Rowan frowned.
"Again?" The word came out quieter than he expected, edged with confusion more than fear. Still, something cold stirred in his chest. "What do you mean by again?"
Van Albercht paused, just for a moment. Then he smiled, small and faint, as if he'd nearly forgotten something important.
"Ah. Right." His voice softened. "I suppose that would sound strange to you." He adjusted his glasses, gaze never leaving Rowan. "I met you once before. A long time ago. You were still a child. Barely more than a baby."
Rowan stared at him. "That's… that's not possible."
"It is," Albercht said gently. Not arguing. Simply stating it.
Rowan shook his head, trying to push away the unease crawling up his spine. "So you're saying you just showed up, looked at me, and left?"
Albercht hummed, considering. "Something like that."
Rowan swallowed. "Why?"
The prince's expression shifted, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "That part comes later." Then, almost as an afterthought, "For now, we'll start with something simpler."
He looked at Rowan again. This time, there was no weight pressing down. No crushing presence. Just focus.
"You are Ashborne."
Rowan let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Yeah. I know. That's my surname."
Ophelia stepped closer, her voice low and tight. "Rowan… please. Be careful." She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her eyes stayed on Albercht. "However this ends, provoking him won't help us."
Albercht didn't seem offended.
If anything, he looked… amused.
The alley remained silent, the danger still there, just quieter now. Watching. Waiting.
And for reasons Rowan couldn't explain, that scared him more.
Van Albercht's gaze softened, just a fraction.
"Your mother," he said quietly, "was an Ashborne." He paused. "As for your fath—" His voice cut off, deliberate. "That part is not important."
Rowan's jaw tightened.
"Ashborne," Albercht continued, "are a special bloodline. If a vampire consumes their blood, their strength increases dramatically. Permanently."
The words settled like ash in Rowan's lungs.
"So…" Rowan said slowly, forcing the thought out loud, "you came here to drink my blood."
"No," Albercht replied at once. There was no hesitation. "I came to warn you."
Rowan looked up sharply.
"Earlier this evening," Albercht said, "information leaked. Word has spread through vampire society." His eyes met Rowan's. "That you are the last known Ashborne."
"Last?" Rowan echoed, his pulse quickening. "What do you mean, last?" He shook his head. "And why would you help me? I hate vampires. And you—" His voice wavered despite himself. "You're the son of the King. The Prince of Vampires."
Albercht listened without interrupting.
"When your mother gave birth to you," he said at last, "the remaining Ashbornes learned the truth. How their blood was being used. What it meant to be hunted for it." His voice lowered. "They chose death over becoming tools."
Rowan felt something hollow open in his chest.
"So there was only one child left," Albercht continued. "You." His gaze drifted, distant now. "That was when I came to see you. And when I entrusted you to your aunt."
Rowan stared at him, breath shallow. "Why?"
Albercht's expression became unreadable.
"There are reasons," he said calmly. "Reasons I won't explain tonight." A faint, almost apologetic smile touched his lips. "Perhaps another night."
The alley felt unbearably quiet.
Ophelia stood frozen beside Rowan, fear etched into her face.
And Rowan understood then, with cold clarity, that whatever Albercht truly wanted from him—
It wasn't blood.
Van Albercht reached beneath his coat and drew out something long and tightly rolled, like a heavy carpet that had no business fitting there in the first place.
With a single motion, he unrolled it.
Metal gleamed in the dim alley light.
Weapons lined the fabric. Blades of different lengths and shapes, each resting in its own scabbard, each humming faintly with something Rowan could feel more than hear.
"A collection," Albercht said calmly. "Forged to carry a vampiric aura. Against vampires, these will make them… vulnerable. Even to humans."
Rowan's instincts screamed rejection.
But his mind, cold and practical, had already accepted the truth.
"There will be others," Albercht added. "Many of them."
Rowan swallowed, then raised a hand.
"That one."
His finger pointed toward a massive sword. Heavy. Brutal. Almost excessive.
Albercht's lips curved slightly. "I thought you'd choose that."
Then his gaze shifted.
"I'll give your friend the same courtesy."
He looked at Alistair.
Alistair blinked. "Who? Me?"
Rowan didn't look back. He just nodded.
Alistair hesitated, then shrugged. "Well… if you're doing it." He stepped forward, eyes scanning the weapons. After a moment, he picked two identical daggers. Slim. Balanced. Familiar in his hands.
"One for each," he muttered, strapping the scabbards to his vest. A crooked smile appeared. "Cool."
Rowan approached the spread slowly.
Up close, the sword was heavier than it looked. His fingers closed around the hilt, muscles tensing as he lifted it. The weight dragged at his shoulders, but he didn't let go.
When he drew it from the scabbard, his eyes widened.
The blade caught the light and flared, bright and unnervingly clean, as if it had never known rust or age.
He swallowed and swung the scabbard onto his back, awkwardly trying to settle the weapon into place.
"You'll adapt," Albercht said. "You always do."
