Elijah
Royal Palace
Pandaemonium City
Hudsonia Region
Capital of the Kingdom
September 29th, 6414
1: 15 pm
I felt the weight of their gazes the moment I crossed the threshold. Twenty-two pairs of Vampiric eyes locked onto me, their scrutiny as sharp and unrelenting as a pack of wolves sizing up a wounded deer. These were not the eyes of allies. These were the eyes of political predators, each seeking the slightest tremor of weakness, the smallest hint of vulnerability.
The room was austere, dominated by a long rectangular table of dark, polished mahogany. The stark white marble walls reflected the artificial sunlight streaming through high windows, casting stark shadows that seemed to dance uneasily across the chamber. At the far end of the table, seated on a monumental throne carved from a single block of gray-veined marble, was my father, Nehemiah Ashtarmel.
He was an imposing figure. His chestnut-colored skin and thick brown hair stood in sharp contrast to the traditional Ashtarmel features of silver-blond hair and indigo eyes. He lacked the ethereal beauty of the Old blood lineage, his appearance instead bearing the rugged mark of a life before his transformation. That difference was a constant reminder of his origins as a human, long before my grandfather turned him into a Vampire. He bore it like a badge of defiance, a symbol that New bloods could rise to heights that many Old bloods considered unthinkable.
My father's scarlet eyes burned like embers beneath heavy brows, and his expression was unreadable—an impenetrable mask that betrayed neither approval nor condemnation. But the tension in the air told me enough. This meeting was not called for trivial matters. The Mircalla House was behind the current unrest, their defiance of the crown a thorn that had festered for too long. This meeting would determine how far my father was willing to go to maintain his grip on the kingdom.
The Ashtarmel House was still the most powerful of the seven royal houses, even after the chaos that had erupted two years ago. The Varnae and Mircalla Houses, the next most influential within Ashtarium, could not match the strength and reach of our family. The Ashtarmels had survived assassination attempts, political machinations, and even open rebellion. A year ago, we had sent the head of a Varnae assassin back to their lord as a grim reminder of who held the power. Despite their hatred of my father's New blood status, the two royal houses had no choice but to bow—if not out of loyalty, then out of fear.
I took my place at the table, my gaze steady as I slid into the chair between the Directors of Defense and Energy. My father's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, a silent question in his eyes. Did he suspect my involvement in last night's incident? I prayed silently to the Divine Mother that he didn't. I kept my face neutral, my posture composed. If there was one thing my father detested, it was weakness, and showing even a hint of hesitation in this room would only add fuel to the fires smoldering in the minds of those present.
The Director of Transportation resumed his report, his voice steady but his shoulders tense. "…and with the continued closure of the Zellux region, our supply of Barium has reached critically low levels. Without immediate action, we're looking at a full depletion of reserves within eight months."
Barium was not merely a resource; it was the lifeblood of the kingdom's stability. It fueled the Dome that enveloped the thirteen regions of Ashtarium, ensuring the existence of an artificial sun, continuous daylight, and life-sustaining warmth. Without it, the carefully cultivated balance between the other Manaborn populace and the vampire elite would begin to erode. Yet Father's lack of concern for the kingdom's non-vampire citizens was clear.
Kettlia's struggles, the riots, and the resistance against his rule served as glaring evidence of his indifference. Even now, the empty seats at this meeting raised unsettling questions. The Representative of the Human Council and the Regional Lord of Zellux were conspicuously absent.
Countess Mircalla's absence was no surprise—she had long been a thorn in my father's side, a symbol of resistance. But Tilman's absence hinted at something worse: that Kettlia's unrest was far more volatile than I had assumed. Had relations with the Grand Duke crumbled beyond repair? My eyes scanned the other Regional Lords, their holographic forms flickering with an almost ghostly presence. Their expressions were inscrutable, offering no insight into what plots might already be unfolding.
The only physical figures in the room, aside from Father and me, were the Executive Directors and the Enchantress. She stood to my father's right, an unsettling specter draped in black robes, her braided hair adorned with crow feathers. Her dark skin was marked with runes that seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive. Her eyes, fathomless and black as the void, fixed on me. They seemed to pull at my very soul, threatening to unravel every secret I had ever kept.
I remembered the first time I saw her, the raw menace she exuded. The stories of Wytches from the Long War had not done her justice. Her presence was living proof of why the vampires had emerged victorious, and it was unclear how or where Father had acquired her loyalty. But with her at his side, his authority had become almost unassailable. Her very existence was a message to all who opposed him: tread lightly, or face the wrath of the arcane.
"We might as well let it run its course," Father declared lazily, reclining in his marble throne. His voice carried a faint trace of amusement, as though the current crisis were no more than a minor inconvenience. "If the Countess believes cutting our supply of Barium will cripple us, then she is as foolish as I always suspected."
