The city of Yain sprawled across the mountains, its black stone walls sharp and imposing, enclosing the wealth and power within. According to historical vampire records, it had been built by my father centuries ago. Every few decades, he would change his face, pretending to be his own son.
I discovered this while reading a small book he left behind — part of a package placed on my desk by the old steward.
It felt strange.
Receiving a gift from a dead man.
Three great tiers rose one atop the other, each separated by colossal stone battlements. At the pinnacle stood the Count's fortress, a towering structure of dark iron and obsidian, looming like a god of war over all below.
The inner city, resplendent and gleaming, was the Count's personal domain — a place where wealth and power flowed unchecked. Marble palaces, opulent markets, and towering spires filled every corner. Soldiers in gleaming obsidian armor marched through the streets, their cold eyes betraying no hint of mercy, their loyalty absolute. The past Count of Trejeor ruled with an iron fist; his word was law. There were no councils, no rivals, only his will, enforced by his unshakable army.
Below, in the mid-city, merchants and craftsmen thrived, their fortunes built on the blood and toil of those beneath them. Farther still, the outer city housed farmers and laborers, toiling endlessly to feed the Count's insatiable hunger. Lush farms sprawled alongside the base of the Pit — the massive arena where prisoners, beasts, and slaves were thrown to fight for the Count's and his people's amusement.
The arena's blood-slick sands lay in the shadow of the farms, the crops grown in the wake of death, fertilized by the bodies of those who fell in brutal contests. From the deepest depths, one could look up and see the Count's fortress, looming like a watchful, uncaring eye, its silhouette blackened against the sun.
In Yain, wealth flowed in rivers of gold, but at the cost of absolute control, endless suffering, and an ever-present eye of death.
As I rode in my carriage through the city, I realized something unsettling. I had ordered my butler to take me toward the arena, but only after a slow journey through the streets.
In the kingdom where my territory resided — Locu — there were no grand coronations. A new lord received an official seal, a mark that only the rightful ruler could activate. Once received, one simply notified the Church and the King. The common folk would learn of their new master when soldiers read aloud the ruler's will, demands, and laws for the first ten days of their reign. In Locu, nobility was law — a quiet, tyrannical system where the dictates of the few crushed the will of the many.
As I planned my escape, my goals began to take shape. There were small, careful steps I would have to follow, but I couldn't ignore the larger problem: finding Tyrean. I knew he would be at a slave auction. How exactly, I wasn't sure. My character had attended many auctions before, but without a specific date and time listed, the task felt more like an act of fate than planning. Could the author not have made this easier? Like adding a date and time. Honestly, how lazy.
I also wondered how the nobles would react once they received letters announcing my father's retirements and my siblings' fates.
Would they question the offical story? And my own appointment.
I chewed my cheek, pushing the thoughts aside. I would deal with the problems when they rose.
I glanced out the window as we entered the mid-city, passing bustling markets and crowing merchants. Sighing, I tapped my thigh, eyeing the book resting on my lap.
It was my father's diary. Strangely, neither my men nor others could see it - likely because of the strange, shifting lines on the cover. It pulsed faintly, resonating with something that stirred deep inside me.
I had brought it to read, hoping to understand more about this world.
By now, I knew the truth: I understood nothing.
My goals were optimistic at best. I had a feeling nothing would turn out as neatly as I hoped.
But I had to remain positive.
The carriage halted. Outside, I heard raised voices.
I tapped the window, and one of my guards quickly appeared.
"My lord, a child and woman crossed our path. Widris has arrested them and will escort them to prison."
I frowned, meeting his gaze.
"Their punishment?"
"Hanging, my lord."
My eyelid twitched. "Release them."
"My lord?"
"Release them," I repeated, voice cold.
His face showed surprise before he ran off to obey.
I closed the window and drew the shades.
Opening the diary, I flipped through it at random.
[ I met her again, that strange woman.
As a vampire, I desire her.
She will make a fine addition to my harem. ]
I closed the book, rubbing my eyes. What was with these strange, creep ass lines? After a pause, I opened it again, flipping toward the back.
[ I grow tired. I have lived too long.
Centuries...
My lover, long slain by my own hands, leaves me with no desire for anything.
I was born to a vampire, as was he.
Our children, offspring of our union, battle as I once did with my siblings -
For power, for pride, for greed.
All a vampire feels.
Yet sometimes, something else pools inside me when I gaze upon the portrait of my late wife.
I know that only those of our bloodline can slay us.
I only hope my children grant me the grace to bury my ashes in the sea where I spread hers.
For only our black blood calls to blood.
Only the blood of my kin can slay me. Outsiders may strike me down, but I shall return. Only my ancestors, children, or their children, can end the curse we share ]