The castle burned.

Flames devoured the great halls where kings once walked, licking the sky with tongues of gold and crimson. The banners of House Dracul, once symbols of fear and power, now shriveled into blackened husks, swallowed by the inferno. The great iron gates, shattered and torn from their hinges, lay in twisted ruin.

The air was thick with ash and blood.

Dracula stood in the ruins of his throne room, his broad shoulders heaving, his long cloak tattered and dripping with gore. The bodies of his kin—his wife, his children, his people—lay motionless in the carnage, their blood pooling beneath his boots. The scent of death clung to him like a second skin.

The Order of the Sun had come in the dead of night. They had not fought for glory. They had come to butcher. And they had succeeded.

But they had made a mistake.

They had left him alive.

A jagged blade jutted from his ribs, its holy silver burning into his flesh. A weapon forged to kill monsters. He could feel it trying to tear through him, to unravel his existence. It hurt.

But not as much as losing them.

Dracula ripped the sword from his body. Blood sprayed across the ruined stones, hissing where it met the enchanted metal. He dropped it at his feet, letting it clang uselessly against the ground.

And then his eyes, burning like twin hellfires, locked onto the last survivor of the massacre.

A hunter.

The man stood at the edge of the courtyard, wounded, panting, shaking. His sword was still slick with vampire blood. His body was covered in cuts, his armor dented, but it was his eyes that betrayed him.

Red.

Not fully human. Not yet a monster.

Dracula inhaled sharply, tasting the hunter's fear in the air.

"You…" His voice was low, a growl that trembled with barely contained rage. He stepped forward, his boots crunching over shattered bones. "Do you know what you have done?"

The hunter's grip tightened on his sword. He was afraid. Good.

"I did what was necessary," the hunter said, his voice faltering.

Dracula's lips curled back, revealing fangs sharp enough to rend through bone. His hands trembled, but not with weakness. With fury. With grief. With the unrelenting, inescapable need for vengeance.

"No." His voice was a whisper, soft and venomous. "What you have done… is doomed your entire race."

The hunter took a step back. His breathing quickened. The curse was already working through his blood. He could feel it, couldn't he? The heat in his veins, the hunger creeping in? There was no escape now.

Dracula exhaled, the air around him vibrating with unholy power. His hands lifted, dark magic crackling at his fingertips. The winds howled. The flames trembled. The very air seemed to shudder in anticipation.

He would not let this slaughter be forgotten.

The world would know his wrath.

He threw his hands into the air, and a shockwave of crimson energy erupted from his body, spiraling into the heavens. It ripped through the night, spreading like a storm, faster than the wind, racing across the lands.

Every kingdom. Every city. Every village.

No soul was spared from the vision.

Across the world, humans fell to their knees, clutching their skulls as Dracula's voice thundered in their minds.

"You have taken everything from me."

"You have slain my kin, burned my kingdom, and defiled my  throne."

"You believe you have won. But you have only awakened something far worse."

"In twenty days, I will come."

"I will burn your cities. I will break your armies. I will drown your streets in blood."

"Pray to your gods. Gather your warriors. Arm yourselves with silver and fire."

"It will not save you."

The vision vanished. The world fell into a deafening silence.

Dracula's arms lowered, his body trembling from the spell's intensity. His eyes flickered back to the hunter, who had collapsed to his knees, sweat dripping from his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Dracula took one last step toward him, towering over his broken form.

"Run," he murmured. "Tell them. Let them prepare."

His voice dropped to a whisper, a promise laced with death.

"It will not be enough."

Then he turned and walked into the flames.

The hunter's breath was ragged. His body ached, his mind screamed at him to run—to escape while he still had the chance. But as he watched Dracula turn his back, walking into the ruin of his castle, something inside him snapped.

"You call yourself a king?" the hunter spat, forcing himself to stand despite his trembling legs. "You let your people die. You let them burn. You let your wife and children—"

Dracula stopped.

The air grew deathly still.

Slowly, he turned, his crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

The hunter felt it before he saw it—an invisible force seizing his throat, lifting him from the ground like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. His sword clattered to the stone as his limbs flailed uselessly. The pressure tightened.

Dracula's face was a mask of cold fury.

"You dare speak of them?" His voice was low, trembling with rage.

The hunter's fingers clawed at his throat, struggling to breathe. The weight of Dracula's power crushed him like a vice, every nerve in his body screaming in pain. His vision blurred. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

Then—Dracula saw it.

The fear.

The raw, unfiltered terror in the hunter's eyes.

His grip faltered.

Dracula exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the anger had dulled—but it had not vanished. With a flick of his wrist, he released the hunter.

The man collapsed onto the cold stone floor, coughing violently, sucking in breath after breath.

"Get up," Dracula ordered, turning once more.

The hunter hesitated, then slowly rose to his feet. He didn't know why, but his legs moved on their own, following Dracula as the vampire lord strode through the ruins of his castle.

The once-great halls were now nothing but shattered remnants of a kingdom lost. The marble floors were cracked and littered with debris. The grand chandeliers had fallen, their golden frames twisted and broken. The scent of burnt wood and old blood clung to every inch of the castle.

Dracula walked with purpose, speaking without turning back.

"The curse has already begun," he said. "You feel it, don't you? The heat in your blood. The hunger. The whispers of the night calling to you."

The hunter stiffened. He did feel it. Ever since the battle, his body had felt… different. Stronger, yet weaker. Warmer, yet colder.

Dracula stopped before an old table, reaching down to lift a portrait, now covered in ash. He dusted it off with slow, deliberate motions.

The painting revealed a woman with dark, flowing hair, her eyes warm and full of life. A young girl clung to her side, laughing. A boy, barely ten, sat on Dracula's shoulder, grinning mischievously.

A family.

Dracula's family.

The vampire lord stared at it for a long moment. His fingers trembled, ever so slightly.

The hunter watched in silence. He had never imagined seeing Dracula like this—not as a monster, not as a legend, but as something… else.

Dracula finally spoke, his voice quiet. "There is no cure."

The hunter tensed. "What?"

Dracula turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "You are no longer human. My blood runs through your veins. You are my kin now." His eyes darkened. "And I do not kill family."

The hunter took a step back, shaking his head. "No… no, that's not possible. There has to be a way—"

"There isn't."

Dracula's words cut through him like a blade.

The hunter clenched his fists. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Dracula placed the portrait down carefully, his fingers lingering on the edge before he turned away.

"You have two choices."

The hunter swallowed.

Dracula met his gaze, his expression unreadable.

"You can join me," he said. "Fight in the war that is coming. Take vengeance on those who betrayed you."

The hunter's breath caught in his throat.

"Or…" Dracula's voice grew colder. "You can crawl back to the humans. But know this—they will abandon you the moment you finish turning."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

The hunter didn't respond. He couldn't.

His mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts.

Finally, without a word, he turned and walked away.

Dracula watched him go, his expression unreadable.

When the hunter disappeared into the ruins, Dracula slowly turned back toward the largest painting in the room—the grand portrait of his family, untouched by time, preserved in its frame like ghosts of the past.

His hands curled into fists.

His fangs bared.

The fire in his chest roared back to life.

Vengeance burned in his soul like an unquenchable flame.

The world would pay.