CHAPTER 5: VICTOR RAVENHOLM

THE MINES OF GWYNIFIRTH

Victor was born into darkness.

The mines of Gwynifirth stretched deep beneath the earth, winding veins of stone and iron, swallowing men whole and spitting them out… weary, broken, coughing black dust into calloused hands. His mother, once a prized concubine of Eriel Ravenholm, had been cast aside the moment time crept into her face. And her son… her half-blood child… was given nothing. No title, no inheritance. Just the choking air of the tunnels and the weight of poverty pressing down like a slab of coal.

He spent his days beneath the low ceiling of a miner’s shack, listening to the voices of his uncles… men whose hands were thick with scars, whose eyes held nothing but the dull reflection of oil lamps and bad luck. They talked endlessly of cave-ins and wage cuts, of strikes that led to beatings, of brothers who went underground and never returned. Their days were long, their futures short.

“All days are bad,” his uncle once muttered over a tin cup of weak ale. “You just wait for the worst one.”

Victor didn’t want to wait.

He looked at the men around him… filthy, weary, weighed down by a life that promised nothing but more suffering. He felt the walls of Gwynifirth closing in, tightening around his throat. He imagined himself, years from now, coughing up coal dust, cursing his fate, forgotten like the rest of them.

No.

That would not be his life.

So, one night, before the sun had even begun to rise, he took what little he had… a few pouches of stolen gold, a coat too thin for the road, and the quiet, desperate dream of something better… and left Gwynifirth behind.

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THE TAILOR’S APPRENTICE

The city swallowed him whole. It was loud, unkind, filled with men who saw only what they could take. Victor learned quickly… how to lower his head, how to move unseen, how to let insults slip off him like rain.

He found work in a tailor’s shop, the kind of place that smelled of old fabric and ironed linen, where fingers bled from endless needlework and backs ached from hours spent hunched over seams. His colleagues saw him as nothing… less than nothing. A half-blood, a gutter-rat, not worth their time. They made him fetch water, scrub floors, and do the work no one else wanted. They never called him by name.

All but one.

Eloiza Staceworth.

She was older, sharp-eyed, with a tongue like a knife and a heart buried beneath layers of wit. She treated him like a younger brother… mocked him when he deserved it, and scolded him when he was reckless, but never once made him feel small.

“You want to get far in life, Victor?” she told him one evening while threading a needle between her fingers. “Then make something of yourself. The world doesn’t hand you respect. You take it.”

Victor listened.

He watched how the shop’s wealthiest clients walked, how they spoke, how they commanded space. He taught himself their mannerisms, their etiquette, their poise. He studied fabric, memorized stitches, and learned the art of making a man look like he belonged in power… even if he didn’t.

And slowly, piece by piece, stitch by stitch, he began to become.

THE MAN HE CREATED

The real Victor Ravenholm had been a boy with no name. No past. No future.

He had learned early that to be someone, you had to become a fiction… an invention, crafted with care, worn like a second skin until even you believed it.

He started small.

As a teenager, he took a job as a clerk in Dr. Chen’s pharmacy. It was steady work, respectable. He memorized the names of tonics and tinctures and learned which elixirs the wealthy sought after… not because they needed them, but because they wanted to be seen buying them. The art of the sale wasn’t about necessity. It was about illusion.

Victor studied his customers like a scholar poring over sacred texts. The way a nobleman gestured with idle confidence, how a lady tilted her head when laughing just enough to invite intrigue. He noticed the weight of silence, the command of stillness, the effortless elegance of those who had never needed to struggle.

But observation wasn’t enough. He had to become.

He scrimped on meals, surviving on cheap bread and broth so he could step through the doors of the finest restaurants. He sat near aristocrats and watched how they dined… not for the taste, but for the manner. Which fork to use first? How to pause between bites, as if savoring conversation more than food. He absorbed it all, mimicking their charm, their poise, their power.

