The corruption had been gnawing at Primus for months now, a slow poison born from the demon blood that coursed through every vampire's veins. It began as whispers—fleeting, insidious thoughts that twisted doubt into certainty. A councilor's glance became a threat. A servant's bow felt mocking. The throne, once a seat of power, now felt like a cage, amplifying every insecurity until paranoia took root.
Court rivals, sensing weakness, fed the darkness. Morwen, Primus's aunt by marriage, watched from the shadows with eyes cold as winter steel. Her husband—Primus's uncle—had been the first to fall under his nephew's blade, executed for treason that Morwen believed was half-fabricated to justify the seizure of power. She had nursed her grief into a blade of vengeance, and now, with whispers of Primus's secret meetings with the slayer Ruelle reaching her ears, she saw her chance.
She gathered her allies in the palace undercroft—a hidden chamber where torches flickered against walls etched with forbidden runes. Tobias, her nephew who still burned with rage over his father's and wife's deaths at Primus's hands, stood beside her. A handful of shadowy witches and disciples completed the circle.
"The lord weakens," Morwen hissed, voice low and venomous. "He consorts with a slayer. Ruelle has pierced his armored heart. Love is his weakness. We will use it to break him."
Tobias nodded, fists clenched. "We spread the lies: the slayers plot his downfall. Ruelle is their spy, sent to seduce and destroy."
Morwen's smile was thin and sharp. "We plant the seeds. Forged letters, whispered rumors. Let the corruption do the rest."
The darkness flared one night in Primus's private chambers. He paced alone, the fire in the hearth casting long, mocking shadows. Ruelle had left hours earlier, her kiss still warm on his lips, her words of love echoing in his heart. But the whispers came unbidden.
They all betray you, the voice hissed, low and insidious. Your uncle did. Tobias's wife did. And now… her. The slayer. She's using you. Weakening you for the kill.
Primus's eyes blackened, pupils dilating until only voids remained. Urges surged—visions of blood, of tearing throats, of purging every threat. He slammed his fist into the stone wall, cracking it, blood trickling from his knuckles. "No," he growled. "Not her. Never her."
He fought it, summoning memories of Ruelle's light, her touch that quieted the storm inside him. But the pressure mounted. Morwen's allies worked tirelessly: a forged letter "intercepted" from Ruelle's clan, detailing plans for assassination; a spy in the court whispering of slayer movements near the borders. Primus read the letter in secret, hands shaking. Is it true? he thought, heart twisting. Or is this the corruption lying to me?
Tormented, he confided in Ruelle during their next meeting in a secluded grove under a canopy of ancient oaks. Moonlight filtered through leaves, casting her black hair in silver highlights. He held her close, voice rough. "The darkness grows stronger. Whispers… urges to kill. I fear what I'll become if I lose control."
Ruelle cupped his face, emerald eyes steady. "We'll fight it together," she said softly, her light magic weaving gentle threads around him, soothing the shadows. Internally, doubt gnawed at her: I love him, but the corruption is demon-born. If it wins, can I save him? Or must I fulfill my duty… and slay him?
Morwen, receiving reports from her spies, smiled in secret. The seeds were sown.
Meanwhile, Morwen's disciples—shadowy witches claiming descent from ancient lines—approached Ruelle under the guise of allies. They found her in a hidden market on the borderlands, where slayers traded herbs and runes. Dressed as humble seers, they bowed low. "Sister of the bloodline," the lead disciple intoned, a woman with veiled eyes and tattoos of forgotten spells. "We come from the old covens. We sense the vampire lord's corruption spreading. It will destroy everything—humans, slayers, even the balance of magic."
Ruelle, wary but intrigued, listened. Her visions had grown darker: Primus's eyes blackening in dreams, blood on his hands. "What do you propose?" she asked, black hair falling like a curtain as she leaned forward.
"A weapon," the disciple replied. "A knife to bind him if the corruption overtakes him fully. Not to kill—but to seal him away until he can be saved. You, with your slayer magic, are the only one who can infuse it."
Ruelle's internal conflict raged. This is madness—arming against the man I love. But if the darkness wins… I must protect him from himself. And the world from him. Trusting their "shared heritage," she agreed.
They forged the knife in a secret forge deep in the woods, under a blood moon. Ruelle channeled her power—slayer runes etched into the blade, spells woven with her blood. "Seven stabs to the heart," she intoned, infusing the curse. "A seal of eternal darkness, to bind but not destroy." The metal glowed white-hot, then cooled to obsidian black. This is protection, she thought, holding the finished dagger. Not betrayal.
The disciples bowed in gratitude and departed. They reported to Morwen in her chamber: "She suspects nothing. The knife is ready."
Morwen's eyes gleamed. "Perfect. Now, the illusion."
With Tobias—her ally, nursing grudges over his father's and wife's deaths at Primus's hands—they plotted. Using dark magic drawn from demon tomes, they conjured phantoms: vampire warriors clad in Primus's insignia, faces twisted in illusory rage. The spell was intricate—shadow illusions that drained blood, torched homes, screamed his name.
The attack came at midnight on Ruelle's clan enclave—a hidden valley warded by ancient stones. The phantoms descended like a plague: families ripped from sleep, throats torn, blood spraying in arcs under torchlight. Homes erupted in flames, screams piercing the night. "By order of Lord Primus!" the illusions roared, their voices echoing his timbre.
Ruelle arrived too late—summoned by a frantic messenger bird. She landed amid ashes, the air thick with smoke and the copper stench of death. Bodies lay strewn—her parents drained pale, siblings mangled, their eyes frozen in horror. "He did this?" she whispered, kneeling in the blood-soaked earth, grief twisting into rage. After his promises? After swearing he'd never harm them? This… this is the monster beneath.
Tears fell, mixing with soot. I loved him. And he slaughtered everything I hold dear.
Morwen watched from afar through a scrying mirror, her smile cold. The deception was complete. The knife would now serve its true purpose—not to bind, but to break.
Devastated, Ruelle confronted Primus. But Morwen struck first—slipping a mind-control potion into her drink during a "sympathy" visit from a disciple. The elixir warped her thoughts: Primus ordered the attack. Kill him. Curse him.
Under its thrall, Ruelle stormed his chambers. Primus, seeing her pain, begged: "It wasn't me—listen!"
But the potion drowned reason. She stabbed him seven times—heart pierced, blood pooling. As he weakened, she chanted the curse, binding him in the coffin. "You took my family," she whispered, tears falling. "Now rot in darkness."
Primus's last thought: Not her… manipulated… I love you…
The illusion shattered worlds.
The potion wore off days later. Ruelle, alone in ruins, pieced together the deception—Morwen's whispers, the forged evidence, the disciple's treachery. Horror crashed over her: I cursed him… my love… innocent?
Visions confirmed: illusions, not his forces. Morwen's hand in it all.
Guilt consumed her. I doomed him to eternity alone. Because I didn't trust our love. In despair, she drove the binding knife into her own heart—seven times—whispering, "Forgive me, my love. I'll find you again."
Her essence fled into the necklace, awaiting rebirth.