The two armoured Federation enforcers burst through the hissing door seals, their laser-sighted rifles already spitting streams of shrapnel. They were elite, their gear nanite-enhanced, trained for containment, not combat against a mythological singularity.
They were too slow.
Lyra didn't duck or run; she simply moved.
The first volley of rounds tore through the air where she had been standing an instant before. She was no longer a human body bound by inertia; she was a crimson blur, powered by the ancient, implacable will of the vampire and the refined efficiency of the nanites. The sheer speed generated a faint, electrical resonance as she carved a path toward the first enforcer.
Too clumsy, my dear, Dracula's voice murmured, a guiding breath in her ear. Use the gifts. Use the mind. Let them fight their own shadows.
The first enforcer, Unit Gamma 5, was a massive figure encased in reactive steel. Lyra reached out, not with her hand, but with the nascent, terrifying tendrils of the Bloodlink. She didn't have to touch him. She just pushed a pure, irresistible wave of panic into his neural network.
Gamma 5's eyes immediately went wide with a terror that wasn't rational. He didn't see Lyra; he saw a memory of his worst nightmare—a collapsing bridge, a dying child. He spun around, his psychological defences utterly annihilated, discharging a full clip into the ceiling.
The second enforcer fared worse. Lyra closed the gap, and the metallic tang of his blood was a siren call. The Thirst exploded in her gut, a burning, absolute need to seize, to consume, to claim.
No! Control. Dracula's whisper was sharp, laced with ancient authority. Do not waste the essence, Lyra. You are not a mindless ghoul. Use your strength efficiently.
She obeyed, the voice a dominant current overriding her primal hunger. Instead of tearing his throat out, Lyra delivered a strike that was surgical in its precision: a nanite-augmented fist aimed at the junction between his helmet and neck plating. The impact sounded like a dropped cement block. The helmet crushed inward, and the enforcer slumped, unconscious before he hit the ground. His life was spared, but his armour was ruined.
Behind the two fallen enforcers, Dr Seraph Morn was scrambling over the toppled gurney, shrieking into his comms. "She's adapting too fast! She's suppressing the dampeners! You must contain the subject, Commander, or incinerate the lab!"
Lyra turned her blazing crimson gaze on Morn. The temptation to end the pitiable scientist was immense, a pleasing knot of satisfaction waiting to be tied. He had caged her, poisoned her, and condemned her.
Let him live, the Voice commanded, a hint of dark amusement now. A puppet master needs his strings. Besides, he will lead us to greater secrets. We will thank him properly later.
A new sound cut through the chaos—a heavier, more disciplined thudding of boots. This was not the frightened, reactive energy of the enforcers. This was authority.
A figure detached itself from the smoke and shadows beyond the doorway. Commander Rheon Vale.
He was the perfect specimen of the Federation's elite military corps: tall, built with the cold geometry of a tactical machine, encased in charcoal grey Vanguard Armour—a full combat chassis far heavier and more advanced than the enforcers' gear. His face, visible through the transparent plating of his helmet, was a study in cold, controlled fury. His eyes were the colour of flint, grey and sharp, and his jaw was set in a line of iron discipline.
He held a plasma rifle steady, the weapon humming with lethal potential. He looked only at her.
"Project Nosferis, designated Lyra Kain," Rheon's voice was deep, resonant, and clipped with lethal control. "This is your only order. Stand down. Failure to comply will result in immediate hard kill measures."
Lyra felt the internal shift. The Aether Fragment stirred, its ancient, romantic core reacting to the soldier's sheer presence. The air between them thickened, no longer just with ozone and fear, but with a palpable, forbidden tension.
Ah, Lyra. Look at him. The Voice was suddenly soft, intoxicating. Such rigid discipline. Such clean, pure strength. He smells of duty and devotion. He is wasted on the Federation. He must be ours.
Ignoring the Voice for a moment, Lyra analysed the threat. Rheon was different. She tried to push a wave of raw Bloodlink energy at him—a simple panic impulse.
The psychic wave hit his mind, only to shatter.
Rheon didn't flinch. His augmented neural filters were too strong, his discipline a concrete barrier. He was inoculated against her psychic command.
"Attempting telepathic infiltration. Status: Denied." Rheon's voice held a note of genuine, cold surprise.