He visited art galleries… not for the paintings, but for the people. He learned how to speak about things he did not care for, how to weave words like silk, and how to appear cultured when all he truly saw were price tags and status.

And then, the final skill… communication.

Charm was a currency, and Victor spent his nights refining his craft. He practiced in taverns and salons, in quiet corners of bookstores and crowded streets. He learned how to bend a conversation in his favor, how to make someone feel seen, wanted, and understood… even if it was all a lie.

At first, it was trial and error. He stumbled. He miscalculated. But with time, he perfected the art.

The transformation did not go unnoticed.

By seventeen, ladies lingered in the shop longer than necessary, twirling locks of hair between gloved fingers as they listened to him speak. They bought tonics they didn’t need, perfumes that weren’t suited to them, simply for the pleasure of his attention.

Dr. Chen took note.

“You have a gift, Victor,” he said one evening, hands clasped behind his back. “A man who can make people want what they do not need will never go hungry.”

Victor’s promotion came swiftly. Manager. A step above the rest.

“If you keep this up,” Dr. Chen had said, “you’ll be overseeing a dozen stores in no time.”

A dozen stores. Stability. Security. A life leagues above the mines of Gwynifirth.

And yet, it wasn’t enough.

Victor stood before the mirror each night, fixing his cuffs, and straightening his collar. The reflection that stared back was not the starving boy from the tunnels, nor the ragged apprentice sweeping floors in a tailor’s shop.

It was Victor Ravenholm, the fiction he had built.

But even then, he knew… this was only the beginning.

He had climbed the first rung of the ladder.

Now, he needed to ascend.

THE MAKING OF A RAVENHOLM

Victor knew that appearance was everything.

Charm and wit could open doors, but presence commanded a room. He had spent years refining his voice, his mannerisms, his attire—but a well-dressed man with a silver tongue could still be broken if he lacked strength.

So he built himself.

Each morning, before the city awoke, he trained his body like he trained his mind.

He lifted weights, strengthening his arms, his back, and his core. He ran through the streets, boots pounding against cobblestone until his lungs burned and his muscles ached. He learned from fighters in the alleyways, from mercenaries in underground rings, from the hardened laborers who knew what it meant to endure.

At first, he fought for survival. Then, for discipline. And then, for something more.

Victor had a gift for it. His footwork was sharp, his reflexes fast. He learned the weight of a punch, the timing of a dodge, and the elegance of a strike that could end a fight before it truly began. Combat was its own kind of dance, a rhythm he understood better than most.

And one night, his talent caught the eye of a stranger.

A man, tall and sharp-featured, watched from the shadows of a private fight. He did not cheer, did not flinch… only observed, his crimson eyes gleaming like dying embers.

After Victor’s inevitable victory, the man approached.

“You fight well,” the stranger said, his voice smooth as polished steel. “You’ve been trained, but not formally. No wasted movement. No hesitation. You fight like a man who has had to earn his place in this world.”

Victor wiped the blood from his knuckles, assessing the man in return. He was dressed in finery, but there was something cold beneath the elegance. Something ancient.

“I take that as a compliment,” Victor replied coolly.

“It was meant as one.” The stranger smiled. “I have use for men like you. You would make an excellent bodyguard.”

Victor chuckled, shaking his head. “Not interested. I have an employer.”

“Dr. Chen?” The stranger tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Loyalty is rare. I can respect that.”

The man did not press further, only extended a gloved hand.

“My name is Eriel Ravenholm.”

Victor’s breath caught, but he schooled his expression before his shock could betray him.

Eriel Ravenholm.

One of the most powerful men in the city. The master of the Ravenholm clan.

And neither of them knew the truth.

Neither of them knew that they were speaking to father and son.

Victor did not take his hand. He only nodded.

“I appreciate the offer, Lord Ravenholm,” he said, carefully measured. “But my answer is final.”

Eriel smirked. “A man who values his independence. I admire that.”

