Season 1 Final Chapter-
Erevale, Virelia — Later that same night.
The sprinkling rain had finally stopped, but the air still smelled of smoke and lightning.
Joseph walked the long marble corridor of his mansion, his steps slow but certain. His face—drained, pale, yet resolute—showed that clarity had finally settled where chaos once burned.
As he reached the hall, faint voices met his ears.
The TV flickered with the harsh blue of live news—voices overlapping intense debate.
"The Enigma Tower and several nearby structures suffered heavy damage following the earlier incident,"
said the anchor, her voice tight but professional.
"Fortunately, no civilian casualties have been reported so far."
She turned slightly, facing a wall of screens showing wreckage and flashing sirens.
"Joining us now is Mr. Jamison, Senior Military Officer of the Land Forces of Virelia.
Sir, any official updates from the scene?"
The man on the screen—a weathered soldier with a dense gray beard and the posture of command—nodded solemnly.
"Yes, Ms. Christiane. Our task forces are maintaining full control. Citizens have no reason to panic.
The woman who was saved by the unidentified... entity... refuses to provide any details about his appearance.
She repeatedly claims she cannot remember his face."
"Thank you, Mr. Jamison—"
Before she could finish, another panelist cut in sharply, his voice laced with accusation.
"I don't believe that for a second! The public deserves the truth!
Whoever that thing was—angel or monster—destroyed half the skyline!
Saving one person doesn't erase the chaos he caused!"
The man leaned toward the camera, his tone venomous.
"That woman must be interrogated. She's protecting him, and that makes her complicit!"
The studio erupted into noise.
The anchor forced a strained smile and gestured off-screen.
"Apologies to our viewers. It seems tonight's discussion is... heating up.
We'll be back after a short break."
The screen faded to a commercial.
Joseph exhaled slowly, lips curling in a tired half-smirk.
"Let them talk," he murmured. "They always do."
He turned the corner and stepped into the hall.
Lazarus stood near the window, arms crossed, the faint glow of the city lights painting sharp lines across his ancient face.
Beside him, the horned silhouette of Azryel, the Demon General, lounged casually against the wall, looking far too at ease for a creature of chaos.
Amayra and David sat on the sofa, eyes still fixed on the fading images on TV.
All heads turned as Joseph entered.
Lazarus opened his mouth to speak, but Joseph's voice cut through the heavy air before he could.
"We're going back to the Vampire Castle."
For a moment, silence reigned.
Lazarus blinked, surprised.
Amayra's head whipped around, eyes wide. Even David's grip on the armrest tightened.
But it was Azryel who broke the silence—with a dramatic snort and a crooked grin.
"Ha! Did the little prince hit his head on his way down?
Or is this some dramatic repentance arc I'm witnessing?"
His mocking tone earned him a flat, unamused glance from Joseph—just enough to silence him.
Then Joseph's gaze met Lazarus's.
And in that instant, Lazarus understood.
He recognized that look—the same resolve his father once wore before marching into impossible battles.
Joseph wasn't running. He was preparing.
Lazarus's anger softened into something heavier, almost proud.
"Very well," Lazarus said quietly. "We leave at dawn."
He turned toward Amayra.
"Miss Amayra, call your father. Tell him to return once he settles the chaos at the Enigma Tower."
Amayra nodded and reached for the phone on the table, still dazed by how suddenly the decision had been made.
Joseph gave a short nod, exhaustion leaking into his movements.
"Then I'll be resting until morning."
Without another word, he walked down the hall toward his room.
The mansion felt vast and hollow.
The air was still, heavy with the echoes of the storm.
Inside his room, darkness welcomed him like an old friend.
He didn't bother to change, didn't even remove his coat.
He simply fell onto the bed, face buried in the thick blanket, letting the silence swallow him whole.
For a moment, it was like the world itself had stopped breathing again—only this time, it wasn't because of Azryel's power.
It was the weight of realization, pressing down on his chest.
He had seen the world's reaction.
He had become both myth and monster in a single night.
And somewhere in the blur between light and shadow... he finally understood what he needed to do.
The Next Morning
Dawn bled pale gold through the curtains.
The city of Erevale was eerily quiet, as if holding its breath after the storm.
Sirens still WAILED in the distance, and the skyline bore scars—smoke pillars rising from shattered glass towers.
Two black cars rolled out from Joseph's estate.
Lazarus sat in the front, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Amayra and David followed behind, the weight of unspoken questions hanging between them.
