The darkness was absolute in the Vampire Kingdom's dungeons, so thick and dense it could choke the breath out of a man. The air reeked of blood, rust, and death. The cold stone walls dripped with moisture, silent witnesses to the centuries of suffering endured within them. At the heart of this subterranean hell, bound by blood-forged chains etched with ancient vampire runes, knelt Kenneth Prince.
His shirt had long since been torn away, leaving his back a canvas of crimson welts and dark bruises. Shackles bit into his wrists and ankles, drawing blood that had pooled beneath him. His blue eyes, though dimmed by exhaustion and agony, still glowed with a quiet fury. The knights came in shifts—tall, pale, and merciless. They carried whips made of bone, silver-coated gauntlets, and serrated blades dipped in wolfsbane.
Each strike came with a sneer, each word with venom. "Half-breed filth."
"You think you could walk into our land, taint our bloodlines?"
"You're nothing but a rabid dog."
And through it all, Kenneth didn't scream. Not once. He gritted his teeth until they cracked, his eyes burning with defiance. The pain was unbearable, but pain he could endure. What he couldn't abide was the violation of his dignity, the cold, calculated way they tried to break him.
Days passed—or perhaps only hours. Time lost meaning in the dark. When the heavy iron doors creaked open again, it wasn't a knight that entered but the Elder.
He was thin and wrinkled, with eyes black as tar. His long robes shimmered faintly with arcane symbols, and in his bony hands, he held a vial of green liquid swirling with darkness.
"This," he rasped, "is the Bond of Submission. Crafted from the marrow of shadow beasts and the blood of ancient familiars. Drink it, and your will shall become ours."
Kenneth stared at him, then spat blood at the Elder's feet.
The Elder said nothing. He merely nodded, and one of the knights forced Kenneth's head back while the other poured the contents of the vial down his throat.
The effect was almost immediate. Kenneth's eyes fluttered, his head drooped, and for a moment, it seemed the fire within him was snuffed out.
Then he raised his head.
Blue eyes. Blazing. Furious.
The chains rattled as he surged forward against them, snarling like a beast.
"It didn't work," one of the knights whispered, backing away.
The Elder's expression cracked into something between confusion and dread.
The doors burst open again, and this time it was the King himself. Regal, cold, cruel.
He grabbed the Elder by the neck and slammed him into the wall. "You told me he would obey!"
The Elder gasped, clutching at the King's hands. "I—I didn't calculate for a will that strong! His hybrid nature—his werewolf rage is resisting the compulsion!"
"Then make something stronger," the King growled, releasing him. "If we cannot control him, we will weaponize him. Strip him of mind. Feed the beast."
The Elder coughed, trembling. "Yes, Your Majesty. A new potion. One that will suppress the mind... leave only the instinct to kill."
The King turned to Kenneth. "You will serve us. As a weapon. As a hound on a leash. Or you will die screaming."
Kenneth met his gaze, blood running from his mouth. "You'll choke on the leash."
---
Meanwhile, far away in Braggon Vale...
Zarek sat propped up on a mound of pillows, his upper body bandaged tightly. His silver hair was damp with sweat, but his eyes were sharp. Across from him sat Kael Drayven, arms crossed and face grim. Cassian Veyne leaned against the window, while Jaxon Pyre stood in a corner, polishing his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
"You're telling me... Kenneth is half vampire and half werewolf?" Jaxon asked, eyes narrowing.
"Yes," Kael replied. "He hid it for years. We suspected. But not even we knew the full extent until recently."
Zarek nodded. "That fake Kiro was one of the Firstborn Princes. A high-ranking vampire, strong in blood manipulation. Kenneth... Kenneth went missing with him in that mist."
Cassian's fists clenched. "So they've taken him back. To the Vampire Kingdom."
Kael's voice dropped. "And he won't come back the same. Not unless we find him."
Zarek coughed. "We need to go to Malrik. He'll know what to do."
---
The journey to Velmora took them three days. Zarek rode in a reinforced cart, still too weak to walk, while Kael guided the route. When they finally reached Malrik's residence, it was late evening. The sun was a distant smear of red across the horizon.
The old vampire opened the door himself, eyes wide. "Zarek? Kael? What happened? Where is—"
They told him everything.
The blood mist. The abduction. The fake Kiro. The compulsion. Kenneth's bloodline.
Malrik sank into a chair. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice quiet and raw, he murmured, "He was like a son to me. The only family I ever allowed myself to care for."
Kael knelt before him. "Then help us get him back."
Malrik rose. The weight of years sat on his shoulders, but beneath it all burned an old fire.
"The Vampire Kingdom is hidden. Off every map, every chart. Not even skyships can find it without guidance. We will go by foot. Through the Bleeding Woods. Across the Graven Peaks. We will stay low. Quiet. And we will find him."
Jaxon Pyre sheathed his sword. "When we do, I'll make those bastards pay for every lash."
Zarek clenched his jaw. "We leave at dawn."
Kael nodded. "For Kenneth."
Malrik placed his hand over a map etched into the stone wall of his study. "No turning back now. We're coming, my boy."
And in the dungeons far away, Kenneth lifted his head as if he heard a distant echo of hope.
The fight had only just begun.