The sky-court lay hushed in the pale light of dawn.
Noctis stood alone, cloak loose on his shoulders, the stones beneath his boots cold with the breath of morning. Below, Twilight still slept. The city's watch had not seen him, no bell had rung, no priest dared open his eyes. This moment belonged only to him.
The Blood Grid unfurled.
Crimson threads bled from his body, spreading in circles across the open court. The air thickened until it quivered. His sealed vault split, and what he had taken came forth.
The first dragon skull rose, horns jutting like broken towers. Ribs as long as avenues followed, then a stair of vertebrae climbing into the sky. Behind them came the pale bones of cardinals and inquisitor-generals, faith-scarred relics already marked by his blood. Last, the vast coils of a wyrm serpent, black scales cracked but still whispering their corruption.
They floated in rows above him, a crown of dead titans awaiting command.
Noctis opened his hand.
Blood poured upward in rivers. It lashed through the Grid, pierced the bones, and filled them. The dragon remains shook and hollowed, marrow surrendering into his lattice. Inquisitor skulls cracked open, their sanctified veins overwritten by red script. The wyrm coils twisted, their curses shrieking before they bent to his dominion.
The bones folded inward, not ruined but consumed. Plates spread from ribs, shards from vertebrae, fibers from scales. His blood welded them together into a single form: living armor, sovereign and absolute.
The first suit hung in the air, pale and veined black, its chest inscribed with inverted faith lines that pulsed faintly.
Noctis's blood surged, and the armor collapsed inward. What remained was a fang-shaped amulet, red as iron, on a black chain. It pulsed once like a heart.
He lifted it. The fang flared, and armor exploded outward, clamping across his frame: dragon-bone plates, black wyrm veins, inverted faith sigils hidden beneath. At a thought, weapons manifested, then vanished.
This was the pattern of the Sovereign Fang, the armor of his soldiers.
For captains and vice-captains, he pressed deeper blood into the lattice, thickening the wards and strengthening the arsenal. Those amulets flared brighter, heavier with command. These he named the Bloodfang Mantles.
And last, for the saints, he forged the greatest—amplified seals, doubled wards, sanctity inverted until it burned as dominion. These armors bore the title of Crownfangs, crowns of blood and fangs fit only for the chosen.
When the work ended, the sky-court held thousands of red fangs on black chains. Sovereign Fangs. Bloodfang Mantles. Crownfangs. All pulsed in rhythm with his heart.
He drove more blood into the Grid. The court blazed crimson as hundreds of suits rose, then collapsed, each becoming a fang on a chain. Rows upon rows, all pulsing in rhythm with his will. Each bore the same living armor inside, each engraved with his wards and laws:
Resist the holy, resist the unholy. Answer the bearer's will for weapons. Obey the sovereign's line. Kill thieves who touch you.
The glow dimmed. The fangs hung quiet, small yet heavy with armies inside.
Noctis swept his hand. The amulets vanished into his lattice, hidden but waiting.
The court was empty again, but the weight remained. Below, the city stirred with morning. Soon the saints would bring their Night Legions to train. Tomorrow, those legions would wear dragon-forged blood armor, march in daylight without burning, and fight with weapons born of thought.
He turned from the court, cloak whispering behind him, and walked back into the palace. The forging of his empire had begun.
The night had belonged to him.
The court of stone still glowed faintly crimson, the air thick with residue from the hours he had worked without pause. Fang amulets hung in perfect lines, each pulsing like a faint star, each beating in rhythm with his heart. By the time the east began to pale, there were enough to arm every soldier, every captain, every vice-captain, and the saints themselves.
Noctis stood at the center, cloak heavy, his gaze on the horizon where gold had begun to fracture the edge of night.
He had forged an empire while the world slept.
The saints came with the dawn.
