Vladis paced the manor like a predator in a cage. As the pale light of day seeped through the thick velvet curtains, drawing ghostly patterns on the marble floor, he remained in the shadows. The sun was not just a physical threat to him, but also a symbol of time's relentless march, mocking his own frozen existence. He sat in his library chair, as he had for centuries. But the scent of leather and paper from the books no longer offered him comfort. His eyes scanned the lines, but the words lost their meaning. Only that conversation echoed in his mind: The Chain-Skull Clan. The Key. The Beacon. She is still alive.
Was this a trap? A diabolical game left behind by Nydra, designed to lure him from his lair? Or, an even more terrifying possibility, was it the truth? If Nydra was alive, this curse would never fade on its own. As long as she existed, this parasite would continue to live in Vladis's flesh and soul. In the afternoon, during those hours he hated most when the sun reached its zenith, he found himself before the full-length, tarnished silver-framed mirror in his bedroom. His reflection, as always, was pale and defied time with its perfection. But in his eyes, there was the glint of a new fire in place of the usual, weary melancholy. His fingers parted the collar of his jacket, revealing the talisman on his neck. The tarnished, twisted metal rested on his pale skin like a malignant insect. This cursed seal, forged from the union of Nydra's blood and his own. The stranger's words came to mind: "...not just a shackle. It is also a key." Perhaps the only way to escape this miserable existence was to go to the source of the curse. To destroy it, to find Nydra, and to settle this account forever. For the first time in years, a purpose beyond the instincts of hunting and survival sprouted within Vladis. Revenge. It was a more tangible, more reliable fuel than hope.
The moment the decision was made, the lethargy lifted from him. His mind began to work with a sharpness he hadn't used in centuries. When the sun set and the first stars appeared in the sky, Vladis was no longer a hermit writhing in pain, but a warrior preparing for his duty.
He descended into the family armory. The scent of cold iron and oil in the air revived forgotten memories. The armor and weapons on the walls whispered the bloody history of the Drakovan line. He ignored them all, heading for the chest at the far end of the room, beneath a black velvet cloth. When he opened the chest, the darkness around the weapon inside seemed to intensify. This was his ancestral longsword, said to have been forged under moonlight, bearing the name "Midnight." Its hilt was of ebony, the grip wrapped in tarnished silver. But its true feature was its jet-black steel. It did not reflect light, but seemed to absorb it. Upon it, visible only at a certain angle, were etched ancient runes of protection and death. When he grasped the sword, the feel of the cold metal in his palm was familiar and comforting.
He removed his silk shirt and jacket, replacing them with armor of hardened leather that would not restrict his movements, protecting his chest and shoulders. He pulled on soft leather boots that reached his knees, allowing him to move silently. Finally, he fastened the scabbard for his sword to his back and donned a hooded, woolen cloak that would make him completely invisible in the night's shadows.
He had one last task before leaving the manor. Hunger. The ancient thirst, throbbing in his veins, clouding his mind. This journey would be long and arduous, and he needed to be at the peak of his strength.
When he closed the manor's massive door behind him and stepped into the night, the wind billowed his cloak. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and sharp. The sky was covered with clouds, a blessing for him. The absence of moonlight was his best ally. The fortress of the Chain-Skull Clan, which the stranger had mentioned, was rumored to be in the depths of the mountains, in a forgotten underground city. The path there led through dangerous and desolate lands, where all traces of civilization had been erased. Vladis began to move through the forest like a shadow, with superhuman speed. As he passed through the dense trees, he neither snagged on a branch nor made a sound. His senses were fully alert, like a hunter's; he could hear the flap of an owl's wings ten kilometers away, feel the movement of a mole beneath the earth. But that was not what he was looking for. What he sought was the rhythm of warm blood, of a living heart.
After a few hours' journey, he reached the remains of an old trade route. And he found what he was looking for. Two human silhouettes sat around a dying campfire. Their rough clothing and the saddlebags beside them indicated they were bandits or smugglers. For Vladis, this was merely a detail that made his task easier. Conscience was a luxury he had lost centuries ago.
Calculating the wind's direction, he approached them silently. One of the men was drinking from a bottle and swearing, while the other stirred the embers of the fire. When Vladis attacked, they didn't even have time to realize what was happening. For an instant, a shadow darker than himself appeared behind one of the men by the fire. Then, a muffled gurgle was heard, and the man collapsed lifelessly. The other scrambled to his feet in shock, grasping for his sword, but it was too late. Vladis was right in front of him. The terror in the man's eyes was a flavor that fed the monster within Vladis. He dealt with him quickly and silently as well. The act of feeding was as savage as it was an almost spiritual ritual. As the warm blood filled his veins, he felt his strength renew, his senses sharpen even further. The frustrating throb of hunger had subsided, replaced by a cold and absolute focus. He dragged the two bodies into the bushes by the roadside and continued on his way, leaving no trace.
