As Rhaegal and Hayles stepped outside the building, Rhaegal suddenly paused, his sharp gaze turning to his companion.
"By what means did you think they were poisoned?" he asked.
Hayles thought for a moment before replying. "Through the intake of food, I believe, my lord. The food supplies may have been tampered with."
Rhaegal shook his head. "Not entirely correct."
"If it were the food, the werewolves would have been affected as well. The deaths would have been far greater," he said.
Hayles considered this and then realization dawned on him. "The blood supply," he murmured.
"That's right."
"Someone must have tainted the blood."
"But the supply comes from the town's blood bank," Hayles countered. "It's highly regulated and scrutinized by the authorities."
Rhaegal smirked. "Which is exactly why it makes the perfect cover. No one would suspect the very source meant to sustain us."
Hayles nodded grimly. "What should be done next, my lord?"
Rhaegal clicked his tongue. "Hayles, you've worked with me for so long, yet you still ask?"
Hayles smiled sheepishly and bowed. "Apologies, my lord."
Rhaegal turned to his men and beckoned them forward. They hurried over, standing at attention.
"We're going to the town's blood bank. I need all of you to conduct a thorough search. Leave no detail unchecked," he commanded.
"Yes, my lord!" they responded in unison.
With that, they climbed into the carriage and set off.
The horses neighed sharply as the carriage came to a halt in front of the blood bank.
The building was unremarkable, plain yet fortified. High walls enclosed it, lined with iron rods—a clear message that security was taken seriously.
Rhaegal and his men strode inside without announcement. Almost immediately, two guards rushed to intercept them, their expressions shifting to fear as they recognized him.
"Lord Blackthorn," they greeted, bowing deeply.
Among vampires, werewolves, and even humans, the name Rhaegal Blackthorn was known. A ruthless enforcer, the king's feared hound—his presence alone was enough to unnerve even the boldest.
"Gather everyone working in this facility. Lord Blackthorn wishes to have a word with them," Hayles ordered.
The guards obeyed without hesitation. Moments later, four men emerged, escorted by more guards. Among them, one man stood apart—older, with a forced smile stretched across his face. His stiff posture betrayed unease.
"To what do we owe this visit, Lord Blackthorn?" he asked, voice calm, but the hostility in his eyes did not escape Rhaegal's notice.
Rhaegal sneered. "There have been a series of deaths," he said, his tone deceptively light. "And I can't help but suspect that this place may be involved."
The man's smile faltered, just for an instant, before he quickly recovered. "My lord, how could that be?"
"You tell me," Rhaegal countered smoothly.
The man before him was Adric, an ancient vampire. Older than Rhaegal, but far craftier—a known schemer with a reputation for deceit.
Adric chuckled. "You flatter me, Lord Blackthorn. I assure you, our blood bank follows the strictest protocols. Every batch we supply is thoroughly examined."
"Is that so?"
"Yes… yes," Adric replied with a nervous laugh.
"Then you won't mind if I conduct my own scrutiny."
Adric's jovial facade didn't waver, but his fingers twitched. "Hahaha, of course not! However, today may not be the best time… we're experiencing technical difficulties—"
Rhaegal turned to his men. "Begin."
Without another word, Hayles and the others scattered, disappearing into the facility.
Adric stiffened. "My lord—!"
His protest was cut short as Rhaegal turned his piercing gaze on him.
As the minutes passed, Rhaegal stood in the center of the facility, hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the assembled workers. His presence was suffocating, like a predator toying with its prey.
Then, his eyes locked onto one of them.
"You there. What's your name?"
The worker flinched. "M-Me?"
"No. The one in the green hat."
A human raised his head in shock, eyes wide. "Me?"
"Yes, you."
The man swallowed hard. His hands trembled as he answered, "My name is Edmund, my lord."
"How long have you been working here, Edmund?"
"A total of thirteen months, my lord."
"Hmm." Rhaegal nodded, expression unreadable.
Just then, Hayles and the others returned. Hayles approached with a resigned look. "All clear, my lord."
Rhaegal didn't look surprised. Instead, he strolled over to Edmund, towering over him.
Adric quickly stepped forward. "My lord, he's just a human. Pay him no mind—"
Rhaegal moved like lightning, his hand snapping around Adric's throat before slamming him against the wall. The impact sent cracks splintering through the stone.
"Why did you do it?" Rhaegal's voice was lethal.
Adric feigned ignorance, gasping. "W-What do you mean?"
Rhaegal's grip tightened. "Speak, or I'll rip your head from your body."
His gaze flickered to Edmund, who was trembling violently.
Adric thrashed, desperate to break free. "Rhaegal Blackthorn, watch your manners," he spat, eyes flashing red. "You're nothing but the king's hound!"
Rhaegal slammed him against the wall again—harder.
"Hayles," he called.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Grab the human."
Hayles hesitated, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he obeyed. Before he could reach him, Edmund collapsed to his knees.
"M-My lord, please! Have mercy!" he sobbed. "H-He made me do it! He forced me to take the herbs!"
Rhaegal turned back to Adric, sneering. "What is your motive?"
Adric let out a crazed laugh. "Motive? My motive is to kill people like you." His laughter grew more unhinged. "To kill those who uphold this wretched system of hierarchy! I am far older than you—why should I be forced to bow to you?" His voice dripped with venom.