And with that, he turned and left, his dark cloak vanishing into the night.

Victor thought that was the end of it.

But days later, Dr. Chen summoned him into his office.

The old man sat behind his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“They bought us out, Victor,” he said. “The Ravenholms. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Victor stilled.

“What?”

“The pharmacy. I don’t own it anymore. You don’t work for me anymore. We have new employers.”

Victor clenched his jaw. He knew this was Eriel’s doing. A power play. A way to make him bend.

But there was nothing he could do.

He had climbed the ladder, but someone higher had cut the rungs below him.

For the first time in his life, Victor had no choice but to submit.

THE RISE OF AN INQUISITOR

Victor stood among Eriel’s fifty bodyguards, another blade in the master’s shadow.

The others were killers, each one deadlier than the last. There was ruthless Paige, who could snap a man’s neck with a flick of his wrist, and the famed psychic Headless Cross, whose mere presence made the air turn to ice.

But Victor did not compare himself to them.

His only competition was the man he was yesterday.

Each day, he honed his craft. He sharpened his speech, refined his footwork, and studied every gesture, every glance. He watched how men of power spoke, how they carried themselves, and how they commanded a room without raising their voices.

And wherever Eriel went, Victor followed.

From grand masquerades dripping in gold and deception, to private blood rituals beneath cathedral ruins, he was there. A silent observer. A student of the powerful.

He saw how nobles pretended at civility while making veiled threats behind their wine glasses. He watched as the Ravenholm elders drank from trembling donors, their lips painted crimson in candlelight.

Eriel would lean back in his chair, watching Victor over the rim of his goblet. Measuring. Testing.

Victor did not flinch. Did not waver.

He only learned.

----------------------------------------

The night it happened, the air was thick with rain, the streets gleaming with lantern light.

Victor stood outside a Ravenholm estate, waiting for Eriel’s carriage when he felt it.

A shift.

The hairs on his neck rose.

Then… gunfire.

The estate doors burst open, a guard was thrown out, and his throat was torn open before he even hit the ground.

A crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wood beside Victor’s head.

The scent of silver filled the air.

Vampire hunters.

Victor moved.

The Ravenholm guards surged forward, steel flashing. The hunters didn’t hesitate… blades clashed, blood splattered the cobblestone, men screamed.

Victor cut through them like a blade through silk. One step, one strike, one kill.

But this wasn’t about the guards.

This was about Eriel.

He turned, eyes searching… and saw him.

Eriel stood near the carriage, facing a hunter clad in black. A holy seal glowed on the man’s gauntlet. A Paladin.

Victor knew what was coming before it happened.

The Paladin lunged, hand outstretched—

And Victor moved.

His body reacted faster than thought.

He threw himself between them and caught the strike meant for Eriel.

Pain. Burning.

The sigil seared against his shoulder, white-hot agony tearing through his body.

But he did not fall.

He did not stop.

With his free hand, he drove his knife up, under the Paladin’s ribs.

The hunter’s breath hitched. His eyes widened.

Victor twisted the blade.

The Paladin collapsed.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, laughter.

Low. Amused.

Eriel watched him, something unreadable in his crimson gaze.

“Well,” the vampire murmured. “That was unexpected.”

Victor straightened, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. He met Eriel’s gaze, his expression calm, controlled.

“I did my duty,” he said simply.

Eriel studied him. Then, he smiled.

“No,” he said. “You exceeded it.”

The next night, Victor was summoned to the great hall.

Eriel stood at the head of the chamber, flanked by Ravenholm lords. The air was heavy with expectation.

Victor knelt.

Eriel stepped forward and placed a black iron badge into his palm.

A symbol of authority. A mark of power.

The vampire’s voice was soft but absolute.

“Rise, Inquisitor Ravenholm.”

Victor stood.

And he did not look back.

THE SUMMIT OF POWER

For the first time in his life, Victor felt it.