It was the second night of his journey. He had reached the foothills of the mountains, entering a rocky and treacherous terrain where the paths grew increasingly faint. For a moment, he sensed something was wrong. Mixed in with the familiar scent of the forest was another smell; the smell of ozone, burnt magic, and suppressed hatred.
He paused, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword on his back. He listened. There was no sound other than the howl of the wind passing through the rocks. But he knew. He was being watched. He was in the middle of a trap. Suddenly, runes glowing with a sickly purple light appeared on the ground beneath his feet. They encircled him in a ring, and an invisible force pinned his legs to the ground as if clamped by a vise. Simultaneously, six figures emerged from the shadows of the surrounding rocks and trees. Two were massive, muscular men carrying huge, double-sided axes. Three were more lightly clad, holding silver-plated daggers, looking like agile assassins. And the last one stood slightly behind the group, his face hidden in the shadow of a deep hood, his hands surrounded by glowing energy—a mage.
The mage spoke in a cracked, grating voice. "Your end has come, Drakovan. Nydra's enemies are being cleansed, one by one." So, this was no coincidence. They were Nydra's men. Perhaps the stranger that night was bait, sent to lure him into this very trap.
Rage exploded within Vladis like a volcano. "Did Nydra send you like carrion crows to your death?" he roared. He gathered his strength in his legs. The talisman on his neck burned, searing his skin, and meaningless whispers filled his ears. The curse, in moments like this, was both a weakness and a source of strength. Embracing the chaos within, he roared with all his might. It was not a human voice, but the challenge of a beast. The shockwave emanating from his body shattered the runes on the ground like glass, and the mage cried out in pain. Vladis was free.
The first to move were the assassins with silver daggers. All three lunged at him from different angles. But Vladis's speed was superior to theirs. He slipped between them like a shadow. "Midnight" slid from its scabbard with an ominous whisper. A black line appeared on the first assassin's throat, and he collapsed without a sound. The second tried to plunge his dagger into Vladis's ribs, but Vladis spun, parrying the blow, and struck the man's temple with the pommel of his sword. The sound of bone cracking was clear in the night's silence. The third was more cautious. He fell back, looking for an opening.
But that opening never came. The two armored giants charged Vladis, swinging their axes. Each blow of the axes was powerful enough to fell a tree. Vladis used his speed and agility against this brute force. With the grace of a ballet dancer, he dodged between the deadly blows, making his own attacks with his sword. When his sword grazed the armor of one of the men, sparks flew from the metal. Meanwhile, the last remaining assassin, taking advantage of Vladis being occupied with the giants, approached from behind. He plunged his silver dagger into Vladis's back. Vladis snarled in pain. The silver burned his flesh like acid. Black smoke began to rise from the wound. This momentary pain gave one of the giants enough time to bring his axe down. Vladis managed to pull away at the last second, but the axe grazed his shoulder, tearing the leather and armor. He was wounded now, and three enemies were still standing. In the distance, the mage was preparing a new spell. The energy around his hands had begun to intensify. He was out of time.
Vladis had to take a risk. He drew upon the curse once more. His eyes turned completely blood-red, his vision tunneling. The world around him dissolved into a nightmare of blurred colors and sounds, but at the same time, his strength multiplied. Ignoring the wound on his shoulder, he threw himself at the axe-wielding giant. The man was startled by this sudden, feral attack. Vladis slipped under the man's swinging axe and thrust his sword into the unprotected armpit. The giant groaned with a muffled sound and fell to his knees. The other giant furiously swung his axe at Vladis. Vladis pulled his sword from the dying man and raised it to meet the incoming axe. The sound of the two weapons colliding was like thunder. Vladis's "Midnight" split the steel of the giant's axe in two. The look of astonishment on the man's face froze as Vladis's sword pierced his chest. Only the mage and the last assassin remained. The mage had completed his spell. He launched a green ball of energy from his hands, radiating a soul-freezing cold. Vladis grabbed the last assassin's corpse and used it as a shield in front of him. When the spell hit the corpse, it instantly rotted it, turning it to dust. This brief moment bought Vladis the time he needed. He began to run toward the mage. The mage tried to cast another spell in a panic, but it was too late. Vladis closed the distance in seconds. "Midnight" drew one last arc in the air and severed the hooded head from its body.
