Trina trudged southward, leaving Merle behind as she approached the border separating the demon and human racelands. The journey was not one of choice but necessity—she needed answers about her vampiric heritage.
Her mother had once told her that vampires wielded a forbidden art called blood magic, a power that granted immortality at the cost of others' life force. Trina had always shied away from that side of herself, repulsed by its predatory nature. But now, she had no choice. Mr. Harold's son was dying, and the only way to save him might involve turning him into one of her kind.
Her thoughts lingered on the fragmentary memories of her mother, who had once hinted at the possibility of artificially creating vampires but had never revealed how. If the answer lay anywhere, it would be in the demon realm, where her roots began.
Determined, Trina plunged into the Forest of Monsters. The dense canopy swallowing the daylight, leaving her path dim and treacherous. She fought off countless beasts, her daggers slicing through claws and fangs with ruthless momentum. Elise and her group had accompanied her partway, but they separated at the border between the Bermone and Stokes Kingdoms. From there, Trina pressed on alone.
By the fourth day of her departure, she reached the boundary of the demon raceland. A thick, churning wall of black mist loomed ahead, stretching endlessly in either direction. As she approached, the mist reacted to her presence, glowing faintly with a reddish-purple hue where her hand brushed against it. The vapor parted, creating a narrow, human-shaped passage. Without hesitation, Trina stepped through.
On the other side of the mist, the change was immediate and brutal. Trina squinted against the searing light as the barren desert stretched endlessly before her, a landscape of shifting dunes and cracked earth. The sun blazed like an unrelenting eye, and heat waves distorted the horizon. The air was so dry that every breath felt like swallowing sandpaper, and sweat dried almost as soon as it formed. Her boots crunched over the brittle surface of the ground, the sound swallowed by the emptiness around her.
She adjusted her cloak, wrapping it tightly around her to shield herself from the gusts of hot wind that occasionally swept across the desert, flinging sharp grains of sand against her exposed skin. The whispers in her head began faintly again, mocking her resolve. They were faint—barely there—but persistent enough to gnaw at her focus.
The vibrations started subtly beneath her boots, like the hum of distant thunder. Trina paused, crouching low as she scanned her surroundings. The shimmering dunes remained eerily still, but the sensation in the ground grew stronger. A sound, a deep growl echoed from beneath the surface, sending a chill racing up her spine despite the oppressive heat.
The sand erupted ahead, a geyser of golden grains cascading through the air as something massive and serpentine broke through. The creature was monstrous, its segmented body covered in scales the color of burnt copper. A ridge of jagged fins ran along its back, slicing the air as it twisted and turned. The wyrm's head was triangular, with two enormous yellow eyes that glowed with predatory intent, and its mouth was lined with rows of serrated teeth, each one larger than her daggers.
Trina dove to the side just as the wyrm slammed down where she had been standing, the impact sending a shockwave rippling through the sand. She rolled to her feet, her heart pounding as the creature reared up, towering over her like a deity of destruction.
The wyrm lunged, its maw snapping shut inches from her as she leaped back. Her daggers glinted in the sunlight as she drew them, their curved blades ready for the fight. The beast burrowed back into the sand, its movements creating ripples that radiated outward, making it impossible to predict where it would emerge next.
Trina's pulse raced as she focused on the shifting dunes, her breaths shallow but controlled. A shadow moved beneath the sand, and she sidestepped instinctively as the wyrm shot out again, narrowly missing her. She struck out with one of her daggers, the blade grazing its tough hide but failing to penetrate deeply.
The wyrm twisted mid-air, its tail whipping around like a battering ram. The force of the blow knocked Trina off her feet, and she skidded across the sand, coughing as grains filled her mouth and nose. She pushed herself up, wincing at the ache in her ribs.
She needed a plan. Fighting the creature head-on was suicide—it was too fast, too strong, and its armored hide was nearly impenetrable. But she noticed something: when it lunged, the fleshy undersides of its body were exposed for a split second. That was her only chance.
The wyrm dove into the sand again, and Trina fortified her stance, gripping her daggers tightly. When the vibrations surged toward her this time, she didn't move. She waited, her eyes locked on the ground before her.
The wyrm burst forth, its jaws wide open. Trina dove forward, sliding under its massive body as it passed overhead. Her daggers flashed as she struck the exposed flesh beneath its jaw. A spray of dark, viscous ichor spattered across the sand, and the wyrm let out an ear-splitting screech.
It thrashed wildly, its immense body twisting and coiling as it tried to shake off the pain. Trina scrambled to her feet, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the enraged beast. But the wyrm didn't follow her this time; instead, it retreated, its massive form disappearing into the dunes.
Trina's chest heaved as she stood there, daggers still in hand, her legs trembling. She scanned the horizon, half-expecting the creature to return, but the desert remained still. Only then did she allow herself to exhale, wiping the ichor from her blades before sheathing them.