Joseph, silent in the back seat, watched the fading silhouette of Erevale in the rearview mirror.
His reflection met his own eyes—a man caught between salvation and ruin.
The horizon glowed faintly red, the last trace of the storm.
And as the city disappeared behind them, Joseph whispered under his breath—
half prayer, half vow.
"Lopez... wait for me."
The urban landscape gradually yielded to wilderness away from the city Erevale. The dense forest swallowed the road, and distant mountains, their peaks dusted with eternal snow, grew larger on the horizon.
Lazarus, in the lead car, guided them onto a dirt path that grew increasingly narrow and untamed. It twisted deeper into the woods until it ended abruptly—not in a clearing, but at the sheer, impassable face of a colossal grey mountain.
SCREECH—
The cars halted.
Lazarus stepped out. He approached the solid rock wall, his movements reverent and certain. He placed a palm flat against the cold stone.
HUMMMMMM...
A low, resonant hum vibrated through the air. The mountain wall shimmered, the very reality around them wavering like a heat haze. It wasn't a portal that sucked them in, but a shift in the world itself, reality re-knitting to grant them passage.
The glow subsided. The mountain was gone. The forest behind them was the same, but ahead lay a vast, open field. A well-maintained dirt road now led toward a staggering sight: immense grey stone walls that formed a formidable empire, stretching as far as the eye could see. Long flags, crimson and gold, snapped in the wind from the battlements.
Amayra leaned forward, her face pressed to the car window, her voice a hushed gasp.
"Wow... I've never seen anything like it."
They drove toward the colossal metal gate. As they approached, guards high on the walls signaled downward.
CLANK... GROAN...
The giant gate began to open, its movement slow and thunderous, revealing the splendour within.
The town was a vision from an ancient tale. The architecture was Gothic and majestic, built from grey rock with dark orange, triangular wooden roofs and smoking chimneys. The air smelled of pine, woodsmoke, and baking bread. The people, dressed in clean, elegant, old-fashioned clothing, stopped to watch the procession, their expressions a mix of curiosity and awe.
Many recognized Joseph.
As he stepped out of the car, a wave of murmurs passed through the crowd. People bowed their heads in a gesture of deep respect.
"It's the Prince... He has returned."
"Does this mean he will join the succession?"
"Could he be our new Lord?"
A young woman sighed, clutching her friend's arm.
"Who cares about all that? Look at his handsome face!"
David, overhearing, muttered under his breath,
"I'm handsome too! Why does he get all the attention?"
Amayra was spellbound, her gaze drinking in every detail.
Thomas's expression darkened, the weight of bringing humans into this sacred vampire stronghold pressing on him.
Lazarus led them on, posture rigid, guards flanking in perfect formation.
They entered the castle, their footsteps echoing on the polished stone floors as they moved toward the main throne room.
But the figure waiting for them on the ornate throne was not the King.
Joseph's steps faltered. His eyes widened, a storm of emotions—shock, anger, suspicion—flashing in their crimson depths.
His face said everything in his mind.
What is she doing on that throne?
It was the Queen Consort, the First Wife of Vampire Lord William.
That same throne, the one etched into Joseph's childhood memories, had once belonged to his father—the Great Vampire Lord William Valemont II.
Something deep inside him screamed that this was wrong.
Nothing about this scene felt right.
Her face was a mask of neutral authority, her gaze icy and impenetrable. Her voice, when she spoke, was cool and sharp, cutting through the vast hall.
"Lazarus. You abandoned your post without a word. And now you return, bringing humans and Joseph into this castle without summons. Explain this recklessness."
SHHHKK—
Lazarus dropped immediately to one knee, his head bowed.
"I apologize, My Queen. But Young Master Joseph's life was in mortal peril. Any delay, and we would have lost him forever."
"And the humans?" she pressed, her eyes flicking over Thomas, Amayra, and David.
"They are here to help. They are descendants of the Human King. We need their knowledge of the Conjurare manifestation to purge the deadly demonic energy corrupting the Young Master."
"Demonic energy?" A flicker of genuine surprise broke through her composure.
"Yes, My Queen. In a battle against a demon in the human city, the Young Master was stabbed by an ancient relic. It has infected him with a pure, volatile demonic poison."
The Queen was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the great hearth.
"Very well. I will excuse this transgression, given the circumstances." She waved a dismissive hand.
"Take the guests to their chambers. Now."
The dismissal was final.
