The night was still, broken only by the faint crackle of torches along the walls of the battered Blackthorn castle. Draven leaned against the cold stone, watching the clan members work tirelessly to repair the damage left by the Silverfang Clan's attack. Though they moved with purpose, the weight of fear hung heavy in the air. They all knew the Silverfangs would return, angrier and stronger.
Draven, however, was calm. Beneath his quiet demeanor, his mind worked tirelessly, analyzing every detail of the situation. He had spent centuries as Lucard, the Crimson King, orchestrating wars and building alliances. Though he now inhabited the weak body of Draven Veyron, his experience remained intact. And experience, he knew, could often outweigh raw strength.
He observed the castle's defenses—or lack thereof. The walls were crumbling, offering little protection. The guards were inexperienced, many barely able to wield a blade properly. Supplies were meager, and morale was low. This wasn't a clan prepared for war.
Draven turned his attention to Elder Varis, who was busy directing the repairs. Despite his age and status, Varis looked worn, his confidence shaken. Draven approached quietly, his presence almost unnoticed until he spoke.
"Elder Varis," Draven said, his voice steady but low, "the repairs are important, but they won't be enough."
Varis turned, startled by Draven's sudden appearance. "Draven? What do you mean?"
Draven stepped closer, his tone calm but firm. "The Silverfangs will come back, and when they do, they'll bring more than brute force. They'll seek to wipe us out completely. If we keep focusing only on fixing the walls, we'll be sitting ducks."
Varis frowned, his expression a mix of doubt and curiosity. "What do you suggest?"
Draven hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing his words. He couldn't reveal too much, not yet. "We need to think beyond the walls. Set traps, fortify key areas, and train the fighters properly. But most importantly, we need to anticipate their next move. This isn't just about defense—it's about survival."
Varis studied him for a moment, clearly taken aback by Draven's sudden confidence and insight. "You've changed, Draven," he said finally. "You're not the timid servant you once were."
Draven shrugged slightly. "Times change. And so must we."
As Varis walked away to relay Draven's suggestions to the others, Draven retreated to the shadows of the castle. He needed time to think, away from prying eyes.
In the quiet of the castle's lower chambers, Draven unfolded a crude map of the region, spread across a rickety wooden table. He traced his fingers over the paths and trails leading to the Blackthorn territory. The Silverfangs were cunning, but they were also predictable. Their pride often blinded them, and Draven intended to use that against them.
"They'll likely attack from the north," he muttered to himself, his finger pausing on a narrow ravine. "The terrain is uneven, and they'll assume we're too weak to defend it. Perfect for an ambush."
Draven's mind raced, recalling battle strategies he had used in his previous life. He jotted down notes on scraps of parchment, planning every detail. Traps would need to be set in the ravine—hidden spikes, collapsing rocks, and narrow choke points to limit the enemy's numbers. The Blackthorn fighters, though inexperienced, could be positioned strategically to maximize their impact.
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint knock at the door. He quickly folded the map and turned as the door creaked open.
It was Mara, one of the younger clan members. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes wary. "Draven… Elder Varis sent me to check on you. He said you might need help."
Draven gave a small nod. "Come in, but close the door behind you."
She did as instructed, stepping cautiously into the room. "What are you working on?"
"Plans," he replied simply, gesturing to the table. "If we want to survive the next attack, we need to be prepared."
Mara stepped closer, her curiosity outweighing her nervousness. "You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing. More than I would've expected."
Draven smirked faintly. "Let's just say I've learned a few things over the years."
He handed her one of the notes he had written, outlining the trap placements in the ravine. "Take this to Elder Varis. Tell him to gather the strongest fighters and have them start setting these up immediately. We don't have much time."
Mara glanced at the note, her brow furrowing. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"
"I am," Draven said firmly. "And if the rest of you want to live through what's coming, you should be too."
Mara nodded, her expression hardening with determination. She took the note and hurried out of the room, leaving Draven alone once more.
By dawn, the preparations were underway. Fighters trained relentlessly in the courtyard, their movements rough but improving under Draven's quiet guidance. Traps were being set in the ravine, and supplies were being stockpiled.
Still, doubts lingered among the clan members. Whispers filled the air, questioning Draven's sudden leadership. To them, he was still the weak servant they had always known.
Cillian, a tall and broad-shouldered vampire, was one of the more vocal doubters. He had never hidden his disdain for Draven, and the recent events had done little to change that.
Nearby, Varrick stood with crossed arms, watching as Cillian made his way toward Draven. "You'll put him in his place, right?" Varrick said, smirking. "He's gotten too full of himself lately."
Cillian grinned confidently. "Of course. Watch and learn."
As Draven worked silently in the courtyard, Cillian approached, his arms crossed and a sneer on his face. "So, you think you're some kind of leader now?" he said, loud enough for the others to hear.
Draven glanced up, his expression unreadable. "I think I'm someone who wants to survive. And someone who doesn't want to see this clan wiped out."
Cillian snorted. "Survive? You're barely strong enough to lift a blade, let alone lead. Why should anyone listen to you?"
The courtyard grew quiet as the other clan members watched the exchange.
Draven remained calm, his gaze steady. "Because while you're busy running your mouth, I'm actually doing something to keep us alive."
Cillian's eyes narrowed, his pride clearly wounded. "Care to prove that? Or are you all talk?"
Draven sighed, rising slowly to his feet. "I don't have time for petty challenges. But if you insist…"
Cillian lunged, aiming to knock Draven off balance. But Draven moved with precision, sidestepping easily. He turned to face Cillian, his red eyes glowing faintly—a subtle but deliberate show of power.
Cillian froze mid-step, his confidence faltering as fear crept into his expression.
Draven tilted his head, his voice cold and calm. "I suggest you think carefully before acting again. This isn't a game."
Varrick, who had been watching with smug anticipation, felt his confidence in Cillian crumble. His grin faded as he saw Cillian's fear. "What… what's he doing?" Varrick muttered to himself, his tone laced with disbelief.
Cillian stumbled back, his arrogance replaced by humiliation. He muttered something under his breath and stalked away, leaving the courtyard in tense silence.
Draven exhaled softly, turning back to his work as if nothing had happened. The display was enough to quiet the whispers, at least for now. Varrick stood frozen, his expectations shattered as he silently slipped away, avoiding Draven's gaze.
To be continued…