Tanis leaned forward, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur that cut through the dim flicker of flaming torchlight. "You see, Selene, some history is rooted in truth, while other tales are woven from deliberate deception. In the epochs of antiquity, the origins of all vampires remain a tangled web, one that even I, with centuries of study, struggle to unravel."
Selene's piercing blue eyes narrowed, her porcelain features etched with intrigue.
"What is indeed true," Tanis continued "is that Marcus was the first of our line."
"Our... line?" Selene echoed, her brows furrowing in a deep crease of contemplation. The word hung in the air, stirring questions she had never dared to voice. Were there other vampire lineages, hidden branches in the shadowed tree of their kind that she, a death dealer , had been blind to?
"Yes, the bloodline," Tanis affirmed, his gaze steady and knowing. "The one from which we all descend. It all began with Marcus. As for the others... we have no conclusive knowledge."
Selene tilted her head slightly, her raven hair cascading like liquid night over her shoulders. "You asked why Marcus would need Viktor if he was human," Tanis pressed on, his tone laced with the weight of revelation. "That truth has been buried deep, shrouded in layers of obfuscation to conceal the origins of the Lycans and their inextricable bond to us. Haven't you ever pondered the eternal enmity between vampires and Lycans? Why Viktor harbors such an unquenchable obsession with their utter eradication?"
The room seemed to grow colder, the flames in the sconces dancing erratically as if recoiling from the words. Selene's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of battles fought under moonlit skies, the howls of beasts echoing through centuries of bloodshed.
"The truth is," Tanis said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a grave whisper, "this interminable war with them predates Lucian by centuries. It raged long before he drew his first breath as a slave in our halls. And like so many myths and legends that cloak our existence, there are kernels of undeniable truth buried within the embellishments."
He paused, allowing the silence to swell. "Alexander Corvinus, known in the legends as the founding father, was indeed the first immortal. Unlike us or the Lycans, his humanity remained intact, untainted by the curse that twists our forms. In his long lifetime, he sired many children—most unaccounted for in the sanitized tales passed down through the covens. But two stand prominent in the annals: Marcus and William, twin offspring of Alexander Corvinus. One bitten by a bat, the other by a wolf."
Selene absorbed this, her expression a mask of stoic resolve, though inwardly, the foundations of her world trembled. Tanis's words painted vivid images in her mind: a father, immortal and unchanging, watching as his sons succumbed to primal curses.
"William became the progenitor of the first werewolves—and later, the Lycans," Tanis elaborated, his hands gesturing as if conjuring the scenes from the ether. "Bitten and cursed, he rampaged as a feral beast, his bite spreading like a virulent plague. Villages fell in his wake, their inhabitants twisted into rampaging monsters, their humanity shredded under the full moon's merciless gaze. Entire hamlets were left in ruins, streets slick with blood, the air thick with the snarls of the newly turned."
Selene listened in rapt silence, The historian's narrative wove through her thoughts, filling voids she hadn't known existed.
"Unable to stand idly by and witness his brother's descent into unbridled savagery....William's beastly urges beyond any mortal control, ...Marcus sought out Viktor," Tanis continued, his voice gaining intensity. "Viktor, then a formidable warlord as I mentioned earlier, had ruled these lands with an iron fist.
When he teetered on the brink of death, his once-mighty frame ravaged by age, every labored breath a grim reminder of his mortality, ....."
The air between them crackled with the gravity of the pact about to be unveiled.
Tanis's eyes gleamed with the fervor of forbidden knowledge. "At the promise of immortality in exchange for his unwavering service, Viktor did not hesitate to embrace the monstrous transformation, as Marcus had before him.... No, he welcomed it like a gift, one that even Marcus had yet to fully accept."
Selene could envision it: the dying warlord, his battle-scarred body trembling, extending his arm to receive the bite that would bind him eternally.
"In return for that eternal life and the transformation of his loyal army into an immortal legion," Tanis said, "Viktor pledged to aid Marcus in capturing William, to chain the beast and stem the tide of chaos."
He straightened, his posture radiating the culmination of his tale. "That is the truth Viktor so desperately conceals. He was never the first, and he never will be. Every chronicle of vampire history in recent centuries has been nothing but propaganda—politics masquerading as immutable truth." His final words erupted with a passion that ignited his features, burning away the earlier veil of nervousness like mist under the sun.
Selene's skepticism sharpened her gaze, her mind a whirlwind of implications. "If what you say is true," she challenged, her voice steady but laced with doubt, "why has Marcus remained silent, allowing his rightful claim as the first to be usurped?"
Tanis met her eyes, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "You see, Selene, Viktor is a consummate politician. His ambitions these centuries have been singular: to wrest power from Marcus at every turn. But in truth, Marcus has never coveted the coven's intricate power struggles. Though he was unwilling to confide in me—deeming me untrustworthy in his discerning eyes—he once betrayed his sentiments centuries ago. To him, Viktor was merely a fleeting pawn in his grander designs. Believe me when I tell you, it is only a matter of time before everything Viktor has meticulously built is razed to the ground, reduced to ashes and forgotten dust."
