The courtyard of the Royal Vampire Academy pulsed with vibrant youth as the bell rang for the midday break. The corridors emptied into the open square where young vampires gathered in lively clusters, sipping blood-packed juice boxes and laughing as they played games of reflex and speed.
But within one classroom, untouched by the chatter of the courtyard, sat Prince Kenneth Valdros.
Alone.
He was hunched quietly over a thick, ancient book of vampire history, eyes trailing each word with deep, burning focus. Even at five, Kenneth's beauty was like that of a carved statue—his light brown skin glowing under the stained glass, his blue eyes focused with unsettling intensity, and his black hair tousled slightly from the breeze drifting in through the arching windows.
Outside the class, in the hallway, four boys approached.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked one, his voice hushed and uncertain.
The leader of the small group scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. He was slender and tall for his age, with short white hair and narrowed eyes that reflected arrogance. His name was Verian Morthal—the son of Duke Morthal, commander of ten thousand knights under the Valdros throne.
"He's the sixth son," Verian muttered as he led them toward the classroom door. "The King has five others far more important. And besides, this isn't about politics. This is about payback."
"Still," one of the boys mumbled, "he is a Prince..."
Verian spun around and grabbed the boy by his collar. "And my father commands more soldiers than the Queen's personal guard. He won't blink twice if I ruffle some royal feathers."
He shoved the boy back. "The Firstborn beat the hell out of me two winters ago in front of the training yard. They all treat us like garbage. Well, here's my chance to hit back."
---
Inside the classroom, Kenneth turned a page, quietly absorbing the passage about the old wars between witches and vampires. He didn't look up when Verian entered.
The boy marched over, flanked by his three friends. Verian slapped the book shut.
Kenneth blinked and looked up, confusion settling over his features.
"Is there a problem?" Kenneth asked.
"You could say that," Verian said, folding his arms. "You know your brothers are a menace, don't you?"
Kenneth said nothing.
"Four years of getting bruises and broken ribs because some royal prick felt like 'training.'" Verian's voice held bitter venom. "Now here you are. The runt of the royal litter."
"I don't think this is the time or place," Kenneth said calmly, standing up.
He made to walk away, but Verian's hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"You're not going anywhere."
A hush fell over the class as students began to gather outside the door, drawn by the tension.
Kenneth didn't react immediately. He simply sighed, reached up, and pried Verian's hand off his shoulder. Not with violence, but with effortless strength that made Verian's fingers snap in protest.
The noble's son hissed.
"Get him!" Verian snapped.
His three friends sprang forward. One summoned a crimson whip of blood. Another formed shards like needles between his fingers. The third launched a dart of crimson plasma.
Kenneth didn't even blink.
He sidestepped. Weaved. Turned. The movements were graceful, calculated, and faster than anyone had anticipated.
"Too fast—!" one of the boys gasped, before slamming face-first into the stone pillar that Kenneth sidestepped toward.
Kenneth twisted under a strike and turned it into a flip, using his attacker's momentum to send him sprawling across the marble floor. The last one lunged forward only to trip over Kenneth's extended foot and crash into the bookcase.
Verian backed up.
"You don't have any blood techniques!" he barked, trying to summon his courage. "You can't win without them!"
Kenneth tilted his head. "Who said anything about winning?"
He dashed forward, his hand grabbing Verian by the collar—not harshly, but firmly. He spun him in the air like a feather caught in a breeze and set him down, unharmed, but breathless.
Verian's eyes widened. He panted. His knees gave out and he slumped down, defeated.
The room was silent now, students watching with wide eyes. Kenneth walked forward slowly.
"Go on then!" Verian shouted. "Do what you want! I won't beg!"
But Kenneth simply extended his hand.
"I'm not like them," he said softly. "I don't care about vengeance."
Verian looked up at him, dumbfounded.
Malrik, who stood hidden in the shadows just outside the archway, watched with a smile.
Verian hesitated... then took the hand.
Kenneth helped each of the boys to their feet in turn.
Silence.
Then, slowly, every student present—boys and girls alike—dropped to their knees.
Not in fear. But in awe. In respect.
The son of Seraphina had shown who he truly was.
And that was how the name Prince Kenneth began to spread among the halls of the Royal Vampire Academy.
Not as the King's sixth son.
But as the one who bowed before none, and made others rise instead.