Shout came from the wall. “Open the gates,.” echoing through the valley. Followed by the heavy groan of iron, shattering the stillness like the wail of some ancient beast. The massive gate began to rise, links of its chain grinding with reluctant force. Beyond it, a second set of wooden doors scraped open, their surface etched with runes worn smooth by time. Cold, dry wind filtered through the opening, carrying the faint scent of ash and steel.

The guard on the lead horse shifted his grip on the reins. He was clad in dull plate armor, its blackened surface gleaming faintly in the overcast light. His other arm circled the girl seated before him—a fragile thing, her ember-red hair tangled and streaked with grime. Her small form sagged limply against him, as though sleep had taken her or her spirit had fled.

“So, we’re finally here,” the guard muttered, his voice low and edged with unease. “The Devil’s Gate.”

The man riding beside him snorted, his helm turning briefly to glance at the towering fortress ahead. “This place still gives me chills,” he said. “Just thinking about what’s lies beyond those gates...”

“Enough.” Vathros’s voice cut through the conversation, low and commanding. From his place at the front of the group, the sorcerer barely turned his head. “Keep your fears to yourself. It weakens the new people around the place.”

The guards fell silent as the party rode beneath the gate, its shadow stretching over them like the maw of some unspoken terror. Beyond the gate, the fortress revealed itself fully.

It was a sprawling expanse, more city than castle, yet it lacked the noise and life one might expect. Half-empty streets stretched wide between cold stone buildings. Vendors lingered at the edges, their wares displayed beneath threadbare awnings, but their eyes held no spark of trade. Soldiers drilled in vast, open fields, their synchronized movements mechanical, unrelenting. A group of sorcerers stood in a distant yard, their incantations rising in sharp bursts as they hurled fire and frost from their wands at stone targets. Men-at-arm barked corrections carried on the wind, harsh and precise.

At the heart of the fortress stood the castle itself, an ominous structure flanked by two sprawling wings. Its blackened stone walls loomed high, streaked with the remnants of countless battles. Yet, even amid its oppressive grandeur, the gate on the far side of the fortress drew the eye. It was unlike any other—taller than the rest, forged from dark iron and etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly against the grey sky.

“More sorcerers than before,” one guard remarked, his gaze flicking to the training yard.

The other nodded. “Since the master took control, the old ways are gone. Order of the First has been dissolved. No more house knights, no more levies, no more sacred duty. Just his chosen forces, loyal only to House Valar.”

Vathros slowed his horse, his scarred face grim. “The fools at the High Council have forgotten war,” he said. “They’ve forgotten death. They’ve forgotten what even lies here. And why this place was meant to be the first line of defence. Those who remember do not even care other than filling their coffers.”

Aldrich, the summoner riding beside him, chuckled darkly. “They didn’t hesitate to give this fortress to our master. Tradition means little when it costs them nothing. They’ve sent scraps, not soldiers, to guard this place.”

The group reached the castle gates, dismounting in silence. The guards handed their horses off to a waiting stable boy, their movements deliberate, almost reluctant.

“Is master here?” Vathros asked the guard.

“Yes, my lord. He’s inside with Lord Thorn and Lord Davor.” He replied.

“Get some rest, everyone. Don’t enjoy yourself without me,” Vathros said, his tone softer than before. He turned to the girl on the lead horse. “Bring her to me.”

The guard lifted the girl down, her slight frame swaying as he handed her over. Vathros’s hands tightened on her arms, and he scowled, tilting her face toward him. “Is she dead?”

Aldrich spoke from behind, his grizzled voice steady. “No, m’lord. After her awakening, her energy surged beyond control. It would’ve killed her without intervention. I gave her a tonic last night. She’ll wake—”

Vathros didn’t wait. He taps her cheek before striking the girl sharply across the face, his hand leaving a red imprint on her pale skin. Her eyes flew open, wide with terror and disorientation.

“Where—?” she whispered, her voice weak and trembling.