As the group turned to leave, Joseph's gaze lingered on the throne, his expression hard and searching. The great doors began to close.
BOOM.
The sound echoed with grim finality.
Why is she sitting on the throne?
The question was a silent snarl in his mind.
A maid guided the others away, but Lazarus personally led Joseph to his quarters. The room was grand but cold, filled with dark woods and rich tapestries that depicted ancient battles.
Once inside, Lazarus turned, his aged face etched with a profound helplessness.
"The Lord," he began, his voice heavy, "is bedridden. His health... it is a fluttering candle in the wind. Despite every treatment, he fades. His body lies in a coma."
He took a step closer, the weight of centuries in his eyes.
"But he is alive... as if he was waiting for someone."
Then, in a gesture of raw, desperate pleading, Lazarus moved forward and took Joseph's hand between his own palms. The contact was warm, firm, and filled with an old, fierce loyalty.
"Joseph, even though you believe we have done you every wrong by taking your memories... please remember one thing. He is your father. He always wanted to protect you. You are the only thing he has left which makes him remember his true love, your mother, Lady Aria."
Joseph pulled his hands back as if burned. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions warred in his eyes—anger, pain, and a buried, aching sorrow he refused to acknowledge.
"Please, leave," he said, his voice tight, stripped raw. "I am exhausted from the journey."
His words were cold, but his expression betrayed him. The news had struck a deep, resonant chord.
Lazarus nodded slowly, seeing the crack in the young prince's armour.
"Rest, Joseph. We will speak more tomorrow."
He left, closing the door with a soft but definitive CLICK.
Alone, Joseph stood motionless for a moment in the cavernous room. The silence pressed in, louder than any storm. He didn't bother to remove his coat or boots. He simply walked to the large bed and collapsed forward, his face buried in the thick, dark blankets.
The room was still. The storm outside the castle walls whispered against the stained-glass windows, tracing faint lines of silver across the floor.
Joseph lay face-down on his bed, the heaviness of exhaustion pulling him toward sleep. His body obeyed, but his mind—his mind refused to rest.
Somewhere in the quiet, a voice pierced the darkness.
"My son... I am sorry I am leaving you like this. I knew it, they will come for me!"
It was soft, distant—yet it filled the entire room.
His mother's voice. Aria.
"Mother?" he whispered into the dark. But the voice faded—rippling away like a reflection on disturbed water.
Then, the voice continued, faint but resolute—
"But now it's my time. I will leave this to you. I know the weight is heavy to carry... but you are my only last hope, Joseph. Be the light in these shadows!"
The words rippled through the darkness like a memory half-drowned, half-awake. He reached out—but the vision dissolved.
HUFF. HUFF.
His eyes shot open. His chest rose and fell, sharp and ragged.
Knock. Knock.
"Young Master," came a timid voice from beyond the door. "Dinner is ready. Shall I bring it here, or will you join the others in the dining hall?"
Joseph pressed a hand over his eyes.
"Bring it here," he said at last. His tone was low, but something beneath it trembled—fatigue, perhaps... or the echo of that voice.
Moments later, the door opened. Servants entered, carrying trays of steaming dishes—roasted herbs, fresh bread, broth laced with crimson spice. Behind them came Amayra, David, and Thomas.
"We waited for you," David said, setting a hand on a chair. "The maid said you weren't coming down, so we thought..."
Joseph's lips curved into a faint smile.
"You thought right."
They sat together around a small table, the dim chandelier casting amber light that swayed with each breath of air. For a time, no one spoke. The clinking of silver and the crackle of the hearth were the only sounds.
Finally, David broke the silence.
"Strange, isn't it? Having dinner in a vampire castle. I keep expecting someone to ask for my blood type instead of the salt."
Amayra gave him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"You always have to ruin the moment, don't you?"
Joseph gave a quiet chuckle—the first sound of warmth that had escaped him in days.
"He's right, though," he said, almost wistfully. "It's strange... but maybe a little normalcy isn't so bad."
Amayra looked at him then. Really looked. Beneath the fatigue, beneath the bruises of war and fate, there was still something bright—something that refused to die.
"You don't always have to carry everything alone," she said softly, her eyes softening. "I... we are always here, whenever you need our help."
Joseph's eyes met hers. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room—so complete, it seemed even the fire dared not crackle. The light danced across his face, tracing the quiet battle behind his calm.
A faint smile touched his lips, bittersweet and distant.
"Maybe..." he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But some burdens are for the ones, to bear alone."