They did not rush; they did not need to. Their steps carried the weight of centuries. Each commanded a legion, and each entered the sky-court without ceremony, their cloaks pale in the half-light, their eyes burning faintly against the rising day. The first rays of the sun reached over the horizon and touched them directly.
The soldiers gathered at the edges of the court froze. Vampires had never stood so openly in the morning glow. Smoke did not rise from their flesh. Their skin did not burn. The saints endured it as if it were nothing.
The whispers spread in ripples. Truly saints. Chosen. Untouched by fire and hymn.
Noctis did not acknowledge the awe. He only raised his hand. The fang amulets descended in ordered rows, chains swaying faintly, hundreds upon hundreds. They hung in the air, waiting.
The saints stopped before him. Fourteen in number. Behind them stood their captains and vice-captains, and beyond them, the soldiers of the Night Legions: thousands strong, disciplined even as the dawn pressed heat across their skin.
The sun rose higher.
Noctis's voice cut the court.
"These are mine. Living armor. Blood-forged. You will wear my will."
The amulets pulsed.
"They will answer you because they answer me. Any thief who dares touch them dies. Enemies who face you break. Put them on."
The saints reached first, hands closing over their amulets. The chains locked against their throats, and the Crownfangs flared. Armor roared out of them, veined white and black, runes glowing with inverted faith.
Captains followed, claiming their Bloodfang Mantles, heavier, stronger, marked for command.
Then the soldiers—thousands fastening their Sovereign Fangs to their necks. The amulets pulsed, then exploded into uniform armor across every frame.
Noctis gave no further command. The will to wear was enough.
The amulets flared.
Armor roared out of them in a single breath. Dragon-bone plates clamped across bodies from neck to heel. Black wyrm veins pulsed along the seams. Inverted faith runes lit in brief fire before sinking deep beneath the surface.
The court filled with the sound of blood-steel closing, thousands of plates locking in unison.
Then weapons bloomed.
Spears thrust into the sky. Shields unfolded along arms. Swords gleamed in the dawn. Bows drew themselves taut, arrows forming from nothing. A thousand arsenals appeared in the same heartbeat, then dissolved back into armor as quickly.
The soldiers gasped, not in fear but in realization. They had not carried steel. The steel was inside them now.
Noctis's eyes burned crimson-gold.
The sun cleared the horizon fully. Light washed the court. Rows of vampires lifted their heads, armored and alive under a sky they had never dared meet. No smoke rose. No screams tore the air. The light bent against them and broke.
A silence followed. Then it rippled—soldiers testing their gauntlets, captains raising weapons against the dawn, saints lowering their hands as if to measure the truth of what they felt.
For the first time in centuries, the Night Legions stood in daylight.
Noctis's voice carried, low but final.
"You are no longer bound to darkness. Fourteen legions. Fourteen saints. My army, in night and in day."
The saints dropped to one knee as one, cloaks brushing the stone. Captains followed, then vice-captains, then every soldier, a tide of steel bending before him. The sound shook the court.
Noctis turned his back to them, cloak sweeping behind him.
"Rise," he said.
They rose, weapons blooming from their armor, the sun striking across their ranks.
"March."
The saints stepped forward, their legions behind them. The court thundered under the tread of thousands, the sunlight powerless, the dawn filled with the sound of an army no longer bound to the night.
The Fourteen Legions had been reborn.
Twilight had never seen morning like this. The citizens lined the streets, waiting.
The sun rode high over the city's towers, striking rooftops and banners, pouring light into streets where citizens gathered in tight lines. They had come expecting another dawn, another quiet day, but what they saw instead filled their throats with silence.
From the sky-court came the first ranks of the Night Legions.
They moved in ordered columns, step striking step, armor gleaming white-gold in the sun, black veins pulsing beneath the plates. Runes of inverted faith glowed faintly on their chests, light bending against them and breaking. Weapons appeared at their will: spears thrust into the air, shields expanded with a ripple, bows unstrung themselves then strung again without arrow or string.
The crowd gasped.
