Gwaine slipped back into the Kingdom of Oakhaven like a ghost haunting its own grave. Under the cover of a moonless sky, he infiltrated the hunters' stores and reclaimed his belongings—the Enochian broadsword, the silver daggers, and the ancient relics that were his only link to a forgotten age. He left as silently as he had arrived, disappearing into the vast, untamed wilderness.
For weeks, he traveled by foot. He rested during the day in caves and hollowed trees, surviving the predatory nights. His journey was a gauntlet of nightmares. He encountered a Wendigo in the frozen pines and steeled his heart to slay the starving spirit. He found a Ghoul feasting on a traveler's remains and granted it the mercy of the end. Once, a powerful wraith tried to possess him, but the moment the spirit touched his skin, it shrieked and evaporated into ash; the blinding light of the Angel blood acted as a spiritual furnace, incinerating any entity that tried to enter his soul.
But as the weeks passed, his internal war worsened. He defeated shape-shifters by anticipating their shifting forms, but the strain was showing. Then, on a desolate mountain pass, he met a shadow that did not flee.
Standing in his path was a tall, elegant figure in noble's attire that seemed out of place in the mud. This was Count Derial, a True Vampire of the ancient Syntr Clan.
Derial sniffed the air, his lip curling in disdain. "You carry the scent of our kind," the Count drawled, "but you are weak. Impure. You smell of sweat and human mortality. What a pathetic creature you are."
Derial did not know he was insulting the progenitor of his entire race. He only saw a traveler who needed to be culled.
Derial lunged with terrifying speed. Gwaine barely drew his broadsword in time to parry the Count's claws. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through Gwaine's mortal bones, shoving him back ten feet.
His power is no joke, Gwaine thought, his boots skidding in the dirt. He possesses nearly half of my true strength. In this body, I am outmatched.
Gwaine roared and counter-attacked with every ounce of his combat experience. He swung the heavy steel in a flurry of slashes and stabs, throwing his silver daggers with pinpoint accuracy. But Derial moved like liquid silk, dodging every strike without breaking a sweat. To the Count, Gwaine moved in slow motion.
"Is that all?" Derial laughed, appearing behind Gwaine and raking his claws across the warrior's back.
Gwaine didn't dodge the next strike. He allowed Derial's hand to pierce his shoulder, the pain blinding him. Blood sprayed across the Count's fine clothes. Gwaine backed away, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his blood draining quickly from a dozen wounds.
Derial threw his head back and laughed. "What are you laughing at, little mongrel? You are dying, and yet you smile?"
"I am laughing," Gwaine whispered, a dark chuckle bubbling in his throat, "because you've already lost."
Derial's laughter died. He looked down at his hands, which were stained with Gwaine's blood. The blood began to glow with a sickly, dark light. While Gwaine had been attacking, he hadn't just been trying to hit the Count—he had been strategically placing his blood on Derial's skin and weapons to set a Blood Trap.
Gwaine whispered a dark spell from the dawn of time.
Instantly, the blood on Derial's hands turned into liquid needles that burrowed into his pores. The Count screamed as the spell began to eat his soul from the inside out. Gwaine dropped to his knees, his own life force being consumed by the very spell he was casting. It was a war of attrition.
"It's only a matter of time and endurance," Gwaine wheezed, watching the Count thrash. "Let's see who is the first to fall."
Derial looked at Gwaine one last time, his skin blackening as his soul withered. "This isn't... the end... My clan will feel my death... they will avenge me..."
With a final, mocking laugh, Count Derial collapsed and dissolved into a pile of foul-smelling dust.
Gwaine collapsed beside the corpse, his own life leaking into the dirt. He was on the brink of death. Then, it happened.
The seal on his true power—the ancient, dark essence of the First Vampire—cracked. It wasn't a slow return; it was a violent eruption. Gwaine screamed in agony as his body felt like it was being torn apart from the inside out. His bones elongated and snapped back into place. His eyes bled into that terrifying, dark bloody red of the First. His fangs grew, aching and sharp, pulsing with a need that bypassed his mind.
A voice, deep and ancient, whispered in the back of his skull: Drink. Claim what is yours. Survive.
Succumbing to the primal nature he had fought to suppress, Gwaine lunged at the cooling neck of Count Derial. He fed like a wild animal, violent and ferocious, draining the "True Vampire" of every drop of its essence.
As he pulled away, he saw his reflection in the dark gallons of blood pooled on the ground. He saw the face of the monster that had once ruled the night. He felt the old strength returning—the god-like power that could crush mountains. He looked up at the moon and let out a chilling, triumphant laugh. He was back. He was whole.
But the triumph was short-lived.
The Angel blood—the "Light"—did not surrender. It reacted to the surge of dark power like oil hitting a fire. A pain so sharp it felt like molten lead began to crawl through his veins, fighting the darkness for every inch of his soul. The conflict was too much for his physical form to bear.
Gwaine's knees buckled. As he collapsed, his vision blurred. From the shifting shadows of the trees, a figure emerged. The clothes were strange—hooded, timeless.
"That... figure..." Gwaine whispered, but his tongue was heavy.
As the first sliver of the sun began to rise over the horizon, the light of the heavens hit his face. The dark power within him recoiled, hiding back in the depths of his marrow, surrendering once more to the cage of light.
As his consciousness faded, Gwaine's mind drifted back to the very beginning.
He saw himself in a dark alleyway of his home kingdom, centuries ago. The war was over; the enemy had conquered his people. He had just made his deal with Lucifer. He felt powerful, mysterious, and invincible.
He stepped out of the shadows, ready to reclaim his throne, only to feel a searing, agonizing heat. He looked at his arm as his skin began to smoke and blister. He looked up in shock at the sun, rising in the East for the first time since his rebirth.
I am a king of the world, he had thought then, but I am a prisoner of the light.
History was repeating itself. Gwaine fell into a deep, dark sleep as the sun claimed the world above.