Elijah
Orlock Castle
Peruin city,
Kettlia Region
October 29th 6414
1:00 Pm
I sat in the dimly lit living room of Count Orlock, waiting for him to grace me with his presence. The air was thick with the scent of various herbs, their distinct aromas blending into something both pungent and strangely soothing. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by the low-burning sconces, giving the space an eerie, timeless quality.
It had been a day since we landed in Kettlia. Steph and I had checked into our hotel, settling into the city's restless energy. My official reason for being here—the excuse I had given—was to address the growing protests plaguing the streets.
But that was merely a charade.
In truth, my arrival had nothing to do with the civil unrest. I had come for something far more important—a meeting with the Lionheart family, a martial human clan of such immense power that even the Royal Family of Ashtarium regarded them as rivals.
A soft clink of porcelain interrupted my thoughts.
A maid—her presence as silent as the grave—placed a delicate cup of tea before me.
She wore the traditional attire expected of servants in noble households, a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin, which betrayed her true nature. She was a newblood vampire, her Ascendant aura barely restrained beneath the delicate surface of her carefully composed expression.
After setting my cup down, she turned to Steph, offering the same courtesy. Steph, however, declined with a simple, polite shake of her head.
I lifted the cup, letting the steam rise to my face before taking a careful sniff. The aroma was rich and earthy, laced with a subtle sweetness—a brew made to appeal to enhanced vampire taste buds.
I took a sip.
Smooth. Deliberate. Infused with the care of an expert hand.
A good homemade tea—one that lingered on the tongue, leaving behind a faint, lingering bitterness. Just like Kettlia itself. The door creaked open, and a pale, short-statured man stepped into the room. His balding head gleamed under the dim light, and his black attire, though simple, was impeccably tailored—a quiet testament to his wealth and ambition.
His aura was subdued, deliberately softened—a calculated effort, no doubt. A Vampire who masked his presence was always one to be wary of.
Count Orlock.
A Newblood Vampire—one of the countless humans who had undergone Rebirth, a privilege granted by the kingdom's rigorous ascension programs. Centuries ago, he had been just another mortal, ambitious and eager for power. But unlike most, he had earned his way into eternity.
To receive Vampirism, one had to achieve prominence—either through military excellence or extraordinary success in the private sector. Only then would they be deemed worthy of the gift of immortality.
But Orlock had done more than just survive his transformation. He had thrived. He had clawed his way up the noble hierarchy, turning his once-insignificant name into one of influence and wealth. Now, his ambitions stretched even further.
If he played his cards right, he wouldn't just earn the King's favor. He could rise to Duke. Or perhaps even Grand Duke—a title that only a select few in the kingdom held, including the current head of the Lionheart family.
That was something I couldn't allow. I clenched my jaw, keeping my expression neutral as I watched him take his seat. Count Orlock had come too far already. And if he truly thought he could ascend even higher…
He was gravely mistaken. I rose from my seat as Count Orlock approached, his posture bending into a practiced, respectful bow. Despite his short stature and the subtle frailty of age that clung to his frame, he exuded an air of quiet command—a man who had learned long ago how to navigate rooms full of predators without ever baring his fangs.
"Your Highness, it is an honor to receive you in my humble abode," he said, his voice smooth, touched by an old-world accent that betrayed the centuries he'd spent refining himself.
"And what an exquisite abode it is," I replied, offering him the faintest of smiles as I reclaimed my seat. He mirrored the gesture and sat opposite me, the soft creak of his chair the only sound between us for a breath too long.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was strategic.
"I must admit," Orlock began, "I was quite surprised when I received word of your arrival—both surprised and pleased. The Director of R.E.T.U himself, and a prince of Ashtarmel blood, gracing Kettlia with a personal visit… it speaks volumes. It warms my heart to know the royal family still considers us part of their vision for the future."
"Kettlia is more than just part of the vision," I said. "It is one of the pillars that supports the empire. Nearly forty percent of our kingdom's Essence stones are drawn from the Dungeons buried beneath your soil. That makes Kettlia essential—not just to the Crown, but to the stability of our entire cultivation economy."
"Ah yes, the lifeblood of the Ascendant world," Orlock said with a soft chuckle. "Those stones fuel far more than just magic and mana. They fuel power. Progress. And of course… politics."
I arched a brow. "You're not wrong."
Orlock reached for a small decanter of amber liquid on the table between us, pouring himself a glass without offering one to me. A subtle dominance play, though one I allowed.
