"We will soon make our move," the holy knight Gareth said to his four companions, his voice nearly drowned out by the patter of rain and the howl of the wind.
The five of them were camped deep within the forest, hidden among thick bushes and far from the sight of the vampires occupying Castle Black. The violent storm had created the perfect conditions for them to remain unseen.
Gareth studied the faces of those around him. In the pouring rain, each of the warriors wore the same hardened expression—a mask. He could tell they were all nervous, tense, and on edge.
This was their last stand, their final battle against Dracula. As holy knights, they had come far. Holy Knights—that was the name given to this group of fighters by kings and commoners alike, slayers of vampires and defenders of mankind. The greatest calling of all, or so they had been told. That belief had swelled their numbers and their fame across a cursed world.
But the truth was crueler. Only those with deep grudges and the kind of resolve that pushed men beyond their limits ever lasted long. And even that was rarely enough. Many died; worse, many were turned—swelling the ranks of the dark army while the knights' numbers dwindled.
"Quality over quantity," Marge, a skilled warrior and Gareth's friend, had once told him—perhaps trying to comfort him from the grim reality of their war.
No one could match Marge. He was wise and deadly, a master with the sword. On the battlefield, he moved like an angel of death, severing vampire heads with divine precision. He was unstoppable.
That was two years ago. Marge was dead now—gutted by a vampire. They hadn't even drunk his blood or turned him. They just killed him—brutally—and made sure he felt every second of it.
Marge went missing during a battle. People feared the worst, but Gareth believed his mentor would return. Five days later, his body arrived in an empty horse carriage. His twisted expression and the dried tears on his pale face told of unspeakable pain.
There was no grieving. His body was burned, and the battle went on.
Gareth learned that day that it wasn't just about skill or strength. In the end, it was about something greater. They were not fighting men but otherworldly creatures—monsters that only the power of the gods could destroy.
So, they sought such power.
Or at least something close. The golden cross they had driven into Dracula's chest was fashioned by a woman many believed to be a witch.
Gareth didn't think so. Witches were myths—old, ugly creatures from stories about dark magic. This woman was nothing like that. She was young—only twenty-one, just seven years younger than him.
She was beautiful. Her long white hair fell to her waist, her ivory skin shimmered under moonlight, and her round eyes carried a warmth that unsettled him. Gareth had never seen beauty like hers before. His travels as a holy knight had brought him across royal courts filled with proclaimed beauties, yet none had ever struck him the way Maya did.
Though Gareth wasn't one to judge beauty, others often called him handsome—not just those he'd saved, but even his fellow knights. He never believed it. His blue eyes, golden hair, and soft, chiseled features seemed ordinary to him. Still, many said otherwise—even a few royals who offered to repay his deeds in… other ways.
But even with his naïve sense of beauty, he knew Maya was exceptional. Everyone who met her thought the same.
Their leader introduced her to Gareth and seven others, including the four who now hid with him in the rain. Her origins were a mystery, but the trust in their commander's eyes was enough to still their doubts—at least for a time.
They questioned her power, so she proved it.
Their first task was to capture a vampire alive and bring it to her. When they did, she drove a golden cross straight into its chest.
They watched as the creature screamed, thrashed, and broke free of its restraints before collapsing to the ground. Its body withered and shrank, life draining away until nothing remained.
The holy knights were stunned. Never had they seen a vampire die like that. Their holy blades—the most effective weapons against the undead—could only scorch vampire flesh slightly, their strength coming from baptism in holy water. Yet the golden cross annihilated the creature completely.
She told them the plan again. Some would go and impale Dracula with the cross. New weapons—deadlier and more divine—would be forged to aid in the coming assault.
The cross had to be buried in Dracula's heart. Their lives didn't matter; the mission did.
And they succeeded—though none returned.
Now, the second stage of the plan was in motion: to slay the weakened Dracula and end this nightmare once and for all.
Two teams were formed for this final task. One, the larger, consisted of a handful of holy knights and a band of ordinary men promised fame and gold if they survived. They didn't know their true role—to serve as bait, drawing out Dracula's monstrous army from the castle.
The second team was the smaller one—Gareth's. The five of them were the most skilled and trusted warriors, chosen to face the Dark Lord himself.
Not all of Dracula's minions would abandon the castle. The ones who stayed behind would be the greatest threat—vampires nearly as powerful as their master. The knights would have preferred to face an army than those few horrors that lurked within.
But preference didn't matter. Duty did.
Gareth looked again at his brothers-in-arms. Michael, the young blonde with a spear; Bjorn, the towering man who crushed undead with his shield and sword; Daven, the youngest of them all; and Mark, the scarred warrior with a single eye that saw more than most.
Who would die, and who would live?
The thought lingered. What kind of monsters awaited them in the darkness?
But one question burned brighter than the rest—would he kill Dracula?
He wanted to. He needed to. Every pain he had ever known traced back to that creature. From the night his family and village were taken, to his years as a wanderer, to every loss he'd endured—Dracula's shadow was behind it all.
When he first killed a vampire, he had felt something stir inside him—a grim satisfaction that became his only comfort.
Killing Dracula would be more than victory. It would be redemption. He didn't care if his comrades died, or if he himself perished after. It didn't matter. He would triumph, no matter how many monsters stood in his path.
How powerful they were meant nothing to Gareth. He believed he was different—born for this nightmare. And tonight, he would end it.
But would belief be enough? Could mastery of the sword bridge the gap between man and monster?
For Gareth, it had to. He would fight harder than ever before, surpassing every limit he had known. Tonight, Dracula and all his disciples would taste the steel of his blade.
A thunderous battle cry echoed through the storm—the signal that the first team had begun their assault.
"The hour is upon us," Gareth said quietly. "Let us go forth… and behead our enemy."