The battle was over. Silence gave way to the sound of Vladis's ragged breaths. He was surrounded by dismembered bodies. As the adrenaline began to fade, the pain from his wounds returned with full force. The silver wound in his back was spreading through his veins like poison. The deep cut on his shoulder was causing him to lose blood. The power he had expended had left him exhausted. The sun would rise in a few hours, and he was vulnerable in the open in this condition. He had to find shelter. Wiping his sword on the rags of one of the corpses, he returned it to its scabbard and, with slow, limping adverbs, moved away from the battlefield. Every step was torture. He spotted a dark opening on a nearby rock face, hidden by tree roots and vines. A cave. With his last bit of strength, he threw himself inside and collapsed onto the damp, cold stone floor. As his eyes closed, a single thought was in his mind: This was going to be much harder than he had expected. Nydra's specter was watching his every step, and at the end of this journey, there was either salvation or absolute oblivion.
The darkness of the cave was like the belly of a beast that had swallowed Vladis; absolute, airless, and devoid of all life's colors. The sounds of the outside world, even the howl of the wind, could not penetrate this womb of stone and earth. At first, the only thing that existed was pain. The silver wound in his back burned like an ethereal ember lodged in his flesh, poisoning the immortal blood's efforts to regenerate with a toxic persistence. The deep gash on his shoulder was a simpler, more honest pain; the throbbing of torn muscles and shredded tissue. Vladis surrendered himself to the coldness of the stone floor. His body was heavy with an exhaustion he hadn't felt in centuries. The feral energy of the battle, that artificial surge of power brought by the curse, had now receded like a tide, leaving only its wreckage behind.
Time lost its meaning in this subterranean darkness. He didn't know if minutes or hours had passed. Slowly, the ancient mechanism in his body began to work. The blood in his veins was no longer just a life fluid, but also worked like a craftsman. First, the wound on his shoulder closed. The torn muscle fibers reached for each other, clung together with threads as fine as spiderwebs, and then fused, thickening. The skin advanced like a wave from the edges of the wound, covering the gash with a smooth, new layer. This was a painful but familiar process. The real war was being waged against the silver poison in his back. There, deep in his flesh, two natures were at war. While the pure, caustic effect of the silver tried to rot the supernatural vitality of the vampire tissue, Vladis's blood was surrounding this foreign substance, isolating it, and struggling to expel it, centimeter by centimeter. This internal struggle was a fire unseen from the outside but shaking his entire being. He felt a tingling, a burning beneath his skin. His black blood clotted around the wound, pushing out the remnants left by the silver, and finally, even that most stubborn wound began to close.
As the physical pain subsided, it was replaced by an exhaustion that seeped into his very bones. His body had expended enormous energy to repair itself and now needed rest. The pitch black of the cave merged with the darkness he met when he closed his eyes. His consciousness slowly descended upon him like a heavy velvet curtain, and he sank not into sleep, but into that deep, dreamless trance state where vampires rest. But the curse descended into those depths with him. Nydra's seal began to release its venom when his mind was at its most vulnerable.
The darkness gave way to the flickering light of torches. The cold of the stone floor was gone, replaced by the familiar feel of the polished marble in the great hall of Drakovan Castle. The air was rich with the scent of roasted meat, spilled wine, and burning wood. He was surrounded by the laughter and chatter of his clan members. His father, Lord Valerius, sat on his throne; that stern but fair expression on his face, his silver-inlaid goblet in hand. This was a time when all was right, when betrayal was just a word, and pain was a concept belonging to others. Vladis was there as he had been then; young, proud, filled with the unshakeable self-confidence of his power and lineage.
Then the doors opened, and Nydra entered. At that moment, all sound in the hall ceased for an instant. Time slowed. Nydra was new to the kingdom; a stranger about whom whispers circulated, already becoming a legend for her beauty and power. She wore a silk dress the color of the night sky, clinging to every curve of her body like a sculptor's masterpiece. The dress's daring cut revealed a portion of her smooth back and one of her long legs with every step she took. Her silver hair shone like a halo in the torchlight, and her eyes burned with a light more captivating than the brightest stars. She wasn't just beautiful; she was dangerously alive. The aura she radiated drew everyone in the hall, even his father and himself, like a magnet. Vladis remembered that moment. That complex feeling he had when he first saw
Nydra. It wasn't just simple desire; it was a deeper, more primal curiosity. A need to know what kind of power, what kind of fire, lay beneath that woman's skin. He had felt an irresistible urge to explore every exposed part of her body, to taste that smooth skin, and to unlock her secrets. It was that dangerous attraction the hunter feels for its prey, a mixture of admiration and the desire to destroy.
The memory, at its sweetest point, began to corrupt. The sounds in the hall grew muffled, the torchlight flickered and faded. And then, he heard the sound that drowned out everything else: Nydra's laughter. But this was not the melodic, seductive laughter of that time. This was a cold, mocking sound that chilled the bones. The delusion had begun.