The battle had drained her, but the journey wasn't over. She turned, trudging forward once more until she reached a shimmering barrier that marked a boundary unknown to her. The air shimmered like water before her, and as she stepped through, the oppressive heat of the desert faded, replaced by a different kind of tension waiting on the other side.
A gate loomed at the far end, promising salvation. Trina approached, calling out for help, but the response was swift and merciless.
Arrows sliced through the air, their whistling song giving no warning. Agonizing pain erupted as they struck her flesh, piercing her shoulder, side, and leg. The force sent her sprawling onto the ground. Her vision blurred as blood pooled beneath her. A single thought flickered in her mind before the world went dark: Why?
When she woke, the icy chill of damp stone pressed against her cheek. The air was thick with mildew and despair, the faint drip of water echoing in the stillness. Her wrists burned where iron cuffs dug into her skin, and chains clinked softly as she shifted.
Her wounds were gone, replaced by a gnawing hunger that clawed at her stomach like a wild animal. The scent of rust and something faintly metallic teased her senses, and her throat burned with a thirst she couldn't name.
The silence shattered when the cell door creaked open. A guard entered, his heavy boots scraping against the floor. His face twisted into a mask of fury as he glared at her.
"You'll pay for what you've done," he snarled, his voice venomous.
Before she could reply, his fist connected with her jaw, sending her head snapping to the side. Pain exploded through her skull, and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She barely had time to gasp before his boot struck her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.
Doubled over, Trina gasped for breath, her body screaming in protest. The guard yanked her head back by the hair, forcing her to meet his smoldering gaze.
"I don't know what you think you are," he hissed, his breath hot and rancid, "but you don't belong here."
With a final shove, he let her fall to the ground. The cell door slammed shut behind him, leaving her battered and confused in the suffocating darkness.
Hours passed—or perhaps days; it was impossible to tell in the oppressive gloom. Trina tried to escape through the shadows but couldn't. Her hunger grew unbearable, consuming her every thought. Just when she thought she might lose herself to it, the door creaked open again.
This time, the man who entered moved differently. He carried a tray of food and water, his steps calculated and his expression unreadable. Setting the tray down, he knelt before her, his head bowed.
"We've been waiting for you, my queen," he said softly, his voice filled with reverence.
Trina froze, her mind struggling to process the words. "Queen? I think you've got the wrong person."
The man, who introduced himself as Robert, shook his head and unlocked her chains. "No, my lady. You are the daughter of Queen Lilian Bloodbond. Your lineage marks you as the rightful ruler of our kind."
As they walked through a hidden passage bathed in the cold light of the moon, Robert revealed the grim truth. After her mother's death, the demon king had ordered the extermination of vampires. Only a scattered few remained, hiding in the shadows of a once-great empire.
"You are our last hope," Robert said solemnly. "The throne is yours by blood and by birthright."
Trina stopped in her tracks, shaking her head. "I can't... I won't. That's not who I am."
Disappointment flickered in Robert's eyes, but he nodded. "Then how may I serve you, my queen?"
"I need to understand my vampiric powers," she said after a pause. "All of them."
To do so, Robert explained, she would need to perform the Rite of Inheritance—an ancient ritual requiring her to visit the Crimson Castle, a living fortress tied to her bloodline. The castle appeared only to the reigning queen, its location a secret lost with her mother's death.
Trina felt the weight of her frustration grow heavier. "I wish I could speak to her one more time," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
The ground trembled as if in answer. Crimson mist spiraled into existence, enveloping the night in a shroud of eerie light. When it cleared, a grand castle stood before her, its spires twisting into the sky like bloodied thorns.
The doors creaked open as Trina stepped inside. The air within was heavy with silence, the walls adorned with ornate carvings that seemed to writhe under her gaze. A whisper brushed against her ears, soft and familiar.
"Trina," her mother's voice called, guiding her through the labyrinthine halls to a library. At its center stood a pedestal holding a glowing, pulsating red heart.
Tears stung her eyes as she reached out, her fingers brushing against its surface. Mist swirled around her, and her mother's spectral form appeared, radiant and sorrowful.
"My child," Lilian said, her voice both tender and commanding. "You've grown so much. But time is short. Chant the spell I taught you, and the memories of our lineage will become yours. Save our people, Trina. Save the vampires."
The vision faded, leaving Trina alone with the heart. She whispered the spell, and a searing pain erupted in her mind, forcing her to her knees. Centuries of knowledge—lives, battles, and burdens—poured into her consciousness.
When she finally awoke, she understood not only her powers but a chilling prophecy: another would inherit the throne. She was not the queen her people awaited.
With her purpose clear, Trina turned her back on the castle and began the long journey home.