“Hell,” Vathros growled. “Now walk. Master is waiting.”

She staggered as he released her, her bare feet dragging against the stone. The ropes binding her wrists made her movements awkward, and she limped after Vathros, her head bowed as though the air itself weighed her down.

Aldrich watched her with a faint grimace. “Poor girl,” he murmured. “These old eyes have seen horrors, but this...”

One of the guards snorted. “Spare us the sympathy, old man. Come one, let's get to the brothel. It’s been months since the touch of a woman.”

————————————

Inside the castle, the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of old stone and lingering smoke. The great hall stretched wide, its vaulted ceiling supported by massive pillars carved with serpentine designs. At its center stood a table of black stone, its surface etched with maps and marked with small figurines denoting armies and territories. The chairs surrounding it were likewise stone, their edges sharp and cold.

At the far end of the table stood a man of lean build, his dirt-blond hair falling to his shoulders in precise waves. He wore a tailored coat of deep grey, its crimson embroidery tracing the sharp lines of his frame. His ember-red eyes gleamed as he leaned over the map, gesturing sharply to the two armored men flanking him. Their black armor bore the crest of red fangs, and their grey cloaks swayed as they bowed at his command.

Vathros halted a good twenty paces from the table, bowing his head but not speaking. The girl hid behind him, trembling, her eyes darting around the room like a caged animal.

The blond man dismissed his knights with a flick of his hand. As they passed Vathros, they nodded briefly, their gazes cold and unreadable.

“Vathros,” the man said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. “You’ve returned. Try not to disappoint me. It’s becoming a habit of yours.”

“I wouldn’t dare, my master,” Vathros replied, his voice low. “I bring the girl, as requested. She bears the blood of Leonhart and has recently awakened.”

Vathros dragged the girl forward, ignoring her silent pleas. She stumbled, falling hard onto the stone floor. A soft cry escaped her lips, tears pooling on the ground beneath her.

The blond man approached, his boots echoing against the stone. He stopped before her, tilting her chin up with the toe of his boot.

“She stinks like horse piss,” he said, his lips curling in disdain. He leaned closer, his ember eyes boring into hers. “Don’t cry now. Save it for later.” He drew his sword, the blade gleaming with dark runes. “Answer my questions, or I’ll find other ways to make you speak. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded quickly, her entire body trembling.

The man laughed coldly, glancing at Vathros. “You’ve trained her well. She’s almost obedient like our hounds.”

“She was a wild one,” Vathros said without emotion. “Like her mother.”

The blond man smirked, his gaze flicking back to the girl. “She does have her eyes. Bring her to the dungeon. I have questions... and one surprise for her there.”

The girl’s nod came instinctively, the last shred of defiance buried beneath her need to survive.

————————————

The air inside the underground dungeon was suffocating. Each breath brought the rank stench of rot and decay—damp stone steeped in years of neglect, human waste, and despair. Torches along the walls flickered weakly, their light barely reaching the iron bars of the cells that lined the narrow corridor. Shadows twisted and danced, mocking the souls trapped in this wretched place.

Alira’s bare feet shuffled against the icy floor as she was half-dragged, half-pulled deeper into the gloom. Her nightgown clung to her thin frame, torn and dirty, and her bound wrists ached from the coarse rope that had dug into her skin. She kept her head down, emerald eyes fixed on the ground, too afraid to meet the gazes of the prisoners who watched silently from the darkness of their cells.

Vathros held the torch high, the flames casting deep lines across his scarred face. His robes, scorched and frayed, swayed as he walked. Behind him, the guard followed, their boots echoing against the stone with rhythmic precision. The dim light painted their black armor with a dull sheen, their shadowy presence amplifying the already oppressive atmosphere.

At the end of the corridor, where the cells grew fewer and the silence more absolute, a heavy iron door awaited. The blonde man stood before a cell which sent a cold chill from it. The torchlight revealed a woman inside, she had silver hair and pointed ears. She was sitting with her back towards the wall with her amethyst eyes looking sharply at her visitors.

