The meat on Patrick's plate was tender, seasoned with spices that cost more than a commoner's life. He ate slowly, the bioluminescent blood in his goblet casting a serene, ghostly blue glow over the lace tablecloth. For a moment, he allowed himself to drift—thinking of Selina's laugh and the way Flora's tiny fingers always managed to catch his hair.
Then came the knocking. It wasn't the rhythmic, respectful tap of a servant; it was a heavy, impatient pounding that set his teeth on edge.
"Enter!" Patrick barked, his irritation sharp.
An outer guard stepped in. He didn't bow. He didn't wait by the door. He strolled into the Leader's private sanctum with a sneer, his eyes wandering over the silk tapestries and silver-inlaid furniture with a look of pure, unadulterated greed.
"Why are you disturbing my meal?" Patrick asked, his voice low with a warning.
The guard didn't look at him. He picked up a grape from a side bowl, tossed it into his mouth, and leaned against the doorframe. "Urgent news," he said between chews. "It's about Selina."
The name hit Patrick like a physical blow. He stood up so fast his chair scraped harshly against the stone floor. "Selina? What about her? Speak, you fool!"
The guard didn't answer. He simply turned and began to walk away, his steps casual and mocking.
"I said stop!" Patrick bellowed.
The air in the room thickened. A crimson aura erupted from Patrick, the sheer pressure of his blood magic making the glassware chatter and the floorboards groan. The guard froze, his knees buckling under the weight of a power he couldn't hope to match. He turned back, his face pale and slick with sweat.
"Tell me," Patrick ordered, his eyes glowing like dying coals.
The guard stammered out the report. By the time he finished, the crimson aura had vanished, leaving Patrick standing in a cold, hollow silence. He sank back into his chair, the exquisite meal before him suddenly looking like rotting carrion.
"Get out," Patrick whispered.
The guard scrambled away, leaving Patrick to the wreckage of his own heart. I was too soft, he thought, his fingers digging into the mahogany table. I treated my Commanders like brothers while they were sharpening their knives. Now they have her. And if they have her, they have me.
The Betrayal
The doors swung open again. This time, there was no knock.
Quel walked in, dragging Selina by the arm. She was a ghost of herself—her dress torn, her eyes hollowed out by a trauma Patrick couldn't yet fathom. Patrick lunged forward, his heart breaking at the sight of her, but Quel was faster. He pressed a jagged crimson dagger against Selina's throat, the edge drawing a thin line of red.
"One more step," Quel purred, "and I see how she looks without a head." He leaned in, licking the salt of her tears off her cheek with a revolting familiarity. "I've already had what I wanted from her, Patrick. Whether she lives to see the moon rise is entirely up to you."
Behind Quel, three more figures emerged: Gunther, Armal, and Gordon. His four Commanders. The men he had bled with in the gutters of Wilson.
"Where is she?" Patrick's voice was a ragged plea. "Where is my daughter?"
The four men shared a look—a cold, silent communication that made the bile rise in Patrick's throat.
"The brat?" Quel shrugged, his grin widening. "I ended her. I couldn't stand the thought of your bloodline polluting the air for another day. She's in the dirt, Patrick. Where you're about to be."
The world tilted. Patrick didn't roar. He didn't attack. He fell to his knees, a strangled sound escaping his throat. He began to strike his own head against the floor, the polished stone cracking under the force of his grief. He sobbed like a broken child, his fingers clawing at his own scalp until blood matted his hair.
"Enough of this theater!" Quel snapped. He backhanded Selina, the force of the blow throwing her to the ground.
"Stop! Please!" Patrick crawled toward them, his forehead bleeding, his dignity stripped bare. "Take the position! Take the gang! Just... let her live. I'll do anything."
Quel nodded to Gunther, who stepped forward with heavy metallic cuffs. Patrick offered his wrists without a fight, his shoulders slumping as the cold iron snapped shut. As they dragged him toward the door, Patrick looked up at Selina, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.
"At least you're safe now," he whispered, his voice trembling. "My love, please understand... I had to. For you."
Selina didn't look at him with love. She didn't even look at him with pity. She stared at him with a cold, venomous scowl that froze the blood in his veins. Then, she began to laugh. It was a high, hysterical sound that echoed off the vaulted ceilings like shattered glass.
"Safe?" she spat, the word sounding like a curse. "You think I'm safe because you surrendered?"
She looked at Quel, then back to the broken man on the floor.
"I told you, Patrick. I told you a thousand times that these vipers were waiting for you to blink. You called me paranoid. You told me they were your 'brothers.' While you were basking in your gold and your wine, you left me and Flora in a cage with no lock."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, but her voice remained like a blade.
"Our daughter is dead because you were too proud to be a tyrant and too weak to be a protector. You left us unguarded while you played King. And now you surrender? Now, when there is nothing left to save?"
She leaned forward, her spit hitting the floor near his face.
"I regret ever giving you a child. I regret ever believing a man as hollow as you could keep the world at bay. Go to your dungeon, Patrick. You've been living in a cell of your own making for years."