A collective tension rippled through the chamber. The silence that followed his insult was deafening. Even though the Mircalla family's rebellion was an open secret, the gravity of his disdain was not lost on anyone. Countess Patricia Mircalla was ancient, far older than my father, and her power was legendary. Yet Father dismissed her as if she were no more than an irritating fly.
"We vampires are creatures of darkness," he continued. "Children of the joyful night. For centuries, we've let the Mercyful light lull us into complacency. But it is a lie. The true light is still merciless, still waiting beyond the Eternal Night. It is time we reclaim our place in the open shadows."
"But my Lord," Director Bathory interjected carefully, "even if we can do without the Dome, we cannot do without the resources it provides." Dr. Christopher Bathory, the lone human at the table, was the head of the most influential scientific and technological family in the kingdom. Though my father disdained humans, he knew the Bathory name carried enough weight to demand respect, and thus, the doctor was allowed a voice—albeit a cautious one.
"The Doctor is correct, Your Majesty," the Director of Treasury added. "Barium is one of the most sought-after minerals on the continent. Our trade agreement with the Grigori Empire depends heavily on it. Losing that relationship would devastate our economy."
Father waved a dismissive hand. "The feather king should understand that the time of the sun has long since passed," he said with a smirk.
"King Morningstar is no ordinary ruler," the Enchantress said, her voice a chilling whisper that carried effortlessly through the chamber. "As a member of the Paragons, it would be unwise to provoke him." Her words were met with silence. Even I felt my breath hitch at the mention of the Paragons, the most powerful beings from each Manaborn race. Their authority was unmatched. King Morningstar was not only the leader of the Paragons but also the head of the Ranger Force—an elite organization tasked with maintaining global stability and dealing with outer threats.
"Wasn't the boy considered a pacifist?" Lord Noxus Varnae asked, his tone dripping with arrogance. The smug Regional Lord of Adornia and Nexia enjoyed testing boundaries, and his words carried a thinly veiled sneer.
"Yes," the Enchantress replied coolly. "A pacifist who stood by as his cousin's people faced extinction to end the Long War. At least, that's what the history books say." The room fell silent again, her words a sharp reminder of the war's dark legacy. The Long War had been a cataclysm that nearly destroyed the world, and its scars lingered even now, millennia later.
"She isn't wrong," Father said. His tone softened, just slightly, as he leaned back. "I remember the Nephilim from the war. Their strength was... formidable." Sometimes, I forgot that my father and my uncle Rafael had both fought in that ancient conflict. "If the Paragons hadn't agreed to the Eternal Night, who knows how it would have ended?"
Director Bathory's voice carried a weight that could not be dismissed. "Part of that agreement was the invention of the Sundome," he said, his tone cautious yet firm. "Without a steady supply of Barium, Grigori will run dry. That would not only cripple our economy but risk provoking the wrath of King Morningstar."
Father leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the armrests of his grand throne. "So, how do we resolve this Zellux situation?" he asked, though I could sense he wasn't particularly interested in my opinion. His question felt more like a formality than a genuine request for advice.
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps we should consider reopening negotiations," I suggested, deliberately keeping my tone even, measured. But before I could finish, Isaiah cut me off.
"The time for negotiations is long past," my older brother declared sharply. His voice carried that grating tone he always used when he wanted to assert himself. Seated on Father's right hand, he radiated self-assured arrogance. "We know what the Mircalla House is after, independence."
"And is that so terrible?" I countered, shooting him a hard glance. "Zellux was once a sovereign nation before we annexed it. Their desire for independence is not without merit."
Father's gaze turned cold, his tone curt. "My father, Alexander Ashtarmel, brought Zellux into the fold," he said. "That is part of his legacy. I will not allow it to be stripped away from our House."
I clenched my fists under the table, biting my tongue. He spoke of legacy, yet he showed no concern for preserving my uncle Rafael's memory or the Sundome that had been his crowning achievement. But challenging him openly would lead nowhere.
The Enchantress's voice slipped into the conversation, smooth and deliberate. "Perhaps Zellux requires a more…precise approach. Something that can be handled quietly, with little trace." The faintest hint of a smile played on her lips, though it didn't reach her fathomless black eyes.
Murmurs rippled through the room. The idea of covert action against the Mircalla House wasn't just dangerous—it bordered on madness. If word ever spread that we had resorted to such tactics, the entire kingdom could fracture.
"What are you suggesting?" Father asked, his interest piqued. I noted the sharp glint in his eyes. He was considering it, which unsettled me deeply.
"El Mawet and his crew," the Enchantress said calmly, as if discussing the weather. My blood ran cold at the mention of that name. I fought to maintain a neutral expression, but my mind raced. Not him. Not his squad. They were notorious, a shadowy force of elite assassins who operated with surgical precision—and with no regard for collateral damage.
