In the vampire village, the night was eternal, but it breathed in rhythms of its own. There were no suns here—only two pale moons, Velun and Draveth, and one lone star, Al'Dhor, that burned like an unblinking eye above the darkened spires. When Velun hung full and sharp in the sky, the vampires called it midday.
The streets shimmered with quiet life. Merchants lined the narrow alleys, their wares displayed on frost-kissed tables that exhaled thin threads of mist. Their voices, melodic and low, rippled through the cold air as they called out to passersby. Glass jars glowed faintly from within—preserved blood mixed with lunar essence, said to sharpen the senses. Silver fruits from the Frostroots of Draveth glistened like frozen hearts. The hum of trade and chatter wove through the air exactly like how it would on earth.
Children no taller than a man's knee sprinted past the vendor stalls, their laughter goofy and eerie, echoing through the labyrinth of alleys. Each step they took left faint patches of frost that vanished seconds later. Soldiers, cloaked in deep shades of gray and armed with blades carved from moonstone, and beast cores marched with silent discipline. Their eyes glowed faintly, not from emotion, but from the training that dulled it.
Life here was motion through shadow—measured, eternal, beautiful in its stillness.
At the center of the village rose a structure unlike any other. No banners hung from its walls. No sigils marked its allegiance. It simply existed—an ancient fortress of obsidian, its walls drinking every ounce of light that dared touch it. The green candles that lined its corridors hissed faintly, barely showing specifics in the room. The wax burning as it should in various corners of the corridor.
To a human, it would have been blindness—a void swallowing everything in sight. But to vampires, it was home. The perfect clarity of darkness.
Inside, the main chamber stretched wide as a cathedral, the air dense with intense authority. A single long obsidian table stood at its heart, its surface reflecting faint ripples of emerald flame. Six figures sat around it—still as statues, but carrying the weight of centuries in their gaze.
And at the head of it sat the King.
His expression was that of calm itself. His hair, once black as pitch, now carried streaks of silver—earned not through age, but through endless years of ruling under twin moons. His beard curved with meticulous precision, a ritual as constant as his throne. His right hand rested on a long black staff, etched with crimson veins of living light. Rumor said it pulsed with his heartbeat, bound to him since the wars of the Old Moon.
At his right side sat Max, his advisor and knight—an anomaly among his kind. Slender, scholarly, his circular glasses glinting faintly, he looked more librarian than soldier. Yet the vampires knew better. Those who had once mistaken his silence for weakness had not lived to correct the error.
To the King's left and right sat the five clan leaders—the pillars of their society. Each represented a bloodline as old as the village itself: the cunning Mindveil, masters of manipulation and illusions; the swift Phasera in charge of space and time, whose blades flickered like swiftness; the brute might of Ironkong; the venomous agility of Virefang; and the crystalline grace of Mimscryst, who bare the gifts of being able to copy and use every ability known in.the village.
But despite their power, every gaze kept straying to one place—the empty throne at the far end of the table.
It mirrored the King's own seat, carved with the same ancient symbols, dark and elegant. Dust never touched it, nor did any hand dare. It had been empty for over a decade, but its absence loomed like a specter. No one spoke of it, though every one of them felt its weight.
The King's hand brushed thoughtfully against his beard, the faint sound of his ring scraping his chin breaking the silence. His voice, when it came, was low and steady—like a current beneath still water.
"Since everyone is here," he began, "shall we proceed? I tasked the Virefang leader with—"
The doors exploded open.
A violent crash reverberated through the chamber, shaking dust from the vaulted ceiling. The echo was a thunderclap of defiance, swallowing the King's unfinished words.
Every head turned in unison.
Every gaze locked on the shadow standing in the doorway.
The King, however, did not turn. His hand stilled upon his beard, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. "Here we go", he thought, almost amused.
The intruder stepped into view, and the atmosphere changed as though the world itself took a deep breath.
He was massive—seven feet of structure coupled with power wrapped in stillness and calm. His skin gleamed with the sheen of tempered iron, muscles sculpted from war and wilderness alike. A wild black afro framed his head, sideburns carved to precision, and a beard that accentuated the line of his jaw. His eyes glowed crimson—not the dull red of anger, but the fierce luminescence of dominance.
"Well, well, well…" he drawled, his voice deep and smooth, a blade wrapped in velvet. "If it ain't the dignified five clan leaders."
The sound of his words carried arrogance—and something worse: familiarity.
Barek.
The name rippled through the room like the hiss of a blade drawn in the dark.
Every clan leader tensed. Even the green candles flickered. Behind Barek, the corridor was a graveyard of movement—ten royal knights sprawled unconscious on the floor. None were dead, but none would wake soon.
'All of them? Without a sound?' Maureen's thoughts raced as she locked eyes with the Ironkong leader, Bronx—who, to her disbelief, was grinning.
"Didn't think I'd be seein' him again so soon," Bronx said, voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Still got that same look in your eyes, boy."
"Don't worry, they ain't dead," Barek said, his tone casual as he strolled forward. His footsteps echoed with a deliberate rhythm, each one measured, heavy with confidence. "I gave 'em a choice—let me in, or get their asses handed to 'em. They picked wrong."
He stopped at the empty throne.
"Shame, though," he added, lowering himself into the seat. "Good soldiers."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Valerik, the Virefang clan leader, rose sharply, his hand slamming against the table. "Identify yourself!" he roared, his aura flaring like a storm. Crimson light bled from his eyes. "You dare sit in that seat?"
Barek turned his head slowly toward Valerik. His grin didn't waver; if anything, it widened.
"Me?" he said. "I'm just a father…"
His voice softened—not in tone, but in gravity.
"…here for his son."
The words struck the room like lightning.
Every eye darted toward the King, whose expression remained maddeningly calm. The faintest flicker of nostalgia crossed his features as he lifted his gaze toward the arched ceiling.
The green candlelight trembled. Somewhere deep beneath the fortress, the air itself seemed to shift.
'So the plan worked after all', the King thought, a rare glint of satisfaction ghosting his face.
And across the table, Barek leaned back in the forbidden throne, arms crossed once again, a predator at rest in the house of kings.