"I take it you'll be speaking with the Regional Council," he said. "Regarding the shutdown of government institutions, the disruptions, and the unrest in the lower districts?"
"Correct," I replied smoothly. "It's time we came up with a proper strategy to deal with this… domestic insurgency. If that requires negotiation, so be it. Some sort of concession may pacify the more rational among them."
Orlock swirled the glass in his hand, watching the liquid dance like it held answers he couldn't yet speak aloud.
"Pacification?" he echoed, lips curling into a smirk. **"That may be difficult, Your Highness. Not with the Identifier Bill still making its way through the Royal Cabinet."
"And why is that?" I asked, folding one leg over the other. My voice was even, but beneath it pulsed quiet steel.
The Count tilted his head. "Because, regardless of its intention, many see it as a threat. Particularly the humans who still sit on our council. To them, it's not a measure of regulation. It's a warning."
"It's a policy," I replied, voice sharpened by conviction. "A necessary one. Humans are no longer the dominant race in this kingdom. Times have changed. Governance must reflect those changes."
"And yet humans have not changed," Orlock murmured. "Not in the way you'd hope. They remain stubborn. Proud. Prone to rebellion when cornered."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You must understand, Your Highness… I was once human. Before the Rebirth, before the courts and titles, I was a man with little more than hunger in my belly and fear in my heart. The idea that someone could own my name, my body, my future… it would've driven me mad."
He gestured vaguely toward the city, the world beyond the tall windows.
"To many of them, the Identifier Bill represents more than security. It represents chains. A system that marks them, catalogues them, separates them—not for their protection, but for their subjugation."
I stared at him, letting the silence stretch.
"They misunderstand. The bill isn't about division. It's about unity through clarity. It applies to all races, not just humans. It's designed to bring order, not oppression."
"But perception, Your Highness," Orlock said softly, "often outweighs design. You and I both know that power doesn't lie in what is, but in what people believe it to be."
He sat back, his eyes gleaming with faint amusement.
"Humans are complex, deeply so. Perhaps not as refined or immortal as our kind, but they possess an infuriating persistence. They believe in rights—freedom, dignity, the right to exist without surveillance. They do not see these things as privileges gifted by the Great House of Ashtarmel. To them, those rights are inherent. Sacred."
"An illusion," I said coldly.
"Maybe," Orlock allowed, raising his glass. "But illusions, when believed by the masses, have a way of shaping reality."
He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine.
"If the royal family pushes this bill without addressing the emotional unrest it causes… well, you may not just have civil protests. You may have a rebellion."
I studied him for a long moment, noting the careful diplomacy in his tone, the layers behind each word. He wasn't just speaking hypothetically. This was a warning.
And a challenge.
"Then let us pray, Count Orlock," I said smoothly, rising from my seat, "that the humans of Kettlia are wise enough to see the illusion for what it is… before their defiance becomes their downfall."
A slow smile spread across Count Orlock's face as I stood. He remained seated, swirling the remnants of his drink with idle grace, as though savoring the tension that had settled in the room like an invisible fog.
"Indeed," he said at last. "Let us pray."
There was a pause—long enough for me to consider turning and leaving—before he added, more quietly,
"But allow me to ease your concerns, Your Highness."
I halted, one hand on the back of my chair.
"You came here expecting resistance. Perhaps even sabotage. I can't blame you for that. Kettlia has always been... complicated. Fractured between old loyalties and emerging powers. But not all of us are so shortsighted."
He stood then, slower than I had, but with deliberate dignity. The Count crossed the floor with measured steps, stopping before the tall windows that overlooked the mist-veiled city. His hands were clasped behind his back, his voice calm, but the undercurrent was unmistakable—loyalty mixed with ambition.
"I serve the Crown. Not just in title or pretense. I owe the King everything—my Rebirth, my nobility, my legacy. Without his blessing, I would still be a man clawing in the dirt for scraps. I have not forgotten that."
He turned his head, just enough for one pale eye to meet mine over his shoulder.
"And I have no intention of standing with those who threaten to undermine his vision. The Identifier Bill may be controversial, but it is necessary. The King wills it—and so do I."
I regarded him in silence, reassessing.
Count Orlock had been careful. Measured. Playing both sides of the game with the finesse of a seasoned statesman. But this—this was a declaration. Not a loud one, not shouted in court or broadcast across the Council, but whispered, like all dangerous truths.
"Then why the theatrics?" I asked. "Why speak of human complexities and rebellion like a man on the fence?"
