Dracula stood at the edge of a moonless balcony within the ancient citadel, his eyes glowing like embers under the night sky.
Around him, shadows of the unnatural breath of the undead stirred.
Through his blood-bonded link, Dracula had absorbed a torrent of information about Soren and his allies.
The more he learned, the colder his fury.
"Pathetic." His scaly fingers curling around the iron railing.
"These vampires... crawling in the daylight, afraid of garlic, silver, of mortals. They carry my blood, yet they reek of weakness."
He turned, his crimson cloak flaring behind him like a dying flame.
"They are not my children." He snarled to his kneeling lieutenants. "They are shadows. Parasites birthed from my legacy and yet… they are being butchered."
His lips curled into a snarl.
"This Human and Blade... they dare to slaughter even the dregs of my bloodline. That is a challenge. And I will answer."
He raised a hand.
"Summon them. I will face them myself."
"Yes, Lord Dracula." A servant said, bowing so low his forehead scraped the stone. "They will receive your summons by nightfall."
Streets of Syria
The sun dipped low over the Syrian horizon as Soren, Blade, and Freyja strode through the narrow streets of an old quarter.
Dust clung to their boots.
They had been here for days.
No leads.
Only a black daywalker... and gorgeous… lady…
And three was never good.
"Too quiet." Blade muttered, scanning the rooftops.
"Not a single vampire strike in days. They're waiting for something."
"Or someone." Freyja added.
Soren frowned. "Ever since we crippled the Southern Coven, they've gone underground worldwide."
"This feels orchestrated."
As they turned a corner, a group of uniformed police officers approached.
Except... something felt off.
"Soren Macaluso?" The lead officer called out.
Soren stopped, examining them closely. His sharp gaze narrowed on the faint glint of ink on the officer's neck, an ancient sigil, curling like a serpent around a crescent moon.
Another wore a different mark on his wrist, a sigil Blade had once shown him. Vampire servant brands.
Soren's voice was calm. "You're not cops."
The men faltered, just slightly. Enough to betray themselves.
"You see more than most." One of them sneered. "Our master expected that."
Soren didn't blink. "So. Which vampire sent you?"
The officer smirked, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a letter sealed with dark red wax. The crest was ornate, almost regal, a blood-tipped fang entwined with thorns.
"He invites you." The officer said mockingly.
"To a ceremony. A private audience. A celebration… or a funeral."
"Depending on how much spine you have."
Blade eyed the symbol. "Dracula."
Soren took the letter, tore the seal, and read the small black card inside. A location. Coordinates etched in silver ink.
It was close.
The officer grinned wider. "The master said if you lack the courage to come… he'll come to you. And when he does, there won't be enough left of you to bury."
He made a mock gesture of slicing his neck.
Soren didn't speak.
Crack
Invisible force exploded from Soren's mind, a burst of telekinetic power shaped into a punishing slap that sent all three officers flying back through the air.
They hit the ground hard, bones crunching, skittering across the street.
The lead officer groaned in agony, twitching on the pavement.
"As a human, kneeling to lick a vampire's boots… it's revolting," Soren said coldly, stepping over the bloodied remains of the faux-police.
"Utterly beneath dignity."
His voice echoed in the silent street. The bystanders froze, some gasping, others backing away in fear.
Without another word, he turned on his heel.
"Come on." He muttered to Freyja and Blade.
They walked away, their shadows long in the dying sunlight.
Behind them, the writhing, groaning "officers" suddenly convulsed. A deep black light surged beneath their skin. Their bodies warped.
And they imploded into ash and vanished into the wind.
As night blanketed the Syrian sky, the three walked silently along a dusty mountain path, heading toward the coordinates marked on the letter.
It led to an old, European-style castle, gothic spires, jagged towers silhouetted against the stars. The structure loomed unnaturally, nestled in a place where it shouldn't exist.
"Never thought I'd see a damn Transylvanian vampire nest in the Middle East." Blade observed.
Soren stopped, then looked to Freyja with a rare moment of seriousness.
"When the fighting starts, Blade and I will handle the horde. Your job is Lorelai. Can you handle her?"
Freyja crossed her arms. "Please. Lorelai's charm magic only works on men. It might twist weak minds, but I'm not one of them. And her combat skills are... laughable."
"Don't underestimate her." Blade warned. "She's got fangs for a reason."
"Oh, I hope she tries." Freyja said with a grin.
As they approached the massive iron gates, Soren paused. His senses flared. The air was thick, saturated with dark energy.
"There are thousands inside."
"And not just standard vampires… there's something else."
He shared this with the others. Blade grimaced. Freyja's expression tightened. Only Soren remained steady.
From his coat, he drew a silver orb, far larger than the ones he'd used in previous encounters.
"Something special?" Blade asked.
"Let's just say... I came prepared."
With a deep creak, the castle doors opened on their own. A warm glow spilled out, golden and soft, an obvious lure.
"Welcoming committee." Freyja muttered.
"Let's not keep them waiting."
They stepped inside.
Immediately, the light dimmed, shifting into a thick, suffocating gloom. Shadows clung to the walls like living things.
"Dark magic." Freyja muttered, instantly alert.
Soren nodded. "They're using ambient shadow to suppress visibility."
But unlike the vampires here, Soren understood darkness.
He raised his hand, and in a single motion, summoned a surge of pure dark magic. It blasted through the castle, dissolving the veil.
Light returned, not sunlight, but clean visibility, exposing the vast hall around them.
Dozens, then hundreds, of vampires stood in rows. Watching. Breathing in unison. Their eyes gleamed red and hungry.
At the far end of the great hall, upon a raised dais, sat a throne draped in velvet shadows. Upon it lounged a woman of stunning beauty, long silver hair cascading over bare shoulders, crimson lips curled in amusement.
But when her gaze fell on Freyja…
Hatred. Cold, bitter, ancient.
The woman stood slowly, eyes locked on the warrior.
"Lorelai." Freyja said flatly. "Didn't expect you to show yourself so soon after turning tail."
Her voice floated across the chamber, musical and venomous.
"Oh, but how could I resist? You brought such... interesting company. And I've always wanted to kill another elf."
Freyja's golden eyes flaring. "You can try, enchantress."