The blonde man spoke with sarcasm. “Have you not died yet? Still hoping to see your son? Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands. I have to say even after all that torture you didn’t flinch… Well, you were the finest whore of that old bastard. Don’t worry, will send someone to keep you company. There are many men here. Just don’t freeze them to death with that magic of yours.”

They stepped towards the next cell. “What are you looking at? Open it,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

The guard with the keys stepped forward, fumbling only briefly before the lock clicked. The iron door groaned in protest as it swung open, revealing a cell larger than the others but far from more accommodating. The only light came from Vathros’s torch, and it revealed walls slick with moisture and a floor littered with rags that might once have been bedding.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The guard and Vathros exchanged a bow and left without a word, placing the torch in a rusted sconce near the entrance. Alira stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the ground, her small body trembling as the blonde man turned to her.

“Come now,” he said, his tone mockingly gentle. “We’ve only just begun.”

With a rough pull, he dragged her into the cell. She stumbled, nearly falling, but his grip kept her upright. Without ceremony, he pushed her to the far corner, where the wall bore an iron chain affixed to a shackle. He removed the rope from her wrists and replaced it with the cold steel.

Her hands trembled as the shackle snapped shut, her fingers brushing the damp stone as she lowered them. If death would claim her now, she thought, it would be mercy. But even that fleeting hope was smothered by a thought stronger than her own pain.

“What is your name?” The blonde man’s voice pierced the silence, sharp and unyielding.

“Alira,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Your parents?”

“Lyna and Aeron,” she said, barely audible.

The back of his hand struck her face before she could brace herself. The force sent her sprawling to the floor, a metallic tang filling her mouth as fresh blood spilled from her lips. Her cry echoed in the cell, raw and helpless.

“No lies,” the blonde man hissed.

“Lyra Leonhart and Aeron Lambert.” She whispered tremblingly.

The sound of her cry stirred movement from the far corner of the cell. A frail figure shifted, skeletal limbs creaking like old wood. The man, chained to the wall, turned slowly. His white hair fell in thin strands around a face sunken and aged beyond its years. But his eyes—vivid blue—shone with a sharpness that defied his broken body. He tried to speak, but the sound that escaped his throat was guttural, a muted cry of anguish.

“Aagh,” he rasped, his chains rattling as he struggled to sit upright.

Alira’s gaze darted toward him, her heart racing. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away.

The blonde man sneered, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “Oh, that. Well, that’s the surprise.”

Alira blinked, tears streaking her bloodied face. “S-Surprise?”

The man smirked, stepping aside so she could see the prisoner more clearly. “This,” he said with theatrical flair, “was once the lord of this very castle. Heir to the purest bloodline of dragons, blah, blah. You know, all that. But what is important is his name. Edward Leonhart. Your uncle. That very man who should be dead. Right? Ed?”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling on her like a stone. “Uncle?”

Edward’s eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, the warmth in his gaze chased away the chill of the cell. He reached a skeletal hand toward her, the chains clinking softly. Alira stretched out her own hand, her fingers trembling as they sought his.

“Tch. Tch. Tch,” the blonde man interrupted, stepping between them. “Enough for now. There will be time for your reunion later.”

Alira’s hand fell back to her lap, her head bowed once more.

The blonde man circled her slowly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Do you remember how you kept your sister from me, Ed? Treated me like some depraved animal.” He leaned closer to Edward, his sneer twisting into something darker. “And now look at you. No tongue to curse, no power to bite. Your precious house is nothing more than ash and whispers. I have broken centuries-old feud of our houses. You should be happy about that.”

Edward’s face contorted with rage, his chains rattling as he struggled against them.

“Why are you doing this?” Alira asked, her voice barely audible.

