I

  The rain had turned vicious, thin needles hissing down from a cloudy sky, drumming against the black roofs until the whole district sounded like a thousand knives tapping in unison. Gargoyles squatted along the eaves, their stone maws spilling runnels of water onto the crooked brick streets below. Vel'Nothar stretched outward like a gothic labyrinth: rows of ashen houses crammed shoulder to shoulder, hollow-eyed and pleading for a God who had long stopped listening.

  In the centre of this land, raised upon the tallest hill of the Heartspire Citadel, stood tall the manor of the Lord. Two monolithic slabs of polished onyx guarded its entrance—It did not resemble a doorway, rather a wound in the world; a gate through which the Devil himself might crawl if given reason to.

  Above that gaping entrance, the manor waited, a black crown resting on the skull of Vel'Nothar. As some would say, the city's all-seeing eye.

  A small mole-rat looking vampire, was already waiting at the steps when the silhouette of his master emerged from the storm. The Blood Warden bowed low, water running off his snout. —W-welcome back, my lord... I hope the evening f-finds you well, t-truly.—

  Lucianel stopped before him, a figure carved from the very darkness that surrounded the manor. His voice, smooth as oiled silk, drifted down. —I cannot claim wellness, my dear Darius. It has been years since I've suffered the displeasure of confronting those fools in person. The very thought rattles the inside of my skull.—

  He reached out and patted what remained of the Warden's thin, patchy hair— gestures of affection from Lord Lucianel always felt deliberate, like a priest choosing which sinner to condemn first.

  Darius flinched, then snapped his gaze toward one of the guards.

  —Y-you there! F-fetch a n-nurse at once before I shove a clove of g-garlic down your throat, you useless...—

  Lucianel chuckled, a low sound, devoid of mirth or warmth.

  —If I were to fall to something as minor as a headache, what sort of leader would I be? No, Darius... spare the garlic. Now tell me, how progresses the banquet?—

  Darius fumbled with his wire-rimmed spectacles, breath quick and shallow.

  —M-my deepest apologies, sir. P-please, do follow me. Everything has been p-prepared, and t-the guests should arrive any m-moment now.—

  Lucianel graciously glided, entering the hall like a shadow slipping through a crack. He handed his storm-soaked hat—stiff, militaristic—to a young servant girl. She wasn't a vampire, no. Too warm in the cheeks, too soft in the eyes. Her black dress with its crimson trimming marked her as property; the metallic collar at her neck blinked with a faint, obedient pulse. She bowed her head and vanished with his dripping coat clutched to her chest.

  The hall itself was a monument to elegant cruelty. Spires of wrought iron twisted along the walls, chandeliers of bone-white crystal hung like frozen screams, and dark tapestries depicted stories better left forgotten.

  Lucianel let his gaze drift over it all.

  —All this for those lowborn pretenders who call themselves leaders?—

  Darius blanched, which for a vampire meant turning a shade closer to death.

  —K-kind sir, forgive me. I only thought... w-well... I did not wish those outsiders to believe we dwell in filthy caves like... b-bats.—

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Lucianel's lip curled, something almost, but not quite, a smile.

  —You worry far too much, my child. Breathe. You've done splendidly. And though I despise them, and care nothing for their opinions, you are right. Let them see the beauty of Vel'Nothar before they drown in its shadows.—

  The chamber breathed darkness, its honeyed fragrance unable to hide the faint scent of something recently deceased. Black candles flickered in iron sconces, their flames shivering as though afraid of what they illuminated. At the centre, by the wall of the hall stood the statue, Baphomet, carved from obsidian so polished it seemed wet. Its goat head watching over the room. Two women, sculpted nude, clung to its legs in eternal supplication, their stone flesh cold and smooth, mouths parted in voiceless worship.

  —Baphomet.— Lucianel's voice came slow and quiet, with the faintest nod, as though recognising an old accomplice. Gazing into the statue's crystalline eyes he whispered something ancient, vampiric syllables that seemed to scratch the air before melting into silence. He moved on without looking back.

  Darius hurried behind him, nervous steps echoing too loudly in the cavernous hall. His hands twisted at the hems of his shirt, his breath sharp as he watched Lucianel circle the chamber like a drifting storm cloud.

  —I-is your... your highness satisfied?— he asked, voice trembling.

  Lucianel did not answer. He simply paused before the hearth, where a fire crackled against the cold stone. Above it hung an ancient blade. He took it down with quiet ceremony, tilting it so the fire's glow ran along its length like molten blood.

  —The time draws near— he murmured, inspecting the blade's edge

  —when our kind shall claim all lands of Athera. Every mountain. Every sea. Every kingdom that dares breathe without our permission.—

  He turned with liquid grace, the point of the weapon lifting smoothly until it aimed directly at Darius.

  —And this relic will play no small role in forging what comes next...my father's dream will continue through me.—

  Darius recoiled, eyes wide behind his bent spectacles.

  —T-time is running n-near? H-how so, my lord?—

  Lucianel returned the blade to its rack with a soft metallic sigh.

  —I believe the planet turns her face once more. She has done so previously... long, long ago. I saw firsthand how the world shuddered when her favour fled. Now again strange tides stir across Athera, tides that trouble even the Ironholds. That is why they come.— His voice lowered, smooth as black silk. —Dark times approach us, Darius. Dark times.—

  —D-does this have anything to do with the G-gorrul?—

  —The Gorrul? No.— Lucianel's reply cut the air, sharp, clipped.

  —The creature is nothing more than a warning. The prophecy concerns far greater horrors than what prowls within Vel'Nothar's walls. What alarms me lies outside them.—

  Darius gave a quick, congested snort through his little snout, an anxious, wet rasp that briefly broke the stillness.

  —Be dismissed.— Though spoken gently, the command crawled like ice along Darius's crooked spine. He bowed sharply, nearly stumbling as he exited through the tall, iron-veined doors.

  Lucianel remained where he was. Slowly, almost ceremonially, he crossed the hall and seated himself upon his throne—a towering seat of blackened wood, silver roses curling up its sides like frozen vines.

  He rested his elbows on the marble table before him, fingers steepled. The candlelight played across his pale features, etching them with shadows as he watched the flames dance.

  Awaiting the first guest to arrive.