They were vampires. Everyone knew it. Soldiers who could not walk in daylight without smoke rising from their skin, who had never shown their faces under the sun in centuries. Yet here they marched openly, not smoldering, not screaming, not hiding in cloaks.
They marched in sunlight and the sunlight broke against them.
Noctis walked at their head. Cloak sweeping, eyes burning gold-crimson, he carried no weapon. He needed none. His presence bent the street as surely as iron bends under a hammer.
Behind him, the saints led their legions, each saint armored like their soldiers but standing taller, the aura of sanctity and blood sovereignty mingled until no one could look at them directly without flinching. Fourteen saints. Fourteen legions.
The ground shook with their tread.
From the barracks at the street's edge, the Dawn Legions stood watching. Mortal men and women, veterans of war, their spears and shields polished, their discipline unbroken. Yet as the Night Legions passed, their eyes burned with frustration.
They had fought in the sun for generations. They had bled while vampires slept. They had stood when the dawn demanded it. And now they watched as those who had never marched under the sun did so in armor stronger than any steel they had been given.
Some clenched fists. Others looked away. Envy mingled with loyalty until both soured on their tongues.
Noctis saw it.
He did not ignore it.
At the heart of the avenue, he raised his hand. The Legions halted in unison, the thunder of their steps stopping as one. Silence fell, broken only by the stir of wind through banners.
Noctis turned, his voice carrying over the city.
"You see them," he said. His hand swept back toward the armored vampires behind him. "Fourteen legions, saints and soldiers. The Night Legions. For the first time in history, they stand in daylight. Armor stronger than sun, weapons born from their will. They are mine. They are yours. They are Twilight's shield."
The crowd roared, but he lifted his hand again and stilled it.
"You wonder why they have been given this first. Why the night takes arms forged from dragon, zealot, and serpent blood. I will tell you. Their armor had to be different. Special. They could not walk in the day without it. They could not fight sunlight without it. They needed more. Stronger wards. Stronger arsenal. Stronger blood."
He paused, and his gaze cut to the Dawn Legions waiting in silence.
"But you are not forgotten."
His voice hardened, the edge of command in it.
"I will forge for you. The Dawn Legions will have their weapons, their armor. Crafted for mortal flesh, for human will. Suited to your strength and your burden. The sun has always been yours, and it will remain so. Do not envy. You will be armed. You will be sharpened. You will be honored."
The soldiers straightened. Frustration cooled into pride, jealousy into something else—expectation.
Noctis's cloak shifted in the breeze.
"The night has its army. The day will have its own. And when both march together, there will be no dawn and no dusk—only Twilight."
The words struck the crowd like iron. Citizens fell to their knees. Soldiers pounded shields. The saints lowered their helmed heads.
Noctis turned again, and the Legions moved. Fourteen columns of vampires marched through Twilight's streets in broad daylight, weapons flashing in and out of existence, armor gleaming against the sun. Behind them, the Dawn Legions stood straighter, waiting for the day when their fangs would be forged.
The city knew then: Twilight had been reborn.
The forge hall was silent.
Noctis stood alone in the blood-lit chamber beneath the citadel, the air thick with the pulse of his own veins echoing through stone. The saints were gone, the legions dismissed. The Night Legions had marched that morning, armored in Sovereign Fangs, Bloodfang Mantles, and Crownfangs. Now it was time to balance the day. Not because he cared for mortal pride—he did not—but because his empire needed two halves bound into one living organism.
He raised his hand. The Blood Grid unfolded above him. Circles within circles, crimson geometry spreading until it filled the chamber.
Materials came at his call: dragon bones in measured slabs, wyrm spines coiled like black rivers, shattered relics taken from inquisitors and cardinals, mage-cores that once fed enemy towers. All floated in ordered ranks.
He cut his palm and bled. The blood that left him was not red. It shone in three hues—crimson, black, and gold—each strand carrying the weight of his hybrid heart: holy, unholy, and draconic. His blood was the only forge that mattered.