The blonde man paused, feigning thought. “Why?” His tone turned mocking, almost playful. “Let’s call it... a necessary change. Have you ever wondered why only certain bloodlines were gifted with the blessings of dragons? Why only a few can wield magic? Why only a few get something while others just envy them? It’s unfair, don’t you think? A man like me, who clawed his way to power, denied by birthright alone. I was no knight, no magic to wield, even my brothers picked on me. But I have one thing that they do not have, a genius brain.”

He crouched in front of her, his ember eyes gleaming with something primal. “Your mother was one of the women I ever truly loved. She was weak like me, just waiting to be devoured by the world. I dreamed of her every night. Wondered how it would feel to hold her, to feel her waist and that tender lips. She was that one fine whore that every man would choose to spend his night with. But she chooses that dog of hers. It’s a pity she died.”

Edward’s muffled scream tore through the cell, his chains clanging violently against the wall.

The blonde man ignored him, his focus entirely on Alira. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin. “But that’s for another time. For now, you’re here. Image of her very self, more tender and fresh except for that shitty smell. And we both have all the time in the world.”

Edward’s screams reached a fever pitch, his chains straining against their bolts. Alira’s own cries joined his, echoing through the dungeon as the blonde man’s laughter filled the void between them. She trembled, her back pressed against the cold stone wall. Her nightgown hung in tatters, and her small hands gripped the remnants of fabric tightly to her chest. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted to the blonde man as he loomed over her.

The scrape of his boots against the stone echoed like a drumbeat of dread. He shrugged off his coat, letting it fall unceremoniously to the damp floor, and drew the blade from his side with a sharp hiss of steel. The sword clattered to the ground beside him as he crouched, his gaze predatory.

“No, no, please,” Alira whimpered, her voice breaking as she pushed herself farther into the corner. “Uncle! Uncle, help me!”

Her cries only seemed to amuse him. He reached out, tearing the fabric of her gown with a single pull, the delicate material shredding like parchment. Her tender skin caught the flicker of the torchlight, pale and marred with scars both fresh and old. His hands, rough and calloused, traced her waist as though appraising a sculpture.

“Spare her, you monster.” A soft voice came among the cries and screams, it came from the other cell, from the elf woman. “Do whatever you want with me, just spare that poor child.”

“How can I not touch such a soft and smooth skin,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent. “She’s a rare prize to have.”

Alira lashed out, her small hand striking weakly against his chest. He snarled, the sound guttural, and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. The force sent her sprawling, her head striking the wall.

“Brother,” she sobbed as her eyes closed, voice but a broken whisper. “Save me.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot and foul against her skin. His fingers reached for her again, but a voice cut through the suffocating air like a blade through flesh.

“You filth,” the voice snarled, cold and brimming with fury. “Get those hands away from my possessions.”

The blonde man froze. His trembling hands fell to his sides, his face paling. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the voice.

She stepped into the light, her presence commanding and otherworldly. Her gown was black as the void, its intricate embroidery glinting faintly like threads of moonlight. The high collar and lace sleeves framed her regal figure. Her silver white hair cascaded over her shoulders, a braid weaving along one side, and her pale ears adorned with intricate jewellery caught the dim glow of the torches.

But it was her eyes—red as fresh blood, glowing with an intensity that seemed to pierce the soul—that held his gaze and made him shiver. Her lips, painted in the same crimson hue, curved into a faint smirk, though her expression carried no warmth.

“Did I order you to taint her with your filth, Islar?” Her voice was low, smooth, and sharp enough to flay skin.

The blonde man—Islar—recovered quickly, forcing a smile. He took her hand with feigned reverence, brushing his lips against the blood-red gem on her ring. “No, my queen. Forgive this unworthy servant. It will not happen again.”

Her gaze flicked to the far side of the cell, where the gaunt figure of Edward Leonhart sat slumped against the wall, his chains rattling faintly with each laboured breath. Disgust flashed across her features as she turned back to Islar.

“Step aside,” she ordered.

