"No… no way! Don't listen to him, Chief!" the elf with the bow shouted, glaring at me. He'd just unwittingly revealed another detail about the old elf—not only a leader, but a father. I had now pinpointed both his weakness and his worth.
The chieftain only gave us a brief glance. His full attention was on the frail figure in his arms. The girl convulsed, coughing blood as the venom continued to spread.
"It burns, ada. Am I dying? Please… don't let me die." Her voice was thin, almost gone.
I watched, mostly amused. I was no longer the same Patrice. The old human compassion was still there, but dulled—distant—drowned beneath a vampire's colder perception of things. What I saw wasn't a daughter suffering, but a girl unwittingly tilting the scales in my favor.
The chieftain looked up at me again, his eyes glistening.
Elves, for all their haughtiness and claimed wisdom, loved too deeply. They were often compared to vampires for their coldness, but beneath that façade, they were the most sentimental of creatures. It wasn't uncommon for an elf to die of grief after losing a mate. For that, Frans—and many other vampires—held them in quiet contempt.
Then I heard the whistle of an arrow. My vampiric instincts kicked in. The world slowed. I'd already triggered [Solar Guard] the moment the string snapped. A golden shimmer of translucent scales bloomed before me, deflecting the arrow with a sharp clang.
The elf with the knife lunged from the side. In the same instant the arrow bounced off, I dismissed the guard and summoned a Solar Blade. The radiant edge flashed. I swung upward, stopping just short of his neck—an inch from death. He froze mid-breath.
"You do know," I said, grinning, "that if my reputation were entirely accurate, I'd have taken great offense at that. And then I'd have proceeded to slaughter all four of you."
The archer hesitated, his hand hovering over the next arrow.
"High Prince, forgive them," the chieftain finally said, voice shaking. "Please understand—they act out of fear. None of us would dare to truly harm you."
That was the first time he addressed me properly—as High Prince. Something no elf would do unless he was ready to bend the knee.
"Chieftain," the archer hissed, "you can't be serious."
But the chieftain ignored him. Instead, he turned to his daughter and smiled through his tears.
"You don't deserve to die this young, Lysandra. We are dark elves—there is nothing that awaits beyond the grave. So forgive me, for what I am about to do. I want you to keep enjoying the flowers and the trees, the music and the touch of the breeze… even if you can no longer walk under the sun."
His two companions understood. They fell to their knees, weeping. It was a desperate, irreversible choice. Even if his daughter survived, no one could promise she'd remain herself. Many turned into soulless, bloodthirsty beasts.
"If you allow it, can we do it in my village, your highness?" the chief asked.
"I allow it," I replied.
The elven village wasn't far. It sat close to the river—I would've seen it earlier if I'd explored upstream.
A ring of high wooden palisades, manned ramparts, and archer watchpoints guarded the place. At first, I thought the chieftain's decision to bring me there was foolish. If I were truly as wicked as they feared, he was leading me straight into a den of potential victims.
But once I crossed the gate, I understood. Elven runes glowed faintly on the posts and walkways. The moment I stepped inside, I felt my vampiric powers falter—dampened by their enchantments.
I said nothing, though I saw the subtle glances they cast my way, waiting to see a reaction.
Inside, the village was beautiful in its simplicity. Circular cottages of fine wood stood in a ring, each marked with intricate carvings and graceful arches—a display of elven craftsmanship even in modesty. Between them, low fences and trimmed hedges lined the streets. At the center stood a great tree, its trunk framed with smooth stone and its branches aglow with lanterns.
The air itself hummed faintly with magic. Elven energy, quiet but alive. It nourished the runes, encouraged the trees to grow faster and stronger.
It was all impressive—except for its size. No more than ten cottages. Thirty people at most.
Villagers stopped what they were doing the moment we entered. Gasps broke the still air as they saw Lysandra's injury. Then came cries when the news of the serpent attack spread. The chieftain ignored them all, focusing on his daughter as he pushed through the gathering crowd.
Stunned by the tragedy, no one noticed me right away. That suited me fine. I followed quietly to his home.
More runes adorned the doorway—stronger ones. And the instant I crossed the threshold, I felt it: my vampiric energy vanish completely. For a brief moment, I felt human. The sharp senses, the calm arrogance—all gone. In their place came the dull anxiety of mortality.
I hated the feeling. It was like standing naked before an unseen threat. Still, it was too late to back out. I took comfort in one thing: the system was still mine.
We entered Lysandra's room. A delicate fragrance of flowers clung to the air, spoiled only by the sickly stench of venom and rot.
"Hold on, Lysandra. You won't suffer much longer," the chieftain whispered as he laid her on the bed. But she was far beyond hearing him. The venom had reached her chest; her words were only incoherent whimpers now.
"You do understand I can't help her while your runes silence my power," I said flatly.
The chieftain hesitated, staring at me in turmoil. Then he called out, "Floren."
The elf with the bow entered—I hadn't even sensed him. Testament to my current, human weakness.
"Temporarily extinguish the runes at the door," the chieftain ordered.
"But that—"
"Be quick about it!" he snapped.
A moment's hesitation, then hurried footsteps. I hadn't known the runes could even be extinguished. A minute later, the smothering pressure vanished, and the surge of vampiric strength rushed back into me like air into starved lungs.
"Please, Highness," the chieftain said, kneeling beside the bed, his voice breaking.
I stepped forward. Lysandra's body was stiff, her veins dark with venom. Her eyes were rolled back and glassy. Foam gathered at her lips as she choked and hissed.
The serpent's venom had no cure—for anyone not immune to it. But no snake's poison could harm a vampire.
And unlike in the stories from Earth, vampirism here wasn't spread through mere bites. If it were, every feeding would make new vampires—and that would make feeding impossible, since feeding on another vampire was cannibalism.
No, it was far simpler.
I pierced my palm with my thumb's nail. Let a drop of blood fall into her open mouth.
It hissed against her tongue like acid.
At once, her body convulsed violently. The air filled with snarls and guttural groans. The black veins receded, the venom oozing out through the wound. Her skin paled. Her nails lengthened into sharp, curved points. Flesh and bone reformed where her hand had been severed.
Then—stillness.
And in the silence that followed, the only sound in the room was the chieftain's quiet, broken sobs.