It had been twenty-four hours since someone tried to kill him. Again.
Michael crouched in the shadows of the Great Hall, brushing dust from his coat. He should've been in bed, pretending to recover like a good little victim. Instead, he was here—sneaking through his own castle like a thief with unresolved trust issues.
All because of her.
Joan.
The maid with poison in her perfume and a knife behind every smile.
According to Paul, no one had seen her since last night. Which meant she hadn't escaped.
She was still here.
Somewhere in Blood Keep.
The logical move? Wait. Let her get desperate. Let her try the front gate. She wouldn't make it three steps. But with Paul watching him like a hawk on caffeine, Michael didn't have the luxury of patience.
So he started thinking.
Why hadn't they found her?
Three possibilities.
One: Someone was helping her. A knight, maybe. But no—too messy, too risky.
Two: She was hiding in one of the Keep's secret chambers. He'd read about them. Never found one.
Three: She was hiding somewhere no one would ever check.
That's when it clicked.
If he were the assassin, where would he hide?
His smirk returned.
Either his own bedchamber…
Or the prison beneath the Keep.
Both overlooked. Both forgotten.
If he was right, she wasn't just hiding. She was waiting..
He stood.
Michael stepped lightly over the cracked red-black tiles of the Grand Hall, his shadow slipping between the towering black pillars like a secret not meant to be spoken aloud. His breath was shallow, his senses sharpened. Even though he was alone, the hall felt watched.
The only light came from pale moonbeams filtering through the six narrow windows on each side of the hall — tall enough to swallow a man, but thin as blades. The entire chamber, vast enough to host ten thousand warriors, stood deathly still.
High above, nestled in the shadows between the ribbed stone arches, perched the Gargoyle Sentinels — silent statues carved from black volcanic stone, crouched mid-snarl with their wings curled like broken swords. Their eyes, wide and glassy, stared down at the hall in eternal vigil.
They hadn't moved in centuries.
And yet… something about them felt aware.
It was said that Aldric the Undying had shaped them himself — statues bound by dark ritual, gifted a drop of his blood so that if the Keep were ever truly threatened, they might awaken.
Whether myth or truth, Michael never dared test them.
Ahead loomed the twin archways at the far end of the hall — one led to the throne, the other toward the council chambers.
And between them stood him.
Aldric the Undying – The Stone Sentinel
Between the two openings at the far end of the hall stood a towering statue of the First Vampire King, carved entirely from stone — unyielding, immortal, and terrifying.
He was depicted in a pose of silent vigilance — long flowing hair, sharp noble features carved with haunting precision. His expression held both cruelty and grace, an echo of the man who had founded Blood Keep in blood and fire.
Aldric held a massive stone greatsword in both hands, its tip planted into the floor before him. The blade, like the man, wasn't made for glory. It was a warning. A promise of violence.
Michael slowed as he neared the base of the statue, his crimson eyes flicking up to meet that eternal gaze.
"Still watching?" he muttered. "Still guarding your throne?"
The air was cold around him. Too still.
For just a breath, it felt like the statue might move.
He didn't wait to find out.
Michael exhaled and stepped beneath its shadow.
He passed through the left archway.
And entered the Throne Chamber.
The Blood Throne waited.
A monstrous, cracked chair of black stone sat at the far end of the chamber, stained a deep, dried crimson that had not faded with centuries — as if it still drank from ancient wounds. Its surface was jagged in places, chipped and broken from forgotten wars, yet it remained unyielding, a mountain carved from ruin and reverence.
Above it, etched into the obsidian wall with divine craftsmanship, loomed the relief of the Goddess of Night — no chains, no despair. She danced. Free and radiant, her long hair swirling like ink, her limbs moving in a pose of sacred defiance. Graceful. Terrible. Beautiful. A forgotten memory of something greater than power.
To either side of the throne, twelve high-backed seats stood in silent judgment — six to the left, six to the right. These were the chairs of the Twelve Trueborn, the vampire progeny of Aldric himself. Long dead, or simply vanished, no one sat there now. Yet the weight of their absence pressed heavy in the air, like dust thick with ghost-scent.
Michael didn't linger.
He stepped forward — his boots echoing faintly across the chamber — and passed the triangular stone basin carved into the floor before the throne. Its water was still, dark, and sacred. Once, all who approached the throne would cleanse themselves here.
Michael did not stop to wash his feet.
Instead, he turned silently and slipped into a narrow corridor hidden behind the left row of stone chairs — a forgotten path, known only to a few.
The passage swallowed him.
Cold stone pressed close on either side. The torch sconces were long since dead. Only the dim light of memory lit his way now.
And somewhere far below…
And somewhere far below… The Hollow awaited.