Father chuckled darkly, sitting back in his chair. "My brother's old crew," he mused. "They've handled worse. But if they fail…"
"They won't fail," Isaiah interjected. "If there's any team capable of infiltrating Zellux and neutralizing the Countess, it's El Mawet's."
"And what of the aftermath?" I challenged. "What if her death turns her into a martyr? The people of Zellux might rise against us en masse."
Isaiah's smirk was infuriating. "Since when did you care so much about the people of Zellux? Oh, I see—you're just worried about the extra work it'll bring you."
I leaned forward, fixing him with a glare. "Does Isaiah speak for you now, Father?"
Father silenced us both with a low growl, baring his razor-sharp fangs in warning. "Enough." He turned back to the Enchantress. "How do we ensure this doesn't lead back to us?"
"You can leave that to me," she replied without hesitation.
The tension in the room eased slightly as Father nodded. But my mind churned with unease. The decision to send in El Mawet could not be undone, and its consequences would be severe.
With the Zellux issue settled—or at least pushed into the shadows—attention shifted to the ongoing unrest in Kettlia.
"Are we going to address the situation in Periun?" I asked, my voice steady, though my heart pounded. This was a sensitive topic, and I knew it. Father dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
"Send in the Peacekeepers to maintain order," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "And remind the Council that I could rip their spines from their backs and replace them with humans who will obey."
I swallowed my frustration, carefully choosing my next words. "That might not be enough if the Grand Duke is involved."
The room grew deathly still. Even Director Bathory seemed to hold his breath. Father turned his smoldering gaze on me, his anger barely contained. But I pressed on.
"Representative Tilman's absence today isn't a coincidence. The Grand Duke might have already given up on negotiations."
Fathers' growl rumbled like distant thunder. "The Grand Duke knows better than to defy me."
"Forgive me, Father," I said carefully, "but the only reason we have peace right now is because the Grand Duke allows it."
Isaiah erupted, his voice full of venom. "You insolent—"
"Again," the Enchantress interrupted, her tone calm but firm, "Elijah is correct. Kettlia's military resources are substantial. If we push the Grand Duke too far, the kingdom could plunge into chaos."
Father stared at me for what felt like an eternity. I held his gaze, willing myself not to flinch. Finally, he relented, his growl softening.
"Fine. We will deal with Kettlia when the time comes." With that, the conversation moved on. Though I felt a small victory, I knew the storm was far from over. Each decision made in this room carried consequences that rippled beyond the palace walls. The kingdom's fragile balance teetered on the edge, and I feared it would soon come crashing down.
We shifted focus to the land far south of the western hemisphere: Xibalba. The mere mention of it set my teeth on edge, frustration mounting as I struggled to hold my tongue.
"How is the negotiation proceeding?" Father asked, directing his cold, deliberate gaze at Andrew Inez, the Director of Regions. Inez fumbled, his voice trembling as if already anticipating the wrath about to descend.
"King Gomez…has withdrawn from nego—"
"Really?" Father cut him off, his growl echoing through the chamber. With a snap of his fingers, a band of crimson light coiled around Inez's throat. Before anyone could react, Inez was yanked off the ground and pinned against the ceiling. Every eye in the room was on him, and the weight of Father's fury was palpable.
"I made it clear I wanted that land," Father hissed, the glowing band tightening. Inez's neck strained under the pressure, blood seeping out and dripping onto the table below. I dared not move. The tension in the chamber had become so thick it felt like the air itself had been sucked away. Father could end him with a thought, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd made such an example of someone.
Inez managed to stammer through the constriction, desperation etched into his face. "But…my Grace…the former King signed a contract…with King Gomez. The land is…neutral…we can't—"
He didn't get the chance to finish. Father's hand flicked dismissively, and Inez's head separated from his body with a sickening snap. The room fell deathly silent. The headless corpse hovered in the air for a moment before crumbling into ash as Father's light disintegrated it completely. All that remained was the lingering scent of burned flesh and the stunned expressions of the vampires present. No one dared to move or even breathe too loudly. Father's demonstration was calculated, a grim reminder of the power he wielded and the consequences of failing him.
"It seems," Father said coolly, as though nothing unusual had occurred, "we'll need a new Director of Regions—someone capable of getting results."
The Enchantress stepped forward, her voice measured, steady. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
And just like that, the meeting was over, the finality of it ringing in the oppressive silence that followed.
*
After the meeting, I anticipated Father would summon me to his private reading chambers. I sent Steph back to the home office, leaving me to handle the family matters alone. Surprisingly, when I arrived, Father showed no sign of bringing up my earlier objections. I half-expected some chastisement, some veiled warning, but he was silent on the matter. Instead, we settled into a familiar routine: a small table set with Berlin pie, the maids carefully laying out the delicate slices and pouring blood-infused wine into crystal glasses.