"Killing those arrogant nobles was my greatest joy," Adric confessed, his body trembling with rage. "And my only regret is not killing you first."
Rhaegal's jaw clenched. He pressed harder on Adric's throat before hurling him to the ground. Blood dripped from Adric's mouth, yet he only grinned, his eyes burning with madness.
"I'm not afraid to die," he whispered. "But this is only the beginning. We will create a world where everyone is equal."
Then, without hesitation, Adric plunged his hand into his own chest. With one final, sickening squelch, he tore out his own heart. His body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Then, one by one, the workers dropped to their knees, terror in their eyes.
"Please, my lord!" they begged. "He forced us into his cult! It wasn't our choice!"
Rhaegal studied them coldly. "Is that so?"
"Yes! Yes!" They nodded frantically.
A slow, chilling smile curved on Rhaegal's lips.
"If you want to live, then speak," Rhaegal commanded, his voice sharp as a blade.
The boy in the green hat trembled. "Adric… he forced me to take herbs—ju… juniper, that's the name. Then he drained my blood after a while and packaged it. He sent it to his targets, poisoning them from within."
Hayles exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. Adric had been meticulous. Even if the blood bank had been inspected, nothing would have seemed amiss. But Rhaegal's instincts were razor-sharp—nothing escaped his scrutiny.
"Is that all?" Hayles pressed.
Another worker hesitated before blurting out, "There's… there's a sacrifice taking place tonight. At the outskirts of town—near the abandoned temple."
Rhaegal's eyes narrowed. "Sacrifice?"
The workers had no further details. Instead, they collapsed to their knees, pleading for their lives. But Lord Rhaegal Blackthorn was not known for mercy. In a blink, six bodies lay lifeless in their own blood.
Without a flicker of emotion, Rhaegal wiped his hands with a clean cloth and tossed it aside. "Hayles, clean up this mess. The rest of you—come with me."
With that, he strode out. His men followed without question.
The journey to the abandoned temple took an hour. By the time they arrived, the sun had disappeared, and darkness blanketed the land. Rhaegal and his team abandoned the carriages and moved stealthily through the dense forest, blending into the shadows as they approached the temple.
What they saw made them pause.
A gathering of over a hundred figures—humans and low-ranking vampires—stood in a circle, clad in deep red hooded cloaks. They muttered in eerie unison, moving in ritualistic patterns. At the center of their formation lay a teenage boy, bound and helpless on an old stone altar. His face was streaked with tears, his silent pleas lost in the murmurs of the cult.
Rhaegal, perched on the rooftop, observed the scene with cold detachment. He was not here to save an innocent. His mission was clear—eliminate all threats to the vampire king. And if that meant slaughtering a temple full of cultists, then so be it.
Below, the chanting stopped.
A figure emerged from the circle, drawing a dagger from the folds of their robe. He raised it high above the boy's chest, preparing to strike.
Rhaegal remained still—until a pair of blue eyes locked onto him.
Something strange coiled in his chest. A voice, soft as a whisper, curled into his mind.
"Help me."
The words echoed, compelling him before he could think.
In an instant, Rhaegal moved.
He dropped from the rooftop, landing soundlessly behind the executioner. Without hesitation, he plunged his hand through his back and ripped out his heart. The body collapsed before it could even scream.
Chaos erupted. Everyone turned in horror and then, The cultists attacked.
Rhaegal's men stormed into the temple, meeting them head-on. The battle was vicious—trained cultists moved with precision, their weapons crafted to pierce vampire flesh. But they were nothing against Rhaegal's raw power. He tore through them like they were mere insects, his claws slicing through bodies with merciless efficiency.
Then, amidst the slaughter, something changed.
A scream tore through the air.
Rhaegal turned—just in time to see a female member slip beneath the altar and drive a dagger into the boy's abdomen.
Blood gushed from the wound.
The scent hit the air like a storm.
Sweet. Overpowering.
Every vampire in the temple stilled, their eyes turning dark with hunger.
Rhaegal clenched his jaw as he felt it—the primal urge to drink, to consume. Even his own men faltered, turning toward the altar, their bodies drawn to the scent like moths to flame.
Rhaegal's mind fought for control.
His claws extended, and with deliberate force, he raked them down his own chest, the pain cutting through the haze. Blood seeped from the fresh wounds, grounding him.
The boy—still conscious—locked eyes with him again. There was something in those eyes. Something… calling to him.
Rhaegal's breath hitched.
In the next instant, he moved.
Faster than a blink, he struck.
One by one, he ripped the hearts from every vampire in the temple—including his own men. He turned on the remaining humans, slaughtering them without hesitation. Screams echoed through the ruins, but within moments, the temple was silent.
Blood dripped from his fingers.
All that remained was him… and the boy.
Rhaegal exhaled, his body still thrumming with adrenaline. He approached the altar, his sharp claws cutting through the thick ropes binding the boy's wrists and ankles.
Freed, the boy weakly lifted his gaze. His lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.
"My name is Malin."
Then, he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Rhaegal stared at him, intrigued despite himself. What a strange boy.
He reached out, intending to inspect the wound—only to freeze.
The gash was already healing.
Rhaegal's eyes narrowed. No human could recover like that. And if this boy wasn't human… What was he?
For the first time in a long while, Rhaegal found himself uncertain.
After a moment, he exhaled sharply, making his decision.
Without another word, he lifted Malin into his arms and walked away, disappearing into the night.