"Is that why you insisted on preserving the so called "correct" history, even defying Viktor's explicit orders?" Selene pressed, her expression grim, shadowed by the weight of potential consequences. "To curry Marcus's favor?" Though she didn't fully embrace Tanis's revelations, the seeds of doubt took root, sprouting visions of a crumbling empire and betrayed allegiances.
Tanis only smirked, his silence a deliberate veil, his eyes twinkling with unspoken secrets. He glanced toward the two girls laboring in the chamber. While he and Selene had delved into the rabbit hole of history, the petite women—vampiric strength coursing through their delicate frames—had dismantled the equipment with effortless precision. What would have demanded hours of grueling toil from mortal men was accomplished in mere minutes: gears and equipment, carefully packed and transported with supernatural grace. Their movements were a blur of efficiency, shadows dancing in the torchlight as crates vanished into the gloom.
"Now," Tanis said, turning back to Selene with a mocking smile "shall we return to the matter at hand and discuss the Order, or have you had your fill of historical revelations for one night?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night had fully devoured the day's lingering brightness, blanketing the world in an oppressive shroud of darkness punctuated by brooding rain clouds that wept steadily upon the earth. At a desolate subway yard, where rusted tracks snaked through forgotten industrial sprawl, a lone train groaned to a sluggish halt at the station. The silence that followed was eerie, a palpable void unbroken by the hiss of escaping steam from the engine.
Time stretched taut as a bowstring, the only movement a fleeting flash of light grazing through the station's inky blackness. This signal emanated from the group dispatched by Kraven to rendezvous with the elder and her council. They stood vigil yards away, silhouettes against the gloom, flanking a sleek black vehicle that idled like a patient beast, its engine a low, throaty purr.
The light flashed in rhythmic pulses—once, twice, thrice—as if conveying a cryptic code to any hidden observers lurking in the shadows. Moments later, a reciprocal gleam erupted from the depths of the train's carriages, a beacon slicing through the murk.
From the train emerged a solitary figure, cloaked in a shimmering silver trench coat that caught the faint moonlight like liquid mercury. He gripped an automatic rifle firmly, his stance alert, scanning the surroundings with wariness.
Stepping into the pale glow filtering through grimy windows, he revealed himself fully, his features etched with grim determination. A silent nod passed between him and the waiting group, an unspoken affirmation.
Inside the train, an entourage advanced toward the awaiting door of the carriage, their footsteps muffled on the worn metal floor. Leading them was an elegant woman whose every movement exuded regal grace, a poise that commanded deference from all around her. Her gown flowed like midnight silk, accentuating her ethereal beauty—high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and eyes that held the depth of ancient oceans.
AWWWOOOOO!
Suddenly, a bone-chilling howl tore through the night, reverberating off the station's decaying walls like a harbinger of doom. It was followed by heavy thuds pounding against the ceiling of the train carriages, as if colossal weights were slamming down from above.
The leading woman—Amelia, the third elder of the vampire coven, a pureblood sired directly by Marcus himself—glanced upward, her regal composure fracturing into a mask of lethal caution. A dangerous glint ignited in her eyes, transforming her elegant features into those of a seasoned warrior. She had just returned from the western coven, poised for her century-long slumber and the impending awakening of Marcus.
She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as she sampled the air. The metallic tang of rain mingled with a feral musk.
unmistakable.
Lycans.
This was no mere coincidence; it was an ambush, a savage welcome she had not anticipated.
The ceiling buckled with a tortured groan under the onslaught, metal warping and protesting as claws raked across it.
CRASH! SHATTER!
Before the vampires could fully rally, a furry blur exploded through the glass window of the carriage in a cascade of glittering shards, raining down like deadly confetti. The beast landed amid the entourage, its massive form a whirlwind of muscle, fur, and fangs, eyes glowing with primal hunger.
Dadadadadadadadadadad!
Gunfire erupted in a deafening staccato, muzzle flashes illuminating the confined space in strobing bursts. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs as the Lycan's claws swiped with brutal efficiency, rending flesh and fabric alike. More beasts poured in through breached windows and torn ceilings, their howls merging with the vampires' shouts of defiance.
Bullets tore into hides, eliciting roars of pain, but the Lycans pressed on, their regenerative fury unyielding. The carriage became a chaotic maelstrom: bodies colliding, limbs flailing, the acrid smell of gunpowder blending with the coppery stench of spilled blood.
From outside, the flickering lights of gunfire danced like fireflies in the dark, casting erratic shadows across the platform as rounds were unloaded relentlessly into the invading horde.
Meanwhile, the group sent by Kraven lingered in the enveloping darkness, their faces impassive masks as they bore witness to the massacre unfolding within. The screams of their blood kin echoed faintly, torn to shreds by the relentless Lycans, yet they made no move to intervene.
Unbeknownst to them, four sets of glaring eyes pierced the veil of night from hidden vantage points in the shadows, they glowed with an eerie intensity.
A low, menacing growl carried on the wind.