Islar obeyed, retreating to the edge of the cell. The queen approached Alira, her heels clicking against the stone. The girl flinched as the queen crouched beside her, her pale hand reaching out.

“Look me in the eye, child,” the queen commanded.

Alira hesitated, but the queen’s grip was firm, tilting the girl’s chin upward. The glowing red eyes held her captive, and Alira’s breath hitched as the stories of creatures came to her mind, cursed creatures that drink blood to satisfy their thrust: Vampires.

The queen wiped the blood from Alira’s lips with her thumb, then licked it with a slow, deliberate motion. Her expression darkened, though it was impossible to tell if she was displeased or intrigued.

“She’ll do,” the queen murmured. “Kill the other one.”

At her words, Vathros stepped into the cell, drawing a dagger from his robes. He crossed to Edward without hesitation, gripping the man’s matted hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat.

“No! Please!” Alira screamed, lunging forward and grabbing the queen’s skirt. “Spare him! Please, I’m begging you!”

The queen looked down at her with an expression devoid of emotion. She raised her left hand placing on the head of the girl, revealing a black ring with golden rune carvings.

“Kill?” she said, her tone eerily calm. “We’re not killing him, child. He was dead long ago. I am releasing him from the binding of this mortal body. It’s a sacred duty."

Edward’s blue eyes locked on Alira’s, and for a moment, a faint smile touched his lips.

Vathros’s dagger flashed, and the sickening sound of a blade slicing through flesh filled the cell. Blood splattered onto the floor, pooling at Alira’s knees. She froze, staring at her trembling hands now stained red.

The queen raised her right hand, the blood-red gem on her ring glowing faintly. A foul stench filled the cell as the air grew thick with unseen power. She whispered ancient words, her voice like the distant toll of a funeral bell:

“Zhal’thir vakar sol’khan, vrae vor Thul’vrae.”

Edward’s lifeless body twitched, then fell still. The shadows around him seemed to dissipate, as though his soul had been severed from the mortal realm.

The queen lowered her hand, her head bowed slightly. “May thy soul find peace beside our true lord, Zerathu’um.”

She turned to Alira, who sat paralyzed, her tear-streaked face pale and bloodied. The queen’s voice cut through the silence once more. “Place this one with the other two.”

Islar bowed stiffly. “Yes, my queen. I will see to it.”

“No, have someone bathe her and prepare some clothes for her. And bring her to my chamber later,” she ordered. “Her blood is different. Purest for any human and other beings. It rivals my own. Her blood... reminds me of someone.”

The queen paused at the threshold of the cell, her voice a venomous whisper. “And remember, Islar. If you ever touch any of my possessions again, it will be your last.”

“It will not happen again, my queen. Regarding the reward you mentioned…”

“Speak plainly. You know I don’t like that diplomatic tone of yours. I have lost touch with diplomacy, it has not been well for me in the past.”

“I would like a drop of your blood, for my son. With it he will rise with a new power, which may rival the strongest wizards in the future.”

“Yeah, I seem to have forgotten about that. Kaiser, was it? Hmm? Very well. Meet me before going back to Valar. Just focus on the other two individuals, they are necessary to move on with the real objective.”

Islar nodded, though his clenched fists betrayed his frustration. As the queen ascended the stairs, her footsteps fading into the distance, he turned to Vathros with a sneer.

“You disappoint me, yet again,” he spat. “You’re become nothing more than her obedient dog.”

Vathros met his gaze impassively. “Forgive me, master. My blood pact with her does not allow me to go against her will.”

Islar's sneer deepened. "Her thirst is weakening her. She hasn't fed in the last few months. If she changes her mind, it will be difficult for us. We have failed to gather any information about her in the last fifteen years and now she is collecting these peasants. Despite searching in a foreign land, we have had no success in acquiring any information about it. Contact the others and prepare to leave for the other side. This time, I want success; reach out to their king and get in touch with them. With the Dark One.”