The peak.

He had climbed higher than anyone thought possible. From the soot-stained pits of Gwynifirth’s mines to the candlelit halls of the Ravenholm estate, his journey was not paved by birthright, but by sheer will.

He was not like the nobles who inherited their thrones. He had built his own.

No longer was he the hungry street rat scraping for a future. No longer was he the half-blood bastard overshadowed by pureblood elites. No longer was he a clerk, a bodyguard, or a nameless pawn in someone else’s game.

He was Inquisitor Ravenholm.

His name carried weight. His voice commanded respect.

And most importantly, he had become Eriel’s most trusted ally.

Not because of blood.

Not because of duty.

But because he had earned it.

—

The Ravenholm manor stood vast and opulent, its spires stretching toward the storm-ridden sky. The halls whispered with secrets, with power, with promises made in candlelight and broken in shadow.

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Victor walked through them as if he belonged.

Because he did.

The lords and ladies of the Ravenholm court eyed him with both admiration and caution. He was not one of them, but he was something greater. A man who forged his place rather than being handed one.

When Eriel sat upon his throne, it was Victor who stood at his side.

When the Ravenholm elders spoke in hushed voices of alliances, betrayals, and the ever-thinning bloodline, it was Victor’s counsel Eriel sought.

And when enemies rose, whispering rebellion, it was Victor’s hand that struck them down.

He had proven himself again and again.

He was not a son kept in luxury. He was not an heir waiting for his father’s approval.

He was the blade that enforced the family’s rule. The whisper that silenced unrest.

The man that even vampires feared.

—

One evening, as he stood beside Eriel on the balcony of the grand estate, looking over the darkened city, his father… though neither of them would call each other that… spoke.

“You have exceeded every expectation,” Eriel said, his voice smooth, measured. “Most men, given power, grow complacent.” He turned his crimson gaze to Victor. “Yet you only sharpen yourself further. Why?”

Victor stood in the great halls of the Ravenholm estate, no longer a guest, no longer a nameless bodyguard.

The weight of the iron badge at his chest, the black cloak draped over his shoulders—these were not gifts.

They were proof.

Proof that he had earned his place among the Ravenholms… not by birthright, not by the whims of fate, but by his own unyielding will.

He had clawed his way from the filth of the mines, from the ridicule of tailors, from the condescension of noblemen who once saw him as a well-dressed nobody.

Now, they bowed their heads when he passed.

He walked the same halls as lords. Dined at the same tables as kings.

Not because he was Eriel’s son.

No one… not even Eriel… knew the truth of his blood.

Victor was here because he had made himself indispensable.

Because Eriel trusted him more than any pureblooded kin.

Because when Eriel needed a blade, a spy, an emissary… when he needed someone who never faltered… he called Victor Ravenholm.

And Victor answered.

He had reached the top.

The life he left behind in Gwynifirth… the hunger, the struggle, the smell of coal and blood… felt like a dream long buried.

But standing in this gilded palace, beneath chandeliers dripping with candlelight, drinking from glasses carved from human bone…

He should have felt satisfied.

Yet in the quiet of the night, in the moments between duties, when he caught his reflection in the darkened glass of a window—

He wondered.

Was this enough?

He had everything.

Power. Influence. The respect of men and monsters alike.

And yet…

The reflection in the glass always smirked back, as if to mock him.

As if to whisper—

"You are still climbing, Victor."

"You will never stop."

THE PACT OF BLOOD AND POWER

Victor stood at Eriel’s side, silent and unreadable, as the candlelight flickered across the crimson-drenched table.

Across from them, Samuel Rofford sat, his hands folded tightly, his breath slow and measured. He wore the silk of nobility, the scent of expensive cologne clinging to his skin, but Victor saw what lay beneath the polished exterior.

Desperation.

The kind only men who had tasted greatness feared.

