[Main POV]
The silence was heavy.
It had been a week since the ancient vampire elders first contacted us, and since then, we had been working together. After that initial meeting, we uncovered truths that altered our understanding of the world. The first — and perhaps the most terrifying — was also the simplest: they are far older than we ever imagined. And the coven they belong to is not merely a shadowy clan. It is the hidden foundation of everything the vampire world knows — deeply rooted in the very breath of existence and the essence of the immortal.
As I had previously suspected, each of them hails from a distinct region of the world — Africa, China, and Scandinavia. I learned this through several conversations. Another revelation: each of them possesses supernatural gifts, and, I half-jokingly realized, their powers are not merely abilities — they are manifestations of the lands that forged them.
Zuberi, the African, is not just a vampire with the power to control earth and its elements — he is the earth.
I learned this after speaking with him and his subordinates, who claim that the roots obey him as they would an ancestral king, and that his blood was the first to nourish the sacred soil after the dark pact that granted him eternity. Of course, I know it's a myth — he is a vampire like us. But still, I hold a deep admiration for his gift. He seems incredibly powerful.
Apparently, he doesn't hunt like we do. He waits. And when he moves, the ground trembles — as if recognizing an ancient god returning to the surface.
Wen Hao is the quietest of them, but his presence is like a blade on the verge of being drawn.
They say he forged swords from the very essence of night, and that each weapon born in his forge carries the echoing screams of a thousand fallen warriors. From what I gathered, his gift lies in his supernatural ability to craft weapons — both of energy and of physical form — which he wields with deadly precision. They are incredibly strong and resilient — said to be capable of cutting even through other vampires.
After learning that, I asked him for a favor: to forge weapons for myself and my ten vampire guards.
In ancient China, he was legend — then myth — then forgotten. But he never ceased to exist.
Now, he has returned, bringing with him the deadly elegance of long-lost ages.
Eirikr, the Nordic one, is a storm contained within a body of stone.
And that... that unsettles me. His gift reminds me of my first heartbreak — and just the thought sends a chill down my spine. But sentiment aside, with every word he speaks, it's as if the sky darkens.
His hammer — an artifact that seems to possess a life of its own — hums with ancestral electricity, as if still linked to the gods his descendants would one day call Thor and Odin.
But he came before myth. Before language. He is the living memory of primal wrath.
They are not of the Volturi line. Nor Denali.
And certainly not the Cullens.
They are something older. More primal.
Perhaps the first.
Perhaps the true keepers of the forgotten laws of the vampire world.
And now...
they walk among us.
I thought about all of this as a way of escaping the reality before me.
The walls of the Hittite capital loomed in the distance — the site of our final battle.
In recent weeks, we had made every possible effort to ensure the defeat of the Hittite forces. All with one single purpose: to stop Muwatalli's army from awakening the First Hunger.
But somehow, it all felt like a sacrifice in vain.
I say that because of what I felt in my core — a tight knot in my throat, the kind of tension that not even time can ease.
Amenadiel, standing beside me, pulled me out of my thoughts and said firmly:
— "My lord, all preparations are complete. However, something feels off... The enemy troops are concentrated on the northern and southern flanks of the city, leaving the edges almost completely exposed. It's as if we're being invited in."
I nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
Something in the silence told me he was right.
I waited for one of the ancients to speak. And as if hearing my thoughts, Eirikr's deep voice broke the stillness, his eyes fixed on the gates:
— "Morpheus, our scouts confirmed it — it's a trap. They want to draw us away from the tombs, away from the First Hunger. But unfortunately for them... we know.
And we'll turn their strategy against them.
We will enter with precision — and emerge victorious. No matter the cost."
His expression was stern — nearly frozen — and the air around him crackled with electricity, like a storm waiting to strike.
And so, we marched.
At the city gates, the entrance shattered beneath the clash of Wen Hao's glowing blades and the fury of Eirikr's hammer.
Zuberi's summoned roots split the ancient stones and toppled crumbling columns.
Enemy soldiers surged from the shadows and from atop the walls, spectral in their rage.
The battle was inevitable — and brief.
Our guards, armed with blades forged from the essence of night, carved a path through the narrow alleys while the earth trembled beneath Zuberi's steps.
The city wept, as if it knew its end had come.
In the distance, framed by columns carved with forgotten scenes of war and glory, stood the entrance to the tomb where the First Hunger lay dormant — sealed for millennia, but now... ravenous.
I turned to the side and saw a squad of Muwatalli's soldiers emerge from the ruins, charging toward us with war cries and desperation in their eyes.
They were determined... but naïve.
With a simple flick of my hand, the ice answered my call.
Crystal spikes erupted from the ground, piercing flesh and armor with merciless precision.
The screams died as quickly as they began.
Only silence remained — and the steam of blood freezing in the air.
We advanced.
Zuberi summoned colossal roots from stone and bone, dragging men into the darkness beneath our feet. Muffled screams echoed from below.
Eirikr, wielding his ancestral hammer, crushed entire lines with a single blow, while lightning rained from the heavens as if Ragnarok itself had begun.
Wen Hao's blades cut through the air like living shadows, flashing in and out of sight with impossible speed.
Claws, fangs, and enchanted steel danced together in a brutal ballet — a symphony of destruction.
The sacred city of Hattusa, once majestic, now surrendered to chaos.
We carved our path toward the shadowed heart of Muwatalli's tomb.
And nothing could stand in our way.
To be continued…
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[N/A] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!