[Music Recommendation: Prince Of Darkness ~ City Of The Fallen]
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The devil is in the details, and the details are in the devil- Ludwig Mies Van Der Rohe.
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Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in perpetual darkness, where rain poured down like a relentless curse, a figure emerged from the mist. A vampire king, feared and revered, rose to power, building an isolated castle deep within the treacherous mountains. His presence struck terror into the hearts of all, yet they were drawn to him like moths to a flame.
Fathers hid their sons, fearing they would be bitten and turned into creatures of the night. Mothers concealed their daughters, praying they wouldn't be chosen as the vampire's bride or offered as a peace offering. Yet paradoxically, the kingdom worshipped this nocturnal sovereign, bringing prayers and tribute to his castle gates, begging for his protection from the unknown dangers lurking beyond the mountains.
But...we all know there's always more to the story than meets the eye. In a tale where a single villain is universally accepted, some dared to whisper in the shadows an ancient prophecy, but they never dared to finish it...
. . . . . .
The year 1491...
As the mournful toll of the nearby church bell resonated through the castle's stone walls, the anguished screams within the great hall of Morville Castle were muffled, yet still evident.
The ruling King of Stormont, Everard, his consul and other subordinates of the crown stood frozen, their heads bowed in fealty, none daring to raise their gaze to meet the piercing stare of the creature before them.
The Night Ruler's voice, like velvet-wrapped steel, dripped with sarcasm as he spoke, "Why does no one answer? I asked a simple question, didn't I?"
The Human King's stiff neck creaked as he turned to face his right-hand man, pointing an accusatory finger. "T-the Consul suggested we forge the weapon," he stammered.
Kael's grin twisted, his eyes glinting like gold in sunlight. "How intriguing. It seems your consul has a talent for provocation."
The poor Consul, now trembling like a leaf, sank to his knees, clasping his hands together in supplication as beads of sweat trickled down his ashen face. "I-I meant no offense, Great Kael, I merely—"
Kael's laughter, low and husky, cut him off. "Offense? You wound me with your pitiful attempts at deceit." Rising from his throne, he strode towards the knife, his long strides devouring the distance. With a lazy gesture, he raised the silver-hilted knife, its cross-shaped head glinting in the flickering torchlight.
"Behold, how...shiny. The great weapon that would lead to my very own demise," he whispered, his voice dripping with false sweetness.
King Everard raised his face trying to form words, but a lump had formed in his throat. "We wanted to...try and save our kingdom," the king stammered, his eyes darting to his consul cowering on the ground.
Kael's gaze narrowed. "Save your kingdom from what? The wanderers...or the black witches...I have had them on exile since I started protecting Stormont, and the only supreme being around here is me-wait I know this one, you needed this to protect the kingdom from me?"
Kael's face contorted in mock heartbreak; his hand clasped to his chest. "Oh, the betrayal!"
The King raised his hands, pleading. "No! We would be foolish to brew such thought!"
Kael's expression twisted into a snarl. "I agree!" He said snapping his fingers. Walking closer to the King who was still trembling. He opened his mouth to talk but moved his head in irritation as the screaming of the tortured souls continued distracting him from the little fun he was having.
"Ballister, end that pitiful display show of clowns," Kael ordered.
Ballister, a hooded figure, stepped forward, bowing. "Yes, Master."
The screams grew louder, more agonized, as the souls were dragged toward a fiery pot with a crushing mechanism. The room watched in horror as the souls were consumed by the flames, their cries silenced by the crusher's deadly embrace.
Kael's voice cut through the silence. "Do you hear that?" he nodded, touching his ear. "Silence, a song only fools can never enjoy. Next time, they will make wiser decisions. I'd have told you what they did, but I'm not a storyteller. Now, back to this..."
He raised the silver knife, its blade glinting in the faint light. "Don't let its use go to waste. Make it worth the reason for its creation."
The King's eyes locked onto the knife, his mind racing with the implications. "Y-you mean I should-"
"Mhm," a low, stressed vibrating sound escaped Kael's lips as he pushed forward the silver knife toward the King.
King Everard's trembling hands reached for the blade, but before they could grasp it, a chilling crack echoed through the room. The Consul's lifeless body crumpled to the floor; his limbs splayed at an unnatural angle. The King recoiled; horror etched on his pale face as if he had beheld a specter.
"Is he dead?" Kael asked, his voice laced with feigned innocence.
Kael's sun-like eyes burned with an unblinking intensity, boring into the King's frightened soul. "He was gazing too intently at the gift meant for you. I grew anxious and touched his neck," he explained, his tone dripping with malice.
As Kael spoke, the playfulness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a sinister, evil glint. His voice sent shivers down the spines of all who listened. "Next time, it will be your neck, spineless human king. I expect to hear that you've been on your best behavior the next time we meet. Anything less will be...unacceptable."
Kael rose slowly, his movements eerily graceful, and his hand clutched his waist, where a bone now cracked.
"I always forget that I'm growing old. I won't be able to escort you out, Everard. I have a pressing engagement with slumber. Be sure not to forget the Consul; the floor here is cold, especially at night, and I prefer not to have litter." Without waiting for a response, Kael walked to the wooden coffin and lay peacefully with his hands folded on his chest, leaving the King and his men to flee his castle in terror.
They mounted their horses after dragging the Consul's body and galloped through the rain, the castle's silhouette fading into the darkness behind them. As the King's horse galloped toward the palace, his heart raced with every hoofbeat, his mind consumed by fear. Upon arrival, he was met with the ear-piercing wails of the palace concubines and handmaidens, their cries echoing through the courtyard like a chorus of despair.
"Your Majesty, the Queen..." the head maid began, her voice trembling as she curtsied.
King Everard dismounted his horse, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene before him. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to shake off the horror he had witnessed earlier. This was the first child of his Queen; the other children were born to his concubines.
"Where is she? How is my child?" he demanded, his voice firm but laced with anxiety.
"Your Majesty, the child is fine, a beautiful princess...but the Queen...she did not make it," the head maid replied, her voice cracking.
As she spoke, the loud cry of the baby pierced the air, and the dark clouds in the sky slowly began to dissipate, giving way to the warm rays of the sun. The King's face contorted in anguish as he threw his head back in laughter.
"The sun mocks me! On the same day I lose my Queen and my consul? Curse all! Curse all born today!" he spat, his anger boiling over.
The head maid ran after him as he stormed into the palace. "Y-your Majesty, and the newborn, we are yet to choose her name..."
"A child who has replaced our joy with tears, mocking us with the sun," the King muttered, his voice dripping with venom. "I shall call her Jacquelyn."
"Jacquelyn Avignon," he continued, his voice cold and detached. "Cast her away to the isolated part of the palace, where no eyes shall meet with her ill luck."
Without even glancing at his daughter, King Everard turned his back on her, leaving the head maid to tend to the newborn. The sound of the baby's cries faded into the distance as the King disappeared into the depths of the palace, consumed by his grief and anger.