The bell tolled once.
It was low. Cold. Older than stone.
It didn't ring with joy or triumph.
It rang like a verdict.
Across the Vampire Realm, silence followed. In halls, crypts, sanctuaries, and the ancient bloodline towers, heads lifted. The resonance of that bell didn't travel through the air. It sank into marrow. Into memory.
The throne had been claimed.
And the realm understood.
Lucifer now sat where no one else had dared for centuries.
The spires of Vhalcrest loomed dark under the blood moon. An endless city carved into obsidian and black crystal, always silent, always watching. The people within—pale and sharpened by time—stood still in alleyways and archways, listening.
No one spoke.
Not yet.
In a manor built before the walls ever rose, an elder pressed her hand against the cold glass. Her long hair was gray, her fangs filed blunt with age.
"He's returned," she whispered.
Her son, standing behind her, sneered faintly. "And the throne bowed."
She nodded.
