Earth, 1200 AD
Fifty years had passed since the Giant Wars.
Valgard had grown accustomed to the slow passage of time. The decades blurred together—battles fought, villages saved, legends grown. He had become a figure of myth, a name spoken in whispers around winter fires. Children were named after him. Warriors prayed to him before battle. Kings sought his counsel.
But he remained alone.
The loneliness was a constant companion now, a weight he carried everywhere. He had lovers, yes—brief encounters that lasted a season, a year, a decade. But none could stay. None could match his lifespan. He watched them age and die while he remained unchanged.
He wondered if this was how Kaelan had felt. If the weight of centuries ever grew lighter.
It didn't.
---
The vampire came at midnight.
Valgard was resting in a cave in the eastern mountains, far from any human settlement. Fang and Claw hung on the wall beside him, their chains still humming with residual energy from the last battle. He slept lightly, as always, one hand never far from his weapons.
He woke to the sound of breathing.
Not his own.
He was on his feet in an instant, blades in his hands, flames igniting around him. A figure stood in the cave entrance—tall, pale, with red eyes that gleamed in the darkness.
But not Korvus.
This vampire was different. Older. More powerful. His presence filled the cave like pressure before a storm.
"Valgard of the bloodline," the vampire said. His voice was smooth, cultured, ancient. "I have traveled far to find you."
Valgard didn't lower his blades. "Who are you?"
"I am Vladimir. Master of the Night Court. Ruler of the eastern vampires." The ancient being smiled, showing fangs that had drunk the blood of empires. "I knew your ancestor. Kaelan Ragnar. We were... allies, once. And then we were not."
Valgard's grip tightened on his blades. "What do you want?"
Vladimir stepped closer, unafraid of the flames. "I want to finish what your ancestor started. A war that has waited a thousand years."
---
Vladimir spoke through the night.
He told Valgard of the ancient alliance between Kaelan and the vampires—how they had protected his bloodline from the thing in the dark, how they had demanded nothing in return but a future favor. He told of how that favor had never been called, how the alliance had faded with the centuries.
And he told of the schism that followed.
"Not all vampires honored the agreement," Vladimir said. "A faction rose against me. They wanted to hunt your bloodline, to feed on the power that flows in your veins. I opposed them. We fought a war that lasted three hundred years."
Valgard listened, saying nothing.
"I won," Vladimir continued. "But the leader of the faction escaped. Marcel. He has been hiding for centuries, gathering strength, building his own court. And now he has emerged."
"Why should I care?"
Vladimir's red eyes met his. "Because Marcel has discovered where the main branch of your bloodline went. Harrogath. He is gathering an army to invade that dimension, to slaughter your ancestors, to drink the blood of the Wolf's children."
Valgard went still.
"You lie."
"I do not." Vladimir pulled something from his cloak—a fragment of stone, carved with symbols Valgard recognized. Bloodline markings. "This came from a scout Marcel killed. Your people are real. Your ancestors live. And Marcel means to destroy them."
Valgard stared at the stone. It hummed with familiar energy—the same energy that flowed in his own veins.
"Where is he?"
Vladimir smiled. "I was hoping you'd ask."
---
The hunt took three months.
Valgard traveled across the continent, following trails only Vladimir could perceive. They moved at night, when the vampire was strongest. By day, Valgard rested in hidden places, dreaming of the family he had never known.
Harrogath. His ancestors. The bloodline that had continued without him.
He had always known they existed—the stories said Kaelan had taken most of the people to another dimension. But knowing and feeling were different. Now, with that stone in his possession, he felt connected to them for the first time.
He would not let Marcel destroy them.
---
They found Marcel's court in the ruins of an ancient city, buried beneath the desert sands.
The city had once been great—temples and palaces, streets and markets. Now it was only bones and sand, haunted by things that should not exist. Marcel had made it his fortress, filling the underground chambers with his followers.
Hundreds of vampires. Maybe thousands.
Valgard stood at the edge of the ruins, studying the layout. Fang and Claw hung at his sides, warm and ready. The rage stirred in his chest, eager to be unleashed.
"There are too many," Vladimir said. "Even for you."