Amayra bit her lip, her chest tightening as she watched him. The sorrow in his eyes stirred something deep within her—something she could no longer pretend was just concern.
The words lingered long after the meal was done.
That night, when silence returned and the castle slept, Joseph found himself walking the halls. The torches flickered as he passed, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone.
He stopped before a door carved with the royal insignia—the crest of his bloodline. The King's chamber.
He hesitated, then pushed it open.
The room beyond was veiled in half-light. Curtains billowed with the whisper of wind. And on the grand bed lay the King—Lord William—his body motionless, pale as carved marble.
Arcane machines of forgotten design surrounded him, their runes pulsing faintly as they breathed artificial life into his still veins.
Joseph's throat tightened.
"Father..."
It wasn't the reunion he had imagined. He had imagined this moment a thousand times—his father's arms enveloping him with pride or maybe eyes flashing with anger at his mistakes, or a shadow of guilt for the years lost. Every possible emotion he could hope for.
But none of it came.
There was no warmth, no fury, no sorrow. Just a hollow silence where those emotions should have lived.
Then—the door creaked.
Instinct kicked in. Joseph slipped behind a tall cupboard, his breathing shallow.
A servant entered quietly, a silver tray in hand. The young man approached the bed, bowed deeply, and whispered,
"Forgive me, my Lord."
He poured a vial of green liquid into the King's veins and left as silently as he came.
But before Joseph could move, the door opened once more.
He froze.
The Queen Consort stepped in.
Her presence chilled the air instantly. Her gown swept the marble like liquid darkness. She stood beside the King's bed, staring down at him—not with sorrow, but something far more complicated.
"You never loved me," she whispered. "Not even once."
Her voice trembled with the kind of pain that had curdled into hatred.
"You gave everything to her—to that woman. You brought her into my kingdom, gave her your heart... and when she bore your child, you left me with nothing but just a title of your Wife."
Her fingers clenched the sheets, trembling.
"And now you lie here, dying for them both. You deserve this, William. Every breath of it."
Her voice cracked at the edges, but she didn't look back. She turned sharply, her cloak cutting through the air, and stormed out.
The door slammed, the sound echoing through the empty chamber like the closing of fate itself.
From the shadows, Joseph emerged—his face calm, unreadable... but his eyes, burning faintly crimson, betrayed the storm within.
He walked to the bed in slow, deliberate steps until he stood beside his father's unmoving form. For a long moment, he simply looked down—at the pale, motionless figure of the man who had once been king, warrior, and father.
"Things aren't what they seem in this castle," he murmured, voice low but edged with ache. "What did you hide from me... from her... from all of us?"
The silence answered him with only the faint hum of ancient runes.
Joseph's gaze softened, unfocused—drifting somewhere far beyond the chamber walls. His mother's voice whispered again in memory, echoing faintly like the trace of light through fog.
"You are my last hope, Joseph... my light in these shadows."
He drew in a shaky breath. "Her last hope..."
"What had she meant? What did mother leave behind for me?"
His fists clenched.
"What am I meant to find, Mother? What did you want me to see? Who are the ones behind your death?"
The thought burned deep—an ache of both longing and determination.
"I have to find it all..." he whispered, his tone trembling between grief and resolve. "Every secret, every truth."
Suddenly, pain seared across his chest—the mark where Volkov's blade had pierced him flaring with demonic heat. Black energy writhed beneath his skin like living fire.
He staggered, clutching at the wound, teeth gritted.
"And this..." he hissed through clenched teeth, forcing his breath steady. "I'll find a way to purge it—before it consumes me."
He turned toward the tall arched window, where the moon hung full and pale above the vampire Kingdom's peaks. Silver light flooded the room, brushing against his face like a silent witness. The wind slipped through the curtains, cold and whispering, stirring the edges of his coat.
His crimson gaze lifted to the horizon. Beneath the pain, beneath the burden, something stronger flickered—purpose.
"Just wait for me, Sabrina..." he murmured, his voice quiet but unwavering. "I'll find you... no matter what stands in my way."
The vow carried through the room like a promise etched into eternity—soft, unyielding, immortal.
Outside, thunder rolled over the mountains, and the moonlight caught the faint shimmer of black and silver in Joseph's eyes—angel and shadow intertwined.
The storm had quieted.
But the preparation of upcoming war and slaughter had only begun.
Many mysteries await. Uncovered truths. And a long road ahead—for love, for redemption, for everything yet to come.
Season 1 End.