The castle of Duskveil rose from the cliffs like a black crown, its towers scraping the mist-filled sky. The sea crashed below, endless and hungry, gnawing at the rocks as if eager to swallow the vampires' last refuge.
Kaelen Draven stood in the grand hall, the echoes of Velmora's destruction still chasing him. Every stone of Duskveil had been dragged here by blood and will; it was a fortress born of exile. Behind him, banners of crimson silk hung limp, their embroidered bat sigils half-torn.
Tonight would be the first gathering of the vampire lords since the fall. The hall smelled of wine, ash, and old grudges.
Aelric entered, his cloak still damp from the storm outside. The young vampire's face was leaner now, his eyes sharper, his silence heavier. In the flicker of torchlight he looked nothing like the frightened son who had watched Velmora burn.
"My lord," he said quietly, bowing to Kaelen.
Kaelen turned, studying him. "You've grown."
"Or the world has shrunk," Aelric replied.
That earned a faint smile from Kaelen. "Both, perhaps."
He gestured toward the long table where the council gathered. "Come. Let them see you. They need a symbol more than a soldier right now."
---
The council chamber was filled with predators. Each vampire lord wore centuries of pride and paranoia on their faces. They whispered as Aelric passed—some in respect, others in resentment.
Lord Miren, broad-shouldered and scarred, leaned forward. "So this is the heir of Velmora," he sneered. "He survived when his father did not. How… convenient."
Aelric's jaw tensed. "Would you prefer I'd died with him?"
"Perhaps," Miren said, swirling his goblet. "It would have made your story neater."
Kaelen's voice sliced through the room. "Enough."
The hall fell silent.
"We are not here to gnaw on bones," he said. "The demon legions move north. They've already taken the forest of Velmar and the Black Crossroads. If we keep bickering, we'll be next."
Lady Seralyn, her silver hair cascading like moonlight, spoke softly. "What do you propose, my lord?"
Kaelen's gaze swept the table. "Unity. We rebuild the Houses under one banner—mine. Duskveil will be our stronghold. From here we strike back."
Miren snorted. "You'd have us kneel? Vampires bow to no one."
"Then you'll die standing," Kaelen said evenly.
The tension was a living thing—hot and sharp. Aelric could feel it crawling over his skin. Every House represented centuries of rivalry. The thought of them standing together seemed almost laughable.
But Kaelen's presence carried weight. Even his silence demanded obedience.
He stepped closer to Miren, his voice low. "You mistake leadership for tyranny. You think I want your loyalty out of hunger. I want it out of necessity. The demons won't care whose bloodline shines brightest when they tear our throats out."
Miren met his gaze for a long, dangerous moment—then finally nodded. "Very well… Lord Draven."
Kaelen turned away, satisfied, though his eyes lingered on Aelric. "Tomorrow we begin training the new guard. You'll lead them."
Aelric blinked. "Me?"
"You wanted vengeance," Kaelen said. "Here's where it starts."
---
Later that night, the storm returned. Rain lashed the windows as Aelric stood on the training grounds below the keep. Dozens of recruits lined up—vampires of every House, armored and uncertain.
"Listen well," Aelric said, voice cutting through the rain. "The demons don't fight like us. They burn what they can't break. They laugh at pain. And they never stop coming."
He drew his sword—the same blade he'd carried since Velmora. Its edge gleamed silver.
"You fight for the night itself. For the memory of what we lost. If you hesitate—if you pity them—they will eat your heart before you can scream."
No one spoke. Only thunder answered him.
Then, quietly, someone asked, "And what do you fight for, commander?"
Aelric met their eyes, and for a moment his expression softened.
"I fight," he said, "so that someday, the night won't have to be afraid of itself."
---
That evening, Kaelen watched from the balcony above, his arms folded. Lady Seralyn stepped beside him, her presence quiet as snow.
"You see yourself in him," she said.
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I see a weapon I forged too well."
"Careful, Kaelen," she murmured. "Weapons have a way of turning on their masters."
He said nothing. Below, Aelric moved among the recruits like a shadow of fire—faster, stronger, more relentless than ever.
And far beyond Duskveil, deep in the burning woods of Velmar, something stirred.
A demon general knelt before a throne of bones.
"My lord," it hissed, "the vampires rebuild."
A voice answered from the darkness—low, ancient, dripping with hunger.
"Then we shall remind them," it said, "why the night first learned to fear the dark."