Father's chambers were steeped in a heavy atmosphere, the scent of old parchment mingling with a faint metallic tang. The towering shelves brimmed with books, both ancient and modern, arranged with meticulous precision—philosophy, science, literature, and occult texts all clearly categorized. I glanced around, my gaze catching on the intricately carved spines of tomes that had once belonged to my uncle. As a child, this had been forbidden territory, a place Ariella, Lilith, and I had only dared to explore in stolen moments. I could almost hear Ariella's voice again, teasing me for my nervousness. She had been braver than I ever was.
Once the maids had finished pouring the wine, they performed their routine gesture, slicing their wrists with deft precision. The scent of fresh blood wafted through the room, warm and heady, stirring a primal hunger in the depths of my being. I fought it down, keeping my expression composed, and reached for the pie instead. Isaiah didn't bother with such restraint; he took a long sip from his glass, drawing a sharp glance from Father. He, too, picked up his fork, pointedly ignoring the wine at first. The maids finished their task, standing in quiet submission as Father handed each of them a vial of his blood—a rejuvenating gift that would allow them to heal and return to their duties.
"So, Elijah," Father began, his tone deceptively casual. "How is your position treating you?"
I took a deliberate sip of wine, letting the fiery rush fill my senses before responding. "It's going well enough. Managing other people's lives has given me a new appreciation for how much you and Mother handled." It wasn't entirely a lie, though not the whole truth either. I was using my position for more personal reasons, far removed from the noble ideals of duty and legacy.
"At least you're finally pulling your head out of those old fairy tales," Isaiah muttered under his breath.
I opened my mouth to retort, but Father's sharp voice cut across the table. "Children."
Swallowing my irritation, I returned to my pie. Yet, as much as I focused on the simple act of eating, my mind drifted back to the meeting. The tension, the outright fear Father instilled—it lingered like a thick fog. I couldn't help but compare him to his brother, King Rafael. My uncle had ruled differently, with a measured hand and a focus on unity rather than dominance. He would never have resorted to the kind of brutal displays Father seemed to enjoy.
"Was it truly necessary to kill the Director?" I finally asked. I knew the answer, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.
Father's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of amusement in his crimson eyes. "Fear, my son, is a weapon. It reminds those around you who hold power and ensures their loyalty. If they see one of their own—someone supposedly immortal—fall, they remember how fragile their position truly is."
His voice took on a familiar cadence, the same sermon I'd heard since childhood. "We are blessed," Father continued. "Blessed to be stronger, faster, immortal. But that immortality brings its curse: fear. Fear of death. Fear of losing what we have. And that fear, Elijah, is a tool."
I clenched my fists under the table. I'd grown weary of this refrain, this justification for every cruel action. "And what about respect?" I asked.
Father smiled thinly. "Respect comes second to fear. Respect without fear is weakness."
Isaiah, who had been quietly seething since the earlier meeting, spoke up. "Elijah insulted you in front of the entire cabinet, Father. And you're just going to let that slide?"
"Your brother did his job," Father said evenly. "As Director of R.E.T.U., it's his responsibility to maintain order, even if that means bringing up uncomfortable truths. Your role, Isaiah, is to prepare for war, to protect this kingdom from threats external and internal. Focus on that."
I almost smiled at Isaiah's scowl. Father's unexpected defense left him simmering with barely contained anger.
When the conversation finally shifted to other matters, I excused myself as quickly as possible. My patience was fraying, and every second in that chamber felt like a lifetime. Walking down the corridor, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Yet the ache in my chest remained, a dull, constant reminder of what had been lost.
As I wandered the palace halls, my steps took me toward Ariella's wing. The heavy doors were shut, the rooms untouched since her death. I stopped in front of them, one hand brushing against the polished wood. Memories flooded back—her laughter, her boldness, her unshakable belief in me. I wanted to open the doors to see what lay inside, but I couldn't bring myself to. Some wounds never truly heal.
With a deep breath, I stepped back. This wasn't the time to indulge in grief. I had work to do, a truth to decipher. I pulled the datchip from my pocket, its texture sleek and smooth. The intel within it had stated that the assassination of my extended family had to do with some kind of operation. An operation that was approved by the Royal government.
Holding the tech, I felt a mix of determination and guilt. People had died to bring me this information, lives cut short by my pursuit of the truth. My hands trembled as I recalled the informant's face, his image already becoming a fleeting shadow in the night. There was guilt, but not enough to make me regret doing it. Clenching my fist tightly, I let the weight of my resolve steady me. No matter the cost, I would get my revenge, no matter how far I needed to go.