The lattice drank it.
Dragon bone softened under his will, reshaping into pale-white plates. Wyrm veins stretched and became fine channels. Relics cracked, sanctity dissolved, and their brass skeletons bent into amplifier meshes. Mage-cores split and bled light into golden threads that wove through the whole.
He did not make fangs this time. He wrote a different law.
The plates took form in identical shapes—armor designed not for nightwalkers but for the Dawn Legions. White with gold underlay, veins glowing faintly where black blood carried the resonance. Free-form arsenal: any weapon, any moment. Shields from a gesture, spears from a shout.
And deeper than that—he forged the resonance link.
"No divide," he said softly, his voice feeding the Grid. "Day speaks to night. Night answers day."
He drove more blood into the mesh, carving a channel between these armors and the Sovereign Fangs already worn by the Night Legions. He made the lattice sing until the two resonances learned to recognize each other, like a pulse recognizing its vein.
Blood Transfusion. That was the function.
The Suncrosses would allow Dawn Legion soldiers to give up to 20% of their blood. The Sovereign Fangs would drink it and turn it to usable essence. Nothing more.
He etched the failsafe in next. Not mercy. Law.
"If they take more, if they offer more, they fall," he said.
The Grid accepted.
Any soldier, Dawn or Night, who tried to break the 20% limit would be struck down by their own armor. The resonance would turn on its wearer, paralyze the nervous system, and drop them into unconsciousness until his law released them.
Noctis smiled faintly. Not warm. Satisfied. He had no need for self-indulgent martyrs or greedy leeches. His armies would feed each other, but only within balance.
The first suit finished forming. White and gold plates folded in on themselves and collapsed into a single shape: a golden cross, smooth, gleaming faintly, hung on a black chain.
He lifted it. The cross pulsed once with his heartbeat. At a thought, armor flared from it, clamping over his body. White plates with gold mesh, glowing faintly at the seams. He summoned a spear, then dismissed it and called a bow, then a shield. Every weapon obeyed as it had for the Night Legions, but these glowed with solar light.
He ended the summons. The armor folded back into the cross, leaving it warm against his palm.
Satisfied, he forged more.
Cross after cross formed in the air—thousands of them, floating in perfect rows, each pulsing in rhythm with his Grid. Their glow was not red but white-gold, like sunlight reflected through bone. And beneath that glow was the hum of resonance, each cross whispering faintly to the Sovereign Fangs already distributed.
The chamber filled until it looked like a sky of stars had been caged indoors.
When the last cross hung still, Noctis closed his fist. The Grid obeyed and sealed. His blood retracted, the wound closing with a hiss.
Now the night had its fangs. The day had its crosses. And both were bound in law: neither could bleed more than they should, neither could feed beyond limit. If they tried, their own armor would strike them down.
It was not compassion. It was sovereignty.
Noctis turned his eyes to the hovering armory and whispered the final name into the Grid.
Suncross.
The crosses pulsed as one.
The sun rose hard and clean over Twilight. Its light poured down the citadel's spires, gilding the roofs, striking the white stone streets until they gleamed. The city had gathered again in its plazas and avenues, called by horns that still echoed with memory of yesterday's march.
Yesterday, it had been the Night Legions. Vampires walking in daylight, clad in Sovereign Fangs, Mantles, and Crownfangs. That sight alone had shaken every court, every family, every mortal who remembered tales of ash and fire.
Today, it was the Dawn Legions' turn.
The first column appeared from the citadel gates. Shields in hand, banners high. But what drew every throat into silence was not the formation—it was the armor.
The soldiers marched in Suncrosses.
White-gold plates clamped to their bodies in seamless unity, sunlight sliding along their curves like water down glass. Black veins traced under the surface where Noctis's blood had written law into bone and brass. At their throats hung golden crosses on black chains, each glowing faintly with its own pulse. The crosses flared when called, and armor manifested instantly, blooming around flesh like wings shutting.