Orlock gave a quiet chuckle.
"Because the game we play, Your Highness, is not one of loyalty alone. It is one of influence. If I were to stomp out every rebellious voice in my region, I would be a tyrant in the eyes of the Council. If I sympathized too openly, I'd be branded a traitor. But if I listen... if I pretend to understand their fear, I gain their trust. And trust is a coin more valuable than Essence stones."
He faced me fully now, expression solemn but resolute.
"I am not their champion. I am their mirror. And when the time comes, I will use that reflection to guide them—quietly, firmly—toward the Crown's will."
A pause. He stepped closer.
"So if your concern was whether I am loyal to the throne, allow me to offer this assurance, not as a Count, but as a man who has navigated shadows for centuries..."
He bowed once more—lower this time, deeper, a gesture not just of formality, but of allegiance.
"I stand with the King. And I stand with you, Your Highness."
I studied him a moment longer, letting the silence speak. Then, I gave a single nod.
"Good. Because if you didn't…" I leaned in just slightly, letting my voice drop to a whisper only he could hear, "…I would've burned this home to the ground before dusk."
Orlock didn't flinch. He smiled.
"And I would've offered you the match myself."
We stood there, a heartbeat of understanding between us—not allies by choice, but by the inevitability of shared ambition. The lines had been drawn. And Count Orlock had chosen his side.
****
The moon hung low over Peruin City, a wan, pale thing behind thin streaks of cloud. Its glow barely touched the rain-slick streets below, where incense smoke and engine fumes mixed in the air like a fading memory. I sat in the backseat of our transport vehicle, the soft hum of the engine doing little to quiet the weight of my thoughts.
The meeting with Count Orlock had gone exactly as expected. Too perfectly.
Loyal to the King, through and through. His words, his gestures, even his breath had been polished like a well-worn dagger—sharp, respectful, and deeply rehearsed. Men like Orlock didn't pledge allegiance without calculating the worth of every syllable.
And that was exactly why I couldn't trust him.
He was dangerous not because he opposed us—but because he didn't. Because he said all the right things.
I stared out the window as the buildings of the inner ring slid past, tall and gray, draped in neon lights and creeping ivy. We were heading back to the hotel—just another crown prince doing his duty, another royal visit to ease unrest. All part of the charade.
Beside me, Steph sat with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her silence loud.
"You're unusually quiet," she said, eyes still on the road.
"Just going over the meeting."
"I'd say it went well. You made the Count smile, and he didn't try to stab us with anything arcane." Steph said. I smirked. Barely.
She turned to me then, brows narrowing. "But you're still hiding something."
I didn't respond.
"Why are we really here, Elijah?" she pressed. "You could've handled the insurgency from the capital. Sent a projection to the Council, drafted a formal statement. Why come all the way to Peruin City?"
I opened my mouth, unsure of whether I was going to lie, when the world shattered.
A loud, metallic crunch slammed into the side of our vehicle. We spun, tires screeching across wet pavement. My body lurched sideways. The driver yelled, and I reached for the side handle instinctively as the car jerked violently and skidded to a halt.
"What the hell—?"
Before I could finish the thought, the window to my left exploded inward, shards of glass slicing through the air.
Then came the gas.
Thick, white, cloying—Verbena.
"Get down!" Steph shouted, already drawing her weapon, but the air had turned to poison. My limbs grew sluggish, mana cut off like someone had flipped a switch. I couldn't even summon a shield.
Through the haze, I saw them—figures in light armor, white and gold, faces hidden behind refractive masks. Their insignia burned across their chests—a radiant cross, surrounded by light.
The Light Brigade.
My blood went cold. How did they know?
I tried to move. One of my guards surged forward—only to be hit with a shock baton that sent him crashing into the pavement. Another reached for me but was disarmed in seconds, dragged away by two warriors who moved with silent, ruthless coordination.
I gasped, the verbena turning my breath into static. I tried to fight it, but it was already in my bloodstream, dulling everything—my thoughts, my senses, my soul.
The car door was torn open, and a hand grabbed me by the collar. I saw Steph lash out, silver glinting as she tried to strike, but a whip of silver-threaded chain coiled around her wrist, and she was yanked back.
I couldn't stop it.
Couldn't even scream.
Someone knelt beside me, injecting something into my neck. The last thing I saw before the dark swallowed me whole was the burning symbol on their armor, glowing like divine judgment:
Light.
And then—nothing.