The night smelled of smoke and iron.
Velmora — the hidden heart of the vampire realm — was burning. Towers that once glistened with black marble now split under the weight of flame. The streets were chaos: soldiers screaming, the clash of blades, the guttural roars of creatures not born of this world.
Above it all, the moon hung like a wounded eye, red and swollen, watching the end unfold.
Aelric Draven ran through the corridors of the eastern keep, the hem of his cloak torn, blood slicking his hands. He could hear the battle outside — steel cutting flesh, the crack of infernal fire, the sound of wings tearing the air.
"Father!" he shouted, his voice breaking through the smoke. "Where are you?"
The only answer was the trembling of the walls.
He pushed open the door to the grand hall — and froze.
The throne of House Draven stood before him, the velvet seat scorched, its silver frame melted and twisted. His father, Lord Varos Draven, knelt at its base, a sword driven through his chest.
Standing over him was the thing that ended it all — a demon with skin as dark as obsidian, horns curved like a crown, and eyes that burned like living magma.
Aelric's heart stopped. His father's hand lifted weakly toward him. "Run… my son."
The demon turned, a grin spreading across its face. "Another one?" its voice rumbled, deep and cold. "How delightful."
Aelric's fear turned to fire. He drew his blade — a gleam of silver in the haze — and charged.
The demon barely moved. One flick of its wrist sent Aelric flying across the hall, smashing into the wall. Pain exploded through his ribs.
"You vampires," the demon said, walking closer. "So proud. So fragile."
Aelric struggled to his feet, coughing blood. "You'll pay for this."
The demon tilted its head, amused. "Will I?"
Its clawed hand extended, conjuring flame. The room ignited in crimson light. Aelric shielded his eyes — but then another sound cut through the fire: the snap of a whip, the hiss of steel, and a voice that could freeze the sun.
"Enough."
Aelric blinked. From the smoke, a tall figure stepped forward — silver-haired, armored in black. His crimson cloak fluttered like torn wings.
Kaelen Draven, Lord of the High Vampires.
His eyes met Aelric's, calm and cold. "Stay back," he ordered.
The demon turned, almost amused. "Ah… the Lord himself."
Kaelen's sword gleamed — forged from moonstone, thrumming with runes. "You've burned your last city, creature."
The demon roared, the walls trembling. "This world belongs to the Abyss!"
"And yet," Kaelen said softly, "you had to crawl into mine to prove it."
Their blades clashed — one of silver, one of flame. The sound shattered the silence of the dying hall. Sparks danced as steel met fire, each strike shaking the air itself.
Aelric watched, helpless, as Kaelen and the demon tore through the throne room — speed blurring their forms, power shaking the foundations. The infernal creature was strong, impossibly so, but Kaelen moved with precision, every motion like a dance of death.
Then, with one last swing, Kaelen drove his blade through the demon's heart. A scream split the night, shaking the heavens.
The body burned into ash, leaving only silence.
Kaelen turned to Aelric, breathing hard. "Your father is gone," he said, his tone grim. "Velmora has fallen. We ride for the north."
Aelric looked at his father's body, tears streaking his bloodstained face. "They killed him," he whispered. "They killed everyone."
Kaelen placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then you will kill them back. But not tonight."
Outside, the city crumbled, flames painting the horizon red. The vampires of House Draven fled into the woods, carrying their wounded and dead.
Behind them, the once-mighty capital burned — a graveyard of stone and memory.
And as Aelric looked back one last time, he swore under his breath,
"I'll find every one of you demons… and I'll send you back to hell myself."
The vow would shape him.
It would consume him.
And when vengeance finally came… it would come drenched in blood.