"Then we need a different approach." Valgard turned to him. "Can you get me inside? To Marcel directly?"
Vladimir considered. "Perhaps. There are passages the old ones use. Hidden ways." He smiled, showing fangs. "I am very old, Valgard. I know secrets Marcel has forgotten."
"Then show me."
---
They descended into darkness.
The passages were narrow, ancient, lined with bones. Valgard moved in silence, following Vladimir's lead. Above them, they could hear the murmur of vampires—hundreds of voices, speaking in languages dead for millennia.
Deeper and deeper they went, until the weight of the earth pressed down like a physical force.
Finally, they emerged into a vast chamber.
Marcel waited at its center.
He was beautiful in the way of ancient things—pale and perfect, with hair like spun silver and eyes like frozen blood. He sat on a throne of skulls, surrounded by his elite guard—a dozen vampires so old they barely looked human.
"Vladimir," he said, his voice like silk over steel. "You dare come into my home?"
Vladimir stepped forward, unafraid. "I bring a guest. One who has business with you."
Marcel's eyes shifted to Valgard. Something flickered in their depths—recognition, hunger, wariness.
"The Winged Wolf. The blood of my old enemy." He smiled. "I have heard of you. Your legend grows. But you are young. Soft. You do not know what true power is."
Valgard stepped forward, Fang and Claw sliding into his hands.
"Show me."
---
The battle was unlike anything Valgard had ever faced.
Marcel's elite guard attacked first—twelve ancient vampires moving with impossible speed, their claws extended, their fangs bared. Valgard met them with rage and fire.
Fang and Claw spun in deadly arcs, chains extending, blades finding throats and hearts. Vladimir fought at his side, matching vampire with vampire, ancient with ancient. The chamber became a whirlwind of death.
Valgard killed three in the first minute. Five in the second. By the third minute, only two remained.
Then Marcel moved.
He was faster than any vampire Valgard had faced—faster than thought, faster than sight. One moment he was on his throne; the next, his claws were tearing across Valgard's chest.
Valgard screamed and fell back, blood spraying.
Marcel pressed his advantage, attacking relentlessly, never giving Valgard time to recover. Each strike drew blood. Each wound weakened him.
The rage answered.
It exploded from Valgard like a living thing, filling him with fire and fury. His eyes blazed white. His muscles bulged. His wounds stopped bleeding, forced closed by sheer will.
He met Marcel's next attack head-on.
Fang and Claw crossed before him, catching Marcel's claws. Chains wrapped around the vampire's wrists, holding him in place. Valgard pulled, drawing Marcel closer, and drove his forehead into the vampire's face.
Bone crunched. Marcel reeled.
Valgard didn't stop. He pulled again, spun, and drove Claw through Marcel's chest.
The vampire screamed—a horrible sound, full of centuries of evil. He thrashed, trying to escape, but the chain held him fast. Valgard twisted the blade, feeling it tear through undead flesh.
Marcel's eyes met his one last time.
"You... cannot... kill me..." he gasped.
Valgard leaned close, his flames blazing. "Watch me."
He pulled Claw free, then drove it through Marcel's heart again. And again. And again. The vampire dissolved into ash, his screams fading into silence.
---
Valgard stood over the ashes, breathing hard, covered in blood. The remaining vampires fled into the darkness, their leader dead.
Vladimir approached, his own wounds healing even as Valgard watched.
"It is done," the ancient vampire said. "Marcel is destroyed. His followers will scatter. Your ancestors are safe."
Valgard nodded slowly. He felt empty—the rage fading, leaving only exhaustion.
"The stone," he said. "The one from Harrogath. Can you use it to reach them?"
Vladimir shook his head. "It is only a fragment. A marker. It proves they exist, but it cannot open a way."
"Then how do I find them?"
Vladimir was silent for a long moment. "You don't. Not yet. The time is not right."
"When?"
"When the bloodline needs you most." The vampire's ancient eyes held something like sympathy. "You will know, Valgard. When the moment comes, you will feel it. And you will answer."
Valgard looked at the ashes of his enemy and wondered if that moment would ever come.
---
END OF CHAPTER 38
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