he night bled red.
Above the towering spires of Blackthorn Keep, the moon hung low and full, casting a bloody hue across the marble steps leading to the court of the Blood Duchess. The castle stood like a wound torn through the sky, its silhouette jagged, majestic, and cruel. No stars dared shine beside it.
Inside, the grand ballroom pulsed with dark splendor.
Chandeliers of black crystal swayed above as if moved by an unseen breath. Fire danced in sconces that burned with violet flame. Velvet drapes, stained the color of old blood, hung between mirrors etched with the names of fallen kings. The air itself was thick with the scent of wine, magic… and death.
Tonight was meant to be a victory.
The northern clans had finally bowed. Another piece of the world had been stitched beneath the heel of Seraphina Vale—the vampire noble feared across seven territories, her name spoken in reverence and in terror.
She sat atop her throne of carved obsidian and bleached dragon bone. Her gown—red as spilled blood—clung to her frame like armor. A circlet of onyx rested on her silver hair, and around her throat, a necklace of fangs—each one taken from a challenger she had slain herself.
Below her, courtiers celebrated, nobles laughed, and music played. The court was alive with delight… but Seraphina was restless.
She tapped a finger against her throne's arm, her red eyes scanning the room. The same tired politics. The same simpering sycophants. Even conquest tasted dull these days.
Until the doors opened.
The music died mid-note. A cold gust swept through the chamber, silencing every mouth and freezing every glass mid-toast.
The guards hadn't opened the doors.
Someone had.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the hall. A single man entered—cloaked in shadow, wrapped in black, his presence immense. His boots clicked against the marble. He moved like the night itself had grown a body and chosen to walk.
Gasps filled the room.
He was… unmarked. No house sigil. No crest. No offering of allegiance.
And worst of all—he didn't kneel.
Seraphina stood slowly, her power coiling around her like a living thing.
"You enter unannounced," she said, her voice cold silk, smooth but sharp. "You wear no colors. You speak no name. And you dare to remain standing?"
The stranger stopped at the base of her dais. He looked up at her, and when their eyes met, the court seemed to tilt.
His gaze was endless—dark as a void, heavy as eternity. It was not red. It was something far older.
"I do not kneel," he said. "Not here. Not to you."
The court recoiled.
Gasps. Shouts. A noble shrieked, "Who does he think he is?!"
A guard unsheathed his blade, but Seraphina raised one finger.
Not yet.
She stepped down from her throne, each movement smooth, measured, lethal.
"You have one chance," she said. "Name yourself. Or leave in pieces."
The man tilted his head.
"I am Lucien Duskbane," he said calmly. "The Firstborn. The origin. King of the Forgotten Court."
The room trembled.
Some fell to their knees in reflex. Others backed away in horror. His name hadn't been spoken aloud in centuries. A myth. A nightmare used to scare children.
But he was real. And he was standing in her hall.
Seraphina's power surged, a crimson glow lighting her hands.
"You expect me to believe that?" she hissed. "That you're him?"
Lucien smiled, and for a heartbeat, the temperature dropped.
"I don't care what you believe," he said. "I've not come for your crown, Seraphina Vale."
He stepped closer. She didn't move. Couldn't.
"I've come… for you."
Her magic flared instinctively, but it sparked off his skin like rain hitting stone. He didn't flinch.
Her heartbeat—dead and cold for a century—gave a single, traitorous thud.
"You're lying," she whispered. "We've never met."
Lucien leaned in, so close she could feel the breath of eternity on her cheek.
"Not in this life," he murmured. "But your soul remembers mine. Doesn't it, little Duchess?"
Images flashed—too fast to grasp. A battlefield of fire. A kiss in the rain. A silver dagger between ribs. A vow spoken beneath a dying tree.
And a whisper she had buried in her dreams: "One day, I will find you again."
She staggered back.
Lucien didn't follow. He simply waited.
The court watched in stunned silence, unsure whether they were witnessing the start of a war… or something far more dangerous.
Seraphina's voice, when it returned, was low. Calculated.
"Escort him to the guest wing," she told her guards. "Put a dozen outside his door. If he leaves, follow. If he tries to escape—"
"I won't," Lucien interrupted. "I have no reason to run. My vow is here."
Then, with a slight nod—as if he were the host—he turned and walked away, vanishing down the hall as if he'd always belonged there.
And Seraphina Vale, the most powerful vampire of her time… was left standing alone.
Heart pounding.
Magic trembling.
And fate closing in.