Then, as if nothing remarkable had happened, he rolled the fabric back up and slid it beneath his coat, where it vanished once more.
"Be careful," he continued. "For at least two years." A pause. "At least… until the Eclipse."
"Eclipse?" Rowan echoed sharply. "Wait, wha—"
"Another night," Albercht interrupted gently.
He stepped back, eyes lingering on Rowan for half a second longer than necessary.
"Goodbye," he said. Then, quieter, "Brother."
The next instant, he launched upward, vanishing into the dark sky as if gravity had never applied to him at all.
The alley was left in silence.
Rowan stood there, hand still tight around the sword's hilt, knowing with chilling certainty—
Whatever the Eclipse was…
His life now revolved around it.
***
Ren, Ophelia, Alistair, and Rowan walked side by side along the dim sidewalk, heading toward Rowan's apartment.
Rowan hadn't spoken a single word since Albercht vanished into the sky.
He wasn't brooding. He wasn't sulking.
He was thinking. Too much.
Ophelia, for her part, felt a quiet sense of relief settle into her chest. The fight was over. They were alive. For now, that was enough.
Alistair broke the silence first.
He glanced at Ren. "Hey," he said casually, "you looked awesome back there."
Ren didn't even slow her steps. "And you look… weird."
Alistair froze.
Then his face lit up as he spun toward Rowan. "Bro. She replied." He let out a small, triumphant laugh. "Did you hear that?"
Ren ignored him and turned to Rowan instead. "What exactly are you?" she asked bluntly. "Why would the Prince himself show up… and then not drink your blood? Even after knowing you're Ashborne?"
Rowan exhaled slowly. "Yeah," he muttered. "That's the same question stuck in my head."
Behind them, Alistair continued quietly giggling, clearly still riding whatever victory he thought he'd achieved.
Ophelia finally spoke. "Your aunt," she said carefully. "She was your mother's sister, right? That means she could be Ashborne too."
Rowan shook his head at once. "No. She was adopted. Not blood-related."
"She might still know something," Ren said. "More than she's told you."
"Maybe," Rowan admitted. "But we can't just walk up to her and demand answers." He paused. "And honestly… we already know almost everything about the Ashborne. At least, everything the prince wanted us to know."
Ren's expression darkened. "And that prince is still a problem." She looked ahead, eyes sharp. "He's the son of our greatest enemy. The King. If the King dies, all vampiric cells die with him." Her jaw tightened. "Meaning every vampire turns human again."
Ophelia's voice cut in, low and tense. "There's something else." She hesitated. "I've heard that Prince Albercht is stronger than his father."
They all looked at her.
"Stronger than the King," she finished. "Which makes him the strongest vampire alive."
Alistair finally stopped laughing. His eyes widened. "That's kind of insane." A grin slowly crept onto his face. "The strongest vampire personally came to meet us. Guess that means we're pretty special."
Rowan didn't smile.
"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what makes it worse."
"Yeah," Alistair muttered, rolling his eyes. "Guess you're right."
He glanced around.
Then froze.
"Bro—bro," he hissed, grabbing Rowan's sleeve. "People." His voice dropped. "They're staring. At us. At the weapons."
Rowan followed his gaze.
A few pedestrians had slowed, eyes lingering a little too long on the massive sword strapped to his back and the daggers at Alistair's sides.
Heat rushed to Rowan's face.
He forced a laugh. "Heh… yeah. Toy swords." He lifted a hand awkwardly. "Cheap stuff. From a fair."
The crowd hesitated.
Then, one by one, they looked away and continued on with their lives.
Both of them let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
A moment later, Rowan stopped in front of a familiar building.
"We're here," he said. "My apartment." He turned to the others. "You three wait here. I'll go up."
They nodded in agreement.
Rowan stepped toward the entrance, the weight on his back feeling heavier than before.
***
Rowan pushed the door open.
"I'm home," he said.
The words echoed back at him, thin and wrong.
His eyes went instinctively to the couch.
His aunt.
Relief flickered when he saw her there, lying on her side, breathing slow and steady. Asleep. Unharmed.
Then his gaze shifted.
His body locked.
Something crouched low near the floor, its posture wrong in a way Rowan couldn't immediately explain. One massive palm rested against its bent knee, fingers digging into the muscle as if restraining itself. The other hovered near its mouth, slowly dragging across its lips, wiping away thick strands of saliva that continued to drip anyway.
It wasn't human.
That palm alone was bigger than Rowan's face.
Its eyes lifted to meet his, sclera stained a deep, blood-dark red. Its mouth stretched too wide, fangs bared, wet and glistening.
Rowan's hands began to shake. Cold sweat broke across his skin.
He looked back at the couch.
His aunt hadn't moved.
Slowly, dread crawling up his spine, he turned his eyes back to the thing.
It smiled.
"I heard," it said, its voice rough and wet, "that an Ashborne lives here."
Its gaze narrowed, hungry.
"I assume," it continued softly, "that's you."