(Told by Gabriel – about ten years before the main story)
I remember the smell of blood.
It's strange, the things you remember when your world collapses. Some might recall the screams. Others, the faces of those they loved. And some, the darkness—creeping through every crack, smothering every hope, until it swallowed everything whole.
But I only remember the smell.
Blood, mingled with incense.
Blood dripping onto cold stone.
Blood gleaming in the flickering candlelight.
The blood of our parents.
We were just children. I was ten, Raphael was eight, Michael only six. But age doesn't matter when you're forced to watch your parents die.
"For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood…"
It began on a night like any other. Our house stood in a narrow, shadowy alley in London, not far from the cathedral. The gas lamps barely cast enough light to hold back the darkness. As always, Father had us recite our prayers. Mother tucked Michael into bed, promising him that the angels were watching over us.
But the angels didn't come. Instead, the shadows did.
I heard them first—a heavy thud against the front door, as if something massive was trying to break through. Then came the whispers, deep and cold, slicing into my ears like a blade. And finally… the screaming.
Father reached us before I could even get out of bed. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the truth: fear. He was already armed—his sword, its gold-silver blade gleaming in the candlelight, etched with words I couldn't yet read. Mother stood at the door, gripping her lance tightly.
"Run," Father commanded, shoving us toward the back door. "Go to the nuns. Run as fast as you can."
But we didn't run.
We stood there, frozen, and watched. Watched as our parents fought creatures that looked like men—but weren't.
Vampires.
They moved too fast to follow, their glowing eyes piercing the darkness. They weren't the elegant beings from stories. They were ravenous, monstrous, like beasts driven by nothing but hunger—a hunger for our blood.
Mother moved like a dancer, driving her lance through a vampire's skull before it could strike. Father followed, his sword burning with divine light as it struck, turning one of the creatures to ash. They didn't fight like ordinary people. They fought like warriors of God.
But there were too many.
One of the vampires, larger than the rest, its eyes as black as night, broke through Father's defense. Its claws pierced his chest, and his sword fell, clattering to the ground. Mother screamed, but before she could react, another vampire seized her and forced her to her knees.
In that moment, our world ended.
"My life for their souls."
I don't know how Mother did it. I only remember her looking at us one last time—a gaze filled with love. And I remember her whispering:
"Have mercy on their souls, O Lord."
Then came the light.
It was as if God Himself had reached down to touch the earth. A brilliant golden glow filled the room, a holy fire that didn't burn but protected. The vampires screamed as the light consumed them, their cries echoing like a terrible hymn in the night.
Father drove his sword into the ground, and Mother followed with her lance. Together, with their last breaths, they created the barrier.
And then, silence.
The vampires were gone, pushed beyond an invisible boundary. But our parents lay motionless on the ground.
We couldn't move. We couldn't speak.
All I could do was smell the blood.
"You belong to God now."
They found us the next morning.
Nuns from the cathedral came when they saw our house burning. The barrier had vanished. So had our parents.
They brought us to the monastery—not out of compassion. Not out of mercy.
Because orphans belonged to the Church.
Years passed. Punishments, harsh rules, cold nights. But the fire in our hearts never died.
And one day… we found our parents' weapons.
That's when our true story began.