Eriel swirled the dark wine in his goblet, unimpressed. His long fingers rested on the gilded arm of his chair, his presence overwhelming even in stillness.

“You waste my time, Samuel.” Eriel’s voice was smooth and effortless. “You bring me a child like a pauper presenting a sickly lamb at the market.”

Samuel flinched but quickly covered it with a nervous smile.

“My Lord Ravenholm, this is not just any child.” He reached into his coat and placed a delicate locket on the table. “She is a psychic. And she is yours.”

Victor watched as the locket’s silver gleam caught the light.

Eriel’s expression did not change. “You expect me to believe this?”

Samuel leaned forward, his voice urgent. “You know our bloodline. You know we have always been blessed with power. I have seen it with my own eyes—my daughter is gifted.”

Eriel exhaled a slow, measured sound. “And what, exactly, do you want from me in return?”

Samuel’s lips parted, his hunger laid bare. “Wealth. Power. Protection. My family has dwindled while others thrive. I want my name to matter again.”

His fingers curled against the table. “I am willing to pay any price.”

For the first time, Eriel’s gaze sharpened. His pale eyes glowed faintly in the dim room.

“Any price?”

Samuel swallowed. “Yes.”

Victor waited for Eriel to refuse.

The Ravenholms were ruthless but calculating. They did not make deals with desperate men.

And yet—

Eriel smiled.

Slow. Knowing.

Victor had seen that expression before. It was the look of a man watching a fly trap itself in his web.

Eriel lifted the locket, turning it between his fingers.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Your daughter… will belong to us.”

Samuel sagged in relief, but before he could speak, Eriel continued, voice now ice beneath the velvet.

“And so will every daughter of your bloodline.”

Samuel’s breath caught.

Eriel set the locket back onto the table, his fingers resting over it like a signature sealing a fate.

“The Roffords will never suffer again,” he said. “You will have your power. Your wealth. Your protection.”

He leaned forward, his gaze sharp as knives.

“But every generation, a daughter will be given to us. Without question. Without refusal. This is the price.”

Samuel hesitated, but only for a second.

Then he nodded.

Victor watched as Eriel extended his hand, the nobleman clasping it with eager fingers.

A pact was made.

And a bloodline was doomed.

THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN

Victor stood at the edge of the ruined city square, his coat stained with dust and blood. The air reeked of burnt wood and iron, the distant cries of the wounded swallowed by the caws of circling crows. The rebellion had lasted three days… longer than expected.

But it was over now.

He stepped over the bodies littering the cobblestone, their hands still gripping rusted swords and broken muskets. Farmers, merchants, and lowborn men who had dared to think they could stand against the Ravenholms.

They had learned.

A blade scraped against the ground. Victor turned.

A man———young, shaking, bleeding from a wound in his thigh———stumbled toward him, a rusted dagger clutched in his grip. His breath was ragged, his face streaked with dirt and sweat.

"Monster," he spat, eyes burning with defiance.

Victor sighed.

"Not a monster," he corrected, his voice calm, detached. "A consequence."

The rebel lunged.

Victor sidestepped the attack with effortless precision, catching the man's wrist mid-swing. A simple twist… bone snapped.

The dagger clattered to the ground.

The rebel screamed, falling to his knees.

Victor crouched before him, leveling his gaze. "I respect your courage," he admitted. "But courage without power is just suicide."

The man gasped, his breath coming in short, pained bursts.

Victor reached into his coat, producing a single silver coin, and pressed it into the man's trembling hand.

"For the ferryman," he said.

Then he slit his throat.

The body crumpled at his feet.

Victor exhaled slowly, standing.

Across the square, his forces were finishing their work. The last of the rebels were rounded up, shackled, and forced to their knees. The ones who fought to the end lay where they had fallen.

Paige approached, his boots crunching over the rubble. His blade dripped with fresh blood, and he wiped it clean against his sleeve.

"They're broken," He said, nodding toward the prisoners. "No more fight left in them."