He moved. Not with Lyra's supernatural blur, but with the terrifying, directed force of a trained combat machine. He dropped his rifle and drew a pair of specialised stun batons designed to incapacitate high-speed targets.
Their clash was deafening. Rheon aimed a strike at her head; Lyra blocked it with a forearm. The impact sent a painful, jarring shock up her arm, proving his strength was magnified by his armour—or perhaps that she was still learning the limits of her own.
Lyra countered, her crimson-eyed gaze fixed on his heart, trying to find a weakness in his physical form. She struck with a sustained assault, her nanite-enhanced speed taxing the reflex systems of his armour. He's a mountain, she thought wildly, but I am the erosion.
He was faster than any human she had ever seen. He didn't rely on brute force; he used technique, turning her speed against her, forcing her movements into predictable angles. He managed to land a solid, focused kick to her sternum.
The blow should have cracked ribs, but the dense, new bone structure of her vampiric form only absorbed the shock, staggering her for a moment.
"Incredible," Rheon muttered, his breath coming quick but even. "You are exceeding every recorded variable, Nosferis."
"Don't call me that," Lyra hissed, the raw power of the Aether Fragment fueling her rage. She didn't want to be a project; she was a person. She was a Monarch.
Do not waste this moment! Dracula's voice was urgent. He is unique! Feel his mind, Lyra! He is conflicted! Use the temptation!
Lyra seized on the suggestion, abandoning the straight fight. She didn't need to break his armour; she needed to break his mind. She lunged forward, not to strike, but to recklessly invade his personal space. Closing the distance instantly, her fingers found the joint where his helmet met the collar, and she slammed him back against the metallic wall with a force that dented the reinforced steel. The movement was so quick, so unexpected, that his stun batons clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Lyra's face was inches from his. Her crimson eyes, full of both Lyra's desperate anger and Dracula's ancient hunger, bored into the stunned grey eyes behind his visor. The air between them crackled with charged, terrifying proximity.
"You seek to hunt me, soldier?" Lyra breathed, her voice low, the Thirst making it husky and seductive. "You seek to capture a Queen?"
She felt the profound connection, the raw, beautiful strength of the man beneath the cold steel. The Bloodlink, denied its path of brute force, tried to find a route of attraction. A flash of memory—Rheon's, not hers—briefly crossed her mind: a moment of loneliness, a moment of profound, unfulfilled duty.
He is drawn to your power, Lyra. He is obsessed with what he cannot control.
Lyra shifted her weight, pinning him more firmly, feeling the hard, disciplined plane of his chest against her own. She was no longer just fighting for escape; she was fighting for possession.
"The Federation sent you to destroy me," she whispered, her words a promise and a curse. "But I can offer you the stars, Commander Vale. Throw aside your duty. Pledge your strength to me."
Rheon's control flickered. A dark, intense confusion momentarily clouded his grey eyes. He was fighting the irresistible pull of the Bloodlink, fighting the ancient, manipulative charisma that now flowed from Lyra's pores.
Before he could recover, before he could land a counter blow, Lyra drove her knee into the armour's weakest spot—the knee joint. A shockwave ran through the metal, and Rheon buckled with a grunt of pain.
Lyra released him, springing back with a speed that defied the eye. The moment of contact was over, but the seed of fatal attraction had been planted. She looked at the kneeling, reeling Commander, at the trail of subservient, drooling enforcers, and at the terrified Dr Morn, huddled behind his broken gurney.
She was no longer Lyra Kain, technician. She was the nascent Queen.
"Find me, Commander Vale," she challenged, her voice ringing with deadly, beautiful certainty. "You are strong. Too strong to be a servant of these shadows. When we meet next, you will choose who you serve."
She turned, her crimson form blurring, and she was gone—not through the main door, but upward, tearing through a ceiling vent with impossible force, the sound echoing a final, chilling note of triumph and escape.
Rheon slowly pushed himself up, his eyes fixed on the ragged hole in the ceiling. He ignored Seraph's frantic demands and his enforcers' confusion. He touched the dent in his armour where she had pinned him.
He was the hunter. But for the first time in his life, Rheon Vale realised he was also profoundly, terrifyingly desired.