The citizens gasped as they recognized what they saw: living armor, identical in function to the vampires' fangs, but radiant in color, solar in aura. The Dawn Legions looked like a wall of sunrise given shape.
Weapons came next.
At a captain's command, every soldier conjured a weapon in the same breath. Spears thrust up, shields swelled into existence, bows curved from empty air. Then, at a second command, every weapon dissolved back into the armor with perfect synchrony. The crowd roared at the spectacle, the sound rebounding from the walls like surf against cliffs.
Children screamed in delight. Veterans wept openly. The city knew its day armies were no longer the second-born brothers of the night—they were equal, armored by the same hand, bound by the same sovereign.
Noctis walked at the front, cloak dragging across stone, his eyes reflecting the sun as if it were bowing to him instead of burning. He said nothing at first. His silence was sharper than words.
The Dawn Legions moved in fourteen columns, mirroring the Night Legions of the day before. Where the night had marched in black and crimson, these marched in white and gold. Their step struck rhythm like a drumbeat that rolled through the city.
Behind banners, priests and mages bore their crosses openly, their armor shimmering at the edges. At each invocation—whether a whispered prayer or a flick of a hand—the amplifier lattice inside their plates flared. Words carried. Sigils burned stronger. The crowd felt it, though they did not understand.
At the edge of the plaza, the Night Legions stood waiting. Their Sovereign Fangs glowed faintly in the sun. Vampires who had marched as wonders yesterday now stood as silent witnesses. They watched the Dawn Legions pass, some with narrowed eyes, some with approving nods. The resonance hum between the Fangs and the Crosses was faint but audible if one listened close—two systems whispering to each other, learning each other's rhythm.
Noctis turned his head, just slightly, so his voice would carry.
"Look at them," he said, not to the crowd, but to his armies. "Day and night. Fangs and crosses. One system. One will."
The resonance surged. The Suncrosses pulsed once in white-gold light, and the Sovereign Fangs answered in black-crimson. Citizens gasped, thinking it sorcery. It was not sorcery. It was sovereignty.
The parade wound its way through Twilight's longest avenues. Merchants shuttered stalls. Nobles came to balconies in silence. Even the Dawn Legions themselves, used to marching as the city's shield, felt the change. Their armor breathed under them. Their orders carried louder. Their footsteps sounded heavier.
When they reached the Grand Plaza, Noctis raised his hand. The columns stopped in perfect unison.
He stepped forward onto the dais. The crowd hushed. The Dawn Legions looked up at him, sunlight burning off their white-gold plates.
"This is not a gift," Noctis said, his voice level, carrying like an oath. "This is law. The day is mine. The night is mine. When I move, both move. When I command, both answer."
He gestured once, and the first line of soldiers flared their crosses, weapons blooming again in their hands. Spears. Shields. Swords. The crowd roared approval.
He closed his fist. The weapons dissolved, the armor sank, and only the crosses remained.
"You are not weaker than those who wear fangs. You are not less. You are bound differently. And soon, you will prove what that binding means."
His eyes slid toward the waiting Night Legions.
"Tomorrow, we test the resonance."
The word carried through the city, through the crosses and the fangs, through every throat in the plaza. Resonance. No one knew what it meant. But they would.
The parade ended with twenty thousand Dawn Legion soldiers standing in the Grand Plaza, white-gold armor flaring in the sun, black chains tight at their throats, golden crosses pulsing in rhythm with the Sovereign Fangs across the square.
It was not just spectacle. It was declaration.
Twilight had no weak half anymore. Both day and night were armed. Both were bound. And both belonged to him.
Noctis lowered his hand. The Legions dismissed in perfect step, leaving the plaza in silence heavy as stone.
The citizens would never forget the sight.
Tomorrow would bring the test.