Victor glanced at the survivors… half-starved, hollow-eyed, defeated.

They had believed in something.

Now they had nothing.

He turned away.

"Burn the bodies. Hang the leaders in the square." His voice held no cruelty, only certainty. "Let the others go."

Paige raised an eyebrow. "Mercy?"

Victor gave him a cold smile.

"A reminder."

He fastened his coat, stepping over the fallen as he walked away.

The rebellion was crushed.

Just like the last one.

And just like the next one would be.

House Nocturne.

A rival clan of exiled vampires, older than the Ravenholms, hungrier, more ruthless. They had emerged from the forgotten corners of the world, creeping through the cracks of power, and tonight they dared to challenge the empire.

Victor felt no fear.

Just calculation.

A Nocturne enforcer moved in the street below, tall and wrapped in flowing red silks. The vampire raised a hand, and the very air froze… a snap of fingers, and the Ravenholm soldier before him crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

A psychic… or someone with an Artificial Warp Generator.

Victor leaped from the rooftop.

He landed behind the vampire in a whisper of motion, blade already drawn. The Nocturne turned… too slow. Victor’s sword sliced across his throat.

The body collapsed, spasming, dark blood spilling onto the cobblestones.

One down.

Victor turned, scanning the battlefield. The Nocturnes weren’t just attacking… they were systematic, moving like assassins and warlords rather than desperate invaders. Their soldiers tore through Ravenholm's ranks, their weapons humming with cursed energy.

Victor adjusted his cuffs.

This would take more than brute force.

He moved through the streets like a shadow, cutting down Nocturnes with practiced efficiency. Blade through the heart. Neck snapped. A single gunshot between the eyes. Every strike is precise. Calculated. Inevitable.

But then—

A whisper of power. A shift in the air.

Victor barely had time to turn before he was sent flying.

He crashed through a wooden cart, splinters slicing into his coat. Pain flared through his ribs. He rolled to his feet, only to find a figure watching him from atop a ruined statue.

Their leader.

A woman, clad in obsidian armor, a crown of thorns resting on her brow. Her skin was pale as death, her eyes burning like dying embers. Sibylla Nocturne.

"You fight well," she said, voice smooth, untouched by the battle raging around them. "But you are outmatched."

Victor wiped the blood from his lip, exhaling slowly. "I hear that often."

Sibylla lifted her hand… the air itself rippled. A force unseen but felt, pressing against Victor like an ocean wave.

Psychic power. Ancient. Refined. Dangerous.

Victor clenched his fist. A pulse of his own power countered the pressure, disrupting it just enough for him to move.

She tilted her head. "Curious."

Victor didn’t give her time to be curious.

He lunged… a blur of movement, blade flashing. Sibylla dodged with inhuman grace, her fingers barely grazing his coat as she countered.

A shockwave of force exploded from her palm.

Victor twisted midair, barely avoiding being ripped apart. He hit the ground, skidding backward.

She was strong.

But she wasn’t unbeatable.

He adjusted his grip on his sword, watching her carefully.

Sibylla smiled. "Good," she said. "Show me what makes you worthy of his name."

Victor’s pulse remained steady.

Then he attacked.

Their battle tore through the city… rooftop to rooftop, street to street, steel against psychic force. Every strike was met with another, and every trick was countered. Sibylla was the first opponent in years to make Victor feel like he was truly fighting for his life.

But he had spent his life becoming this.

She conjured shadows… he moved faster than the dark.

She wielded ancient strength… he wielded ruthless precision.

And then… he found her mistake.

Power requires control.

And control can be broken.

As she summoned another psychic strike, Victor closed the distance, stepping inside her guard. His hand latched onto her wrist… a single, brutal twist.

Snap.

Her eyes widened.

Victor drove his sword through her chest.

Sibylla gasped, her power flickering like a dying star.

"You—"

Victor ripped the blade free.

