Pain.
Adrian's entire world narrowed to it. As the blade etched its path across his palm, a fire surged through his veins. It wasn't the sharp sting of the cut—it was something deeper, something ancient. The blood that welled from the wound shimmered faintly, not red, but a dark crimson veined with threads of silver.
Lord Vaelen caught the drops in a black chalice engraved with fangs and vines, then raised it to Adrian's lips. "Drink."
Adrian hesitated. He felt the power emanating from the cup like a low hum vibrating in his bones. His instincts screamed at him to run, but something else—something buried—compelled him to obey.
He drank.
The taste was like nothing he had ever known: bitter and sweet, like crushed roses and fire. As the liquid slid down his throat, his vision went white.
When Adrian came to, he was lying on the cold stone floor of the Vault. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked in sweat. Every nerve in his body thrummed. The chamber around him looked different—brighter, clearer. He could see dust motes dancing in the air like fireflies. He could hear the drip of water echoing in the far distance. He could feel the heartbeat of the very earth beneath him.
He sat up.
Vaelen stood nearby, arms folded. His crimson eyes studied Adrian carefully. "How do you feel?"
Adrian tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse. He coughed and tried again. "Strange. Everything is... louder."
"Your senses are awakening. You're no longer bound by mortal limits. What you feel now is only the beginning."
Adrian looked down at his palm. The cut had healed. No scar. Just smooth skin, as though it had never happened.
He got to his feet, his body moving with a new grace. A new strength.
"This is temporary," Vaelen said, stepping toward him. "Your transformation is incomplete. Until the Rite of Succession is performed, your body will continue to battle the change. You may feel surges of strength followed by weakness. Hunger. Confusion."
"The Rite?"
"A ceremony older than your language. It binds you to the Crimson Empire. But it can only be performed during the Night of Hollow Moons—one month from today. Until then, you must learn. You must survive."
Adrian's mind reeled. "Learn what?"
Vaelen turned and gestured to the far side of the chamber. A narrow passage led deeper into the earth.
"Everything."
The days that followed were unlike anything Adrian had ever experienced.
By night, he trained in the catacombs beneath the university, a hidden world known only to the Crimson Court. Vaelen taught him how to move without sound, how to see in total darkness, how to control his heightened senses. He sparred with shadows that moved like smoke, fought with swords that drank light, and read texts written in blood-ink on skin parchment.
By day, he returned to the surface world, pretending to be normal. Pretending he was still the shy college student who blended into crowds. But it was harder each time. The sunlight stung his eyes. The noise of the world overwhelmed him. He could hear whispers from across campus, taste adrenaline in the air.
He was changing.
And then came the dreams.
They began subtly—strange visions as he slept. A throne room of black marble. A woman with eyes like dying stars whispering in an ancient tongue. A war between night and flame.
But one night, the dream changed.
He saw a boy. Younger than him. Pale, with black hair and a silver ring etched with the same thorned "D" Vaelen wore. The boy was running through fire, chased by figures in crimson armor.
"Find the heir," one growled. "Kill him before the Rite."
The dream ended with the boy falling to his knees, a sword piercing his chest—
—and Adrian waking up screaming.
Vaelen was there in an instant, standing in the corner of his dorm room like a statue come to life.
"You saw him," Vaelen said quietly. "Didn't you?"
Adrian's hands trembled. "Who was he?"
"My son."
Adrian's breath caught.
"He was murdered the night he was to take the Rite. The Crimson Empire fractured after his death. The traitors believed with him gone, the bloodline ended."
Vaelen stepped closer, shadows curling around him.
"But they were wrong. You exist. And they will come for you."
Adrian met his eyes. "Then I'll be ready."
A week later, Adrian stood at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the city. It was just after midnight. The stars were sharp, the moon hanging low.
Beside him stood a figure wrapped in a red cloak. Her eyes glowed faintly violet, and a tattoo of fangs curled along her neck.
"This is Kira," Vaelen said. "She is your Watcher now. She will train you in combat. In strategy. In survival."
Kira didn't smile. "I'm not your friend. I'm your blade. You fall, I rise. You bleed, I fight. Understand?"
Adrian nodded. He respected that kind of honesty.
Their first lesson was brutal.
Kira fought like fire—fast, overwhelming, and merciless. She knocked him down ten times before he landed a single blow. She made him run across rooftops until his legs burned. She taught him to read the wind, listen to footfalls, and strike before being seen.
And slowly, Adrian grew.
He learned to move like a predator. To command his strength. To silence the part of himself that wanted to run.
One night, after a long session, Kira sat beside him on the edge of a roof.
"You're different," she said. "Not like the others Vaelen trained."
"How so?"
She paused. "You're afraid. But you don't run. That's rare."
Adrian looked out over the sleeping city. "Fear means you care about what you could lose."
Kira tilted her head. "Then be ready to lose everything."
Back in the Vault, Vaelen presented Adrian with a scroll sealed in wax.
"It is time you learn the truth about your blood."
The scroll told the story of a secret union—between a vampire prince and a mortal seer. Their love was forbidden, but it produced a child with the power to walk in both worlds. That child's descendants were hidden across generations, their blood diluted, until only whispers remained.
Adrian was the last of that line.
"I was never meant to rule," Adrian said quietly.
"No ruler is," Vaelen replied. "They are forged, not born."
Adrian stared at the obsidian throne once more.
One month. One chance.
He would either ascend...
...or die.