The young prince was not yet old enough to claim his father's throne, yet the vampires of his kingdom feared him all the same. Some whispered that they feared him more than the tyrant who had ruled before him. They had known his father's brutality; it was predictable in its cruelty. But Alexandru—the hybrid child, born of elven grace and vampiric blood—was something altogether different. His actions stemmed not from impulse or rage, but from calm, deliberate thought. And that, to them, was far more terrifying.
Rumor held that one day he would snap, that his reason would curdle into madness, and that he would raise an army to devour the elven lands his father once sought to conquer. Yet even Alexandru, in quiet moments of honesty, would admit that darkness stirred within him. He simply chose to direct it elsewhere—toward politics, compromise, and diplomacy, where fury could be molded into purpose. He had sworn an oath never to kill sentient life again after ending his father's reign. Animals and lesser creatures sufficed to sate the hunger. War, and war alone, would justify bloodshed.
Years of study had yielded a revelation: vampires could survive on the blood of beasts. Pigs, deer, and other creatures offered nearly the same nourishment as human veins. No one had bothered to test such a theory until Alexandru made his vow. Now, livestock filled the kingdom's farms, and the forests provided plentiful prey. Some rebel enclaves still trafficked in human blood, keeping captives hidden underground—but Alexandru tolerated them, for now. To intervene would ignite a civil war he could ill afford.
He tried not to think of it as he rode beneath the shadowed trees toward the elven border.
The guards halted his steed before he could cross. "Unveil your hood," one demanded, a spear leveled toward his chest. "Let the sun judge you."
Alexandru understood. If sunlight destroyed him, their kingdom would be spared the trouble of an invasion. Slowly, he released the reins, lifted his gloved hand, and drew back his hood.
The sun kissed his pale skin, and though it did not burn, it cast no reflection upon him either—as if the light itself bent around his presence. His face was finely cut, delicate but resolute, and his eyes gleamed a deep, sanguine red. He wore fitted leather armor, designed for both agility and precision, and a saber rested against his hip.
He offered the guards a gentle smile. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, his accent soft but unmistakably Transylvanian. "I am Alexandru, son of Alucard. I wish to speak with your ruler—or at the very least, deliver a message. Anyone of royal standing will suffice."
The elves exchanged uneasy glances. Their kingdom of Darnussus stretched beyond him—a living city of emerald canopies and sunlit streets, built around a colossal tree that served as the royal heart of their realm.
"Our late king fell to your father's hand," one of the guards replied grimly. "Only our princess now rules. You are the half-blood prince we were warned to expect. You may enter—but if you step out of line, we will not hesitate to strike you down."
They parted to allow him passage.
The town beyond the gate was a vision of contrasts: druids coaxed flowers from the earth with a touch, mages conjured light within floating crystals, and necromancers whispered gently to spirits who answered in peace. Yet the scars of war lingered. Charred ruins stained the city's edge, where priests still worked to cleanse corruption from the soil. Some elders glared at Alexandru as he rode past, their eyes full of old grief—but the children, unburdened by memory, watched in wonder. His pallid beauty fascinated them.
He dismounted before the towering gates of the great tree and gave the elven guards an acknowledging nod. "If I may," he said politely, "walking through your lands unwatched may cause misunderstanding. I am unfamiliar with your city. Would one of you be kind enough to escort me to the princess?"
They hesitated. Bitterness clouded their faces, but duty prevailed. The captain of the guard stepped forward to accompany him.
As they walked, the elf spoke, his tone careful. "During the war with the Vampire King, we were forced to embrace magics once forbidden. Warlocks. Necromancy. Such practices are alien to our kind—but we would not abandon our own. Now, those who turned to the dark arts serve us still, communing with the dead, divining the future. It was their visions that foretold your arrival. The princess commanded that no harm come to you. Why you are here, only she is meant to learn."
Alexandru listened in silence. Even vampires, steeped in blood and shadow, rarely dabbled in necromancy. The thought that elves had done so stirred disappointment in him.
"As a child, I was told the elves were a proud, noble race," he said finally. "To see you reduced to such acts… I had hoped your victory would not come at so steep a cost."
The guard's gaze darkened. "The torture your father inflicted upon our people was a price far beyond pride," he said, voice low. "She awaits you within. Hold your tongue on matters you cannot understand."
The great doors of the living tree opened before him, and Alexandru stepped inside.
A rush of ancient magic coursed through him—warm, radiant, and sickening to his vampiric senses. The air shimmered with life. Golden veins pulsed faintly along the inner bark, guiding him to a vast chamber where a woman stood before a crystalline core, her back turned.
Her hair, long and golden as sunlight, flowed to the floor. Her gown shimmered faintly as she chanted in the old tongue, drawing energy from the crystal to feed the tree. When the light dimmed, she stilled, and her ears twitched.
"Ah," she said softly, her voice echoing through the chamber. "The young prince has arrived. Tell me, why have you come to Darnussus?"
Alexandru paused. Her tone was cool, almost dismissive—unbefitting of royalty, yet somehow earned.
He inclined his head. "Please forgive my intrusion. I come seeking peace between our peoples. But first, allow me to reintroduce myself, as your spirit seers have likely foretold more than I intended. I am King Alexandru, son of Alucard Dragul." He bowed deeply, his voice resonant in the golden light. "I come with respect, and I hope to receive the same."
When she turned, the reason for her brusqueness became clear. Three deep claw marks marred her face—his father's handiwork. A blindfold covered her ruined eyes, leaving her to perceive the world through magic alone. Yet she carried herself with the grace of her lineage, her silken gown concealing just enough to preserve her dignity.
"My apologies if our foresight seemed rude," she said, bowing in turn. "Since the war, we have learned to stay a step ahead. I am Princess Leilania, daughter of King Oberon of the Seven Circles. It is an honor to meet you, King Alexandru."
She hesitated, her blind gaze lowering. "If my people treated you with suspicion, forgive them. They have suffered much. Your father took my sight—but it was your hand that ended his tyranny. For that, I owe you my life."
Then, in a gesture few elves would ever offer, she sank to her knees before him.
Elves were a proud race; humility did not come easily to them. And yet, as Alexandru watched her bow, he knew her gratitude was sincere—painfully, beautifully so.