Sibylla staggered, clutching at the wound. Her lips parted as if to speak… then she crumbled into ash.

The moment she fell, the Nocturnes broke.

Their forces scattered, their will shattered.

Victor watched as his men cut down the last of them, as the fires began to die, leaving behind only the wreckage of war.

The Ravenholms had won.

Again.

The battlefield still smoldered.

Victor stood amidst the ruins, his sword still slick with blood, the scent of burnt wood and death thick in the air. The Nocturnes were no more. The Ravenholms had won. Again.

The Captain of the Guard approached—a towering man clad in obsidian armor, his helmet tucked beneath his arm. His eyes gleamed in the dying light, calculating, appraising. He carried a case.

"Lord Victor," the Captain said, his voice like crushed stone. "Your victory was decisive. The Ravenholms are pleased."

Victor barely glanced at him. "I don't fight for their pleasure."

The Captain chuckled.

"No. You fight to win. And win you did." He stepped forward, opening the case. Inside lay a machine—sleek, intricate, pulsing faintly with power. A Warp Generator.

"You’ve earned the right to wield this," the Captain continued. "An Artificial Warp Generator. With it, you can do what only the pure-blooded vampires have done for centuries—command psychic power.”

Victor stared at the device.

Fascinating. An elegant design. He had seen these machines before, built to infuse vampires with abilities they were never born with. Many of Eriel’s enforcers used them, tethering themselves to an artificial source of psychic energy.

It was power in a box—manufactured, controlled, a crutch.

Victor closed the case.

"I won’t need it."

The Captain arched a brow. "No?"

Victor turned away, his fingers twitching slightly. A clump of dirt rose from the ground. It hovered, suspended mid-air, before sifting through his fingers like sand.

Silence.

Then, the Captain smiled. "Ah. You’ve figured it out."

Victor exhaled slowly. "Sibylla pushed me to the edge. In that moment, I felt it—something waking up. My power isn’t borrowed, it’s mine." He flexed his fingers, watching as the dirt shifted at his command. Rough, unrefined—but undeniably real.

The Captain chuckled. "You’ve always been full of surprises." He shut the case with a snap. "Very well. I will inform Lady Gothetta. She will train you. Properly."

Victor glanced at him. "Gothetta."

The Captain nodded. "She is the strongest psychic in the Ravenholm clan. She will teach you to control your power."

Victor said nothing. He looked at his hand, where the last specks of dirt still floated.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t just a man clawing his way up the ladder.

He was something more.

Something greater.

THE BIRTH OF UNDERWORLD

The training grounds lay deep beneath Ravenholm Manor, where the air was thick with dust and old magic. A place of forgotten battles, where the bones of the past rested in uneasy silence.

Victor stood at the center, his muscles taut, sweat clinging to his skin. Opposite him stood Gothetta.

She was tall, her frame wrapped in a dark, flowing robe. Her face, pale and sharp, was as cold as the steel rings on her fingers. Her presence was suffocating.

“You are half-blood,” Gothetta said, circling him like a predator. “That means you are neither one nor the other. Vampires are immortal. Humans are adaptable. And a half-blood… a half-blood is something entirely different.”

Victor exhaled slowly, controlling his breath, keeping his focus on her every movement.

“You know why you can wield psychic power?” she continued.

Victor gave her a sidelong glance. “Because I willed it.”

She smirked. “A poetic answer, but incorrect.”

She raised her hand. The ground trembled.

Victor felt it before he saw it. The bones beneath the earth shifted.

A monstrous clawed hand burst from the ground, fingers twitching, reaching for him. The rest of the creature followed—a twisted, skeletal beast, once human, now nothing but a husk of rage and hunger.

Victor dodged as it lunged, rolling to the side, his instincts razor-sharp.

Gothetta flicked her wrist, and the creature froze mid-motion.

