Downstairs, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife.
The chores were done. The hallway was swept. The banister was welded. The garden was tamed. Even Bacon the pig was currently sleeping in a corner of the yard, clean and fluffy.
The Suicide Squad stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, waiting.
"He has been in there for an hour," Volkan grumbled, rubbing a bruise on his arm where the pig had tackled him. "What is he doing? Drowning?"
"Silence," Kaelith hissed, smoothing back her stray hairs. She felt uncharacteristically nervous. "He is likely performing a ritual. You saw how he summoned the water. He is purifying himself."
"He's taking a bath, Princess," Gorn muttered, adjusting his goggles. "Don't overthink it."
"It was not just a bath," Elara whispered, her eyes fixed on the balcony door upstairs. "The water... it obeyed him. His control over the elements is absolute."
They waited. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Tick. Tock.
Then, the door handle upstairs turned.
Click.
It wasn't a creak this time. It was a smooth, well-oiled sound.
The door swung open.
The sound of footsteps echoed. Not the soft patter of bare feet they had heard earlier. This was the rhythmic, authoritative clack-clack-clack of hard leather heels on stone.
A figure stepped out onto the balcony.
Kaelith's breath hitched in her throat. Elara's staff slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Even Volkan, who respected nothing but strength, felt his mouth go dry.
The hobo was gone. The caveman was erased.
Standing above them was a Prince of the Night.
Draven had dressed in the royal attire of the Progenitor Bloodline. He wore a high-collared shirt of white silk that seemed to glow in the dim light, the cuffs ruffled in a style that had not existed in this world. Over it, he wore a vest of deep crimson brocade, buttoned with polished obsidian.
But it was the coat that stole the air from the room. A long, tailcoat of midnight-black velvet, embroidered with silver threads that formed arcane, shifting patterns. It flared around him like a cloak of shadows.
His hair, previously a messy bird's nest, was now slicked back, wet and dark, framing a face that was terrifyingly symmetrical. His skin was pale as marble, contrasting violently with the dark clothes and his burning crimson eyes.
He adjusted his cuffs, a gemstone ring flashing on his finger.
It wasn't a spell. It was biology. Vampires were predators who lured their prey. And right now, Draven looked like the most beautiful, dangerous thing in the universe, it was his passive charm.
"By the Gods..." Kaelith whispered.
Her heart, usually a steady drum of war, skipped a beat. She had seen the princes of the Aethelgard Empire. She had seen Elven Lords. She had seen the golden scaled Humanoid Dragons, None can compared to his beauty.
They all looked like children playing dress up compared to this.
The clothes alone were a treasure. The cut, the fabric, the style, it was alien. It spoke of a civilization that was refined, elegant, and infinitely superior to their own.
Elara felt her knees grow weak. As an Elf, she was attuned to beauty. To her, Draven didn't just look handsome, he looked like a work of art carved from moonlight and blood. She felt a heat rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with magic.
"He is... bewitching," Elara murmured, her voice trembling. "Is this a mental attack? Why... why can't I look away?"
"It's the clothes," Gorn whispered, though he sounded awestruck too. "That stitching... I've never seen that weave. It absorbs light. That coat alone is worth more than my entire kingdom."
Draven rested one hand on the railing. He looked down at them.
To Draven, he was just thinking, 'Do I look cool? The collar feels a bit tight'.
To the group below, he looked like a dark god descending from his throne.
"I see the dust is gone," Draven said.
His voice was different. Before, it had been raspy with sleep. Now, it was a smooth, baritone purr. It vibrated in Kaelith's chest.
"Y-yes," Kaelith stammered. The Iron Princess, who had commanded armies against the beast tides, stuttered. She quickly bowed her head to hide the flush on her face. "The task is complete, Lord."
"Lord?" Draven raised an eyebrow. He liked the sound of that.
He began to descend the stairs. Every step was deliberate. The long tails of his coat flowed behind him like liquid smoke.
He reached the bottom and stopped in front of them. He towered over Kaelith and Elara. The scent of him, clean rain, old books, and something metallic like blood, wafted over them.
Draven looked at Kaelith. He noticed her pupils were dilated. He looked at Elara. He noticed her ears were twitching rapidly and turning pink.
Hook, line, and sinker, Draven thought, suppressing a grin. The vampire aesthetic never fails.
"And the pig?" Draven asked, turning to Volkan.
Volkan stood up straighter. He felt underdressed in his torn coat and armor. He felt like a barbarian standing before an Emperor.
"Clean," Volkan grunted, trying to maintain his dignity. "It is sleeping."
"Good," Draven said. He flicked a speck of imaginary dust off his velvet sleeve.
He looked at the four of them. They were staring at him with a mix of fear and star-struck awe. It was a massive improvement from the 'armed intruders' vibe of an hour ago.
"Now," Draven clasped his hands behind his back. "As I recall, I asked about food."
He walked past them toward the dining hall, his cape swishing.
"Follow me," he commanded softly. "You have worked. I suppose I can spare some rations. But do not expect a feast. My pantry has been closed for a millennium."
Kaelith and Elara exchanged a glance. Both of them were breathing hard.
"Did you see his eyes?" Elara whispered frantically. "They aren't just red. They swirl."
"Focus, Elara," Kaelith hissed, though she was fanning herself with her hand. "He is a monster. A dangerous, ancient monster."
"A very... well dressed monster," Elara countered.
"Move," Kaelith ordered. "We cannot keep him waiting."
They followed him into the dining hall, walking a few steps behind like an entourage.
Draven led them to a massive table made of black oak. He sat at the head of the table.
"Sit," he ordered.
They sat. Kaelith and Elara took the seats closest to him. Volkan and Gorn sat further down.
Draven placed his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers, looking at them over his knuckles.
"So," Draven said, his crimson eyes locking onto Kaelith. "Now that I am awake, and cleaned... tell me about this 'Calamity' I supposedly caused."
He leaned forward, and the candlelight caught the silver embroidery of his coat.
"And try not to bore me," he added with a faint, sharp smile that showed just a hint of a fang. "I have pretty much missed thousands of years of history in this world. I expect a good story."