time the boy asked him what blood manipulation truly was. Not just the elegance of control, but the horror of it. The hunger. The pain.
"Will I lose myself to it one day?" Kenneth had asked him.
"Only if you let yourself forget why you fight."
Kenneth had been different. Not just a student. A soul that yearned to be good even when darkness clawed at every edge.
Malrik remembered the way Kenneth held back his wolf when sparring. How he hesitated to kill, even when the beasts they hunted tore at his skin. He never smiled when he won a fight. He only looked relieved when it ended.
And now, that same boy was alone in a dungeon, starved and mad, broken by those who once bowed to him.
Malrik opened his palm and stared at the vial of crushed herbs and vampire essence—his last gift from the Queen before she died.
"Seraphina," he murmured, "he's still fighting. Your son hasn't given up yet."
He clenched his hand.
"Neither will I."
---
In the distance, lightning cracked the sky.
And somewhere, deep in the belly of the citadel, a hybrid stirred in his sleep, whispering the names of ghosts.
The kingdom would bleed.
And soon... it would burn.