“Half-bloods can wield psychic power,” she said, “because they still possess human minds. Unlike full-blooded vampires, whose consciousness is… stagnant, yours is in flux. It grows, changes, adapts. That is why your kind is so rare. And that is why you will be stronger than them.”

Victor’s breathing was even, his gaze locked on the beast. “Then teach me.”

MONTHS PASSED

Every day, Victor trained.

At first, his power was weak—clumsy, unrefined. He could lift pebbles, maybe a shard of bone, but nothing more.

Gothetta was ruthless. She broke him down. Forced him to tap into his mind, to dig deeper into the very foundation of his existence.

He learned to listen—not with his ears, but with his power. He could feel the shadows of things long buried beneath the earth. Skeletons of the forgotten, remnants of ancient beasts.

And then, one night—it happened.

He stood in the center of the pit, his fists clenched, the weight of centuries pressing down on him. The echoes of the past whispered to him beneath the soil.

He reached down—not with his hands, but with his will.

The ground split.

A roar erupted from below. The earth cracked and churned as a massive, prehistoric jaw forced its way to the surface.

A creature of bone and dust rose from the abyss.

A Spinosaurus.

Its skull gleamed in the dim torchlight, its hollow sockets burning with ghostly fire. It let out a deep, unearthly growl, awaiting its master’s command.

Victor smirked.

“This…” he breathed. “This is my power.”

He turned to Gothetta, the Spinosaurus shifting beside him, the ground trembling at his feet.

She watched in silence, her eyes unreadable. Then, she nodded. “You’ve done it.”

Victor lifted his hand, and the great beast bowed.

He grinned. “I think I’ll call it… Underworld.”

RETRIEVAL MISSION

Everything below him felt so small.

He had built this life, this power. He had climbed from the filth of the mines to the highest echelons of the Ravenholm empire.

Yet, as he sipped his dark wine, he felt something creeping in—a sense of inevitability.

Then came the knock at his door.

He already knew who it was before he turned.

Eriel Ravenholm entered without waiting for permission.

The vampire lord moved with effortless grace, his coat of deep crimson brushing the marble floor, his piercing eyes shadowed beneath the glow of candlelight.

Victor set down his glass. “I was wondering when you’d come to see me, Eriel.”

Eriel smirked. “Then you know why I’m here.”

Victor exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Elizabeth.”

Eriel nodded. “It’s time. She must return.”

Victor studied the older vampire. For all of Eriel’s collected poise, there was something else in his expression. Not urgency. Not desperation. Expectation.

As if everything was playing out exactly as it was meant to.

Victor swirled the wine in his glass, watching the deep red ripple. “She won’t come willingly.”

Eriel’s smirk widened. “Of course not.”

There was a silence between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

Eriel stepped forward, resting his gloved hand on Victor’s shoulder. A rare gesture of familiarity.

“You are my most trusted enforcer, Victor.” His voice was smooth, layered with centuries of control. “You’ve built yourself into something beyond even my expectations. You are proof that blood is only one part of a legacy.”

Victor raised a brow. “I assume this is leading to a command.”

Eriel’s eyes gleamed. “She is part of our house. She was meant to be ours from the beginning. The pact cannot be ignored.”

Victor let out a slow breath, placing his wine glass down with a soft clink.

“She doesn’t see it that way.”

Eriel’s smile never wavered. “That’s why I’m sending you.”

Victor turned, staring into the fire crackling in the hearth. He had dealt with traitors, rebels, and rival clans. He had crushed revolts and extinguished threats before they could fester.

But Elizabeth Ravenholm was none of those things.

She was a woman running from fate.

And now, it was his job to bring her back.

Victor chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Do I have the freedom to approach this as I see fit?”

Eriel spread his arms in mock generosity. “By all means. Convince her. Break her will. Or… perhaps something else entirely. But she will come home, Victor.”

Victor closed his eyes for a brief moment. He had known this day would come.

When he opened them, his smirk mirrored Eriel’s.

“Consider it done.”