As they dragged Patrick into the darkness of the hallway, the last thing he heard wasn't the victory cheers of his Commanders. It was the sound of his wife weeping for the daughter he had failed to save.
Patrick didn't struggle when they threw him into the pit.
The dungeon of his own estate was a place he had rarely visited as a Leader; he had preferred the silk and sunlight of the upper floors. Now, the damp stone and the smell of stagnant waste were his entire world. He slumped into the shallow, black water, his fine robes soaking up the filth of the drain.
I regret ever giving you a chance in my life.
Selina's voice was a ghost that wouldn't leave the cell. It screamed louder than the dripping water, louder than the distant laughter of the men who had stolen his crown. He struck the surface of the water, a weak, rhythmic splashing that echoed off the grimy walls.
"I built this," he whispered, his nails digging into his forearm until the skin broke. "I gave them everything. I was 'soft.' I was 'kind.'" He watched his own blood bloom like a dark flower in the water. "And for that, I paid with my daughter's life. I paid with my wife's soul."
In the dark, Patrick realized the ultimate truth of Wilson: Love wasn't a shield. It was just a handle for your enemies to hold while they gutted you.
Above the dungeons, the town of Fluxton breathed in gasps of soot and despair.
It was a place where "tomorrow" was an expensive rumor. Between the monthly blood quotas of the Abyssal Gang and the random cruelties of the King's soldiers, life was a high-stakes gamble with loaded dice. People were born, they toiled in the wood-shops or the vats, and they died—often for a stray word or a look that lasted a second too long.
Kennedy lived in the heart of that silence. Since Sarah's death, the house had been a tomb, and now that Ezekiel was gone, the walls seemed to be closing in. He sat in his dark kitchen, staring at the empty chair across from him. He prayed to a silent sky, wondering if his son was even still a boy, or if the brutes in the base had already ground him into something unrecognizable.
The Price of a Breath
At the Abyssal base, Ezekiel finally gave in.
The pain in his shattered spine was a white-hot scream that wouldn't stop until he fed it. 'Do it,' the Voice urged. 'Or die in the dirt like Len.'
Ezekiel closed his eyes and felt the heat leave his core. Two more years. The invisible scythe swung again, harvesting more of his future to stitch his present back together. In the span of a few days, he had squandered twelve years of his life. He was a teenager with the soul-weariness of a middle-aged man.
As his eyes fluttered open, the gothic spires of the estate blurred back into focus. He was still on the ground. The guards—Jarul, John, and the others—still circled him like vultures waiting for a carcass to stop twitching.
Then, the air changed. The predatory chatter of the guards died instantly.
Raphael emerged from the manor, his boots clicking with a slow, terrifying precision.
"We greet the Leader!" the guards shouted, snapping into deep bows, scurrying away from Ezekiel as if he were suddenly infectious.
Raphael stopped at the foot of the stairs. He looked at the blood on the gravel, then at Ezekiel's trembling form. His eyes moved to Jarul, who was suddenly very interested in his own boots.
"What is this?" Raphael's voice was a low, freezing vibration. "I said you could train him. I didn't say you could break my new toy before I got to play with it."
"Sir... Jarul got carried away," Elyas whispered, sweat beading on his forehead.
Raphael didn't look at Elyas. He stepped toward Ezekiel. The boy didn't move; he stayed curled in the dirt, his pride buried under layers of agony and lost years.
"Must I ask politely?" Raphael roared, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He raised his leg, his boot suddenly wreathed in crimson blood-lightning. The air hissed with the scent of ozone. "Look at me, brat, before I cave in your chest!"
Ezekiel scrambled back, his heart hammering against his ribs. He fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on that glowing boot. He remembered that lightning—it didn't just burn; it felt like it was unraveling his very atoms.
"Please!" Ezekiel gasped, his voice cracking. "I... I was cornered! I didn't know the rules!"
He waited for the strike. He waited for the agony that would cost him another five years to heal. But the lightning flickered and died. Raphael's scowl twisted into a sharp, terrifyingly intrigued grin.
"You really are a strange one, Ezekiel Stormwing," Raphael murmured, stroking his beard. "You were broken a minute ago. Now you're whole. No vampire heals that fast without a Tier-4 catalyst. I'm curious. Tell me the truth of your fire."
Ezekiel gulped. The silence in the courtyard was absolute. Every guard was leaning in, waiting for the secret.
If I tell him, the beatings might stop, Ezekiel thought, his stomach churning. If I tell him, I might become a 'special' prisoner instead of a dead one.
"My powers..." Ezekiel started, his voice barely a whisper before he found his footing. "They are strange, Sir. In order for me to grow... to heal... I have to... I have to kill."
He looked up, his eyes reflecting the dark ambition he saw in Raphael's own.
"I have to kill vampires. And the stronger they are... the more I become."
The courtyard went ice-cold. The guards took an involuntary step back, their hands hovering over their weapons. They weren't looking at a recruit anymore. They were looking at a cannibal.