In the 18th century, there was a lovely family who lived a life of seclusion. Their fair skin never saw the light of day, yet their wealth was evident.
But the villagers whispered cruel accusations—that this family feasted on the blood of the villagers, blood-sucking monsters. And so, a meeting was held, where they planned to destroy the quiet, peaceful family residing deep within the forest.
As sundown approached, the villagers gathered in the center of the village, armed with torches and weapons, their head chief declaring, "Any who disagree with our plan tonight shall share their fate." The crowd roared in agreement, demanding justice.
"Kill them!"
"Destroy those monsters!"
United, they marched towards the woods, flames held high.
---
Meanwhile, the family remained unaware of the danger creeping toward them. But one sensed the hatred.
The little girl sat curled on her father's lap, her voice soft and uncertain.
"Father… Why don't you and mom and Arcel have a heartbeat? Does that make you monsters?"
The Count stroked her hair gently. "No, my love. True monsters are those who thirst for human blood. We only take from animals—never from people," he paused.
"And you are a hybrid, by all that means that you still have human blood that is why you have a heartbeat. You were born a hybrid when your mother was still a human, not until I turned her into a vampire." The count continued.
She glanced out the window, where the distant glow of torches flickered between the trees.
"Then why do the villagers hate us?"
"Because we have lived longer than they can understand," he sighed.
"Because we gave them land, and now they fear what they do not know. Remember—be kind, but trust no one but yourself."
He didn't notice the way her fingers trembled or how her eyes kept darting back to the window.
"Come, darling," her mother called, holding out a hand. "It's time for bed."
And then, finally, the little girl spoke—her voice barely above a whisper.
"They're coming for us."
The little girl's innocent words hung heavy in the air. Before anyone could react, the butler burst into the room, panic etched on his face. He struggled to catch his breath.
"Master! The villagers... they're... torches... demanding... outside!" he stammered, his usual composure shattered.
The Count's face remained eerily calm, a blank contrast to the chaos unfolding. He rose, his movements deliberate and slow.
"Do not worry, old friend," he said, his words measured. "I will handle this."
The butler's eyes widened, pleading. "But—"
The Count raised a hand, silencing him. "Protect them. Lead them to the vault. Now."
The Countess's face paled. "Dear, no—" She reached for her husband, desperation creeping into her voice. "We need you. Our child—"
The Count's steel-blue eyes—now red, locked onto hers, unwavering. "I will return to you, dear. She is our future. Keep her safe."
The little girl's eyes welled up, sensing the heaviness of the situation. Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace, tears streaming down her face. The Count turned towards the door, his footsteps echoing through the grand hallway.
Outside, the villagers' shouts grew louder, a chorus of hate and fear. The Count walked into the darkness, his shoulders tensed up. The butler ushered the Countess and the little girl away, urgency written across his face.
"Quickly, milady, this way. We must hurry."
As they disappeared down a hidden passage, the Count emerged from the shadows, alone. He faced the sea of angry faces, his presence calm amidst the fury. The villagers halted, their torches casting flickering shadows on the trees.
"You have come for us," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion.
The head chief sneered. "You will pay for your crimes. You are not human, you are a monster and your family!"
The Count smiled, a melancholic smile. "Perhaps not. But we have lived among you, peacefully. Can you truly claim the same?"
The villagers surged forward, their hatred overwhelming any reason. And in that instant, the fate of the family hung uncertain, stuck between life and death.
--
The villagers' torches burned brighter, illuminating the impending doom. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable.
The head chief sneered, his face twisted with contempt.
"You think you're so superior, Count, with your fancy manners and your...your...unholy existence!"
He spat at the Count's feet. "We know what you have been doing. Feasting on the poor souls who wander into our village! Did you think we would not notice?"
The villagers murmured among themselves, nodding vigorously. One of them, a burly man, stepped forward. "Aye, I saw it meself! Found old Tom stiff as a board, drained dry of blood!"
Another villager piped up, "And what about Sarah, who went missing last month? We found her body near the forest edge, pale as a ghost!"
The accusations poured forth, each one more damning than the last. The Count stood tall, his eyes flashing with anger, turning into a dark crimson red, but he remained silent.
The Count's silence was met with more insults. His mind raced, however, as he struggled to maintain his composure. He couldn't let them see the fear creeping up his spine.
Not when he suspected...no, knew...that the darkness was stirring once more. The very thought sent a chill down his eternal bones.
They didn't understand. They couldn't comprehend the secrets he kept hidden deep within these woods.
But he did.
Oh, he did.
The darkness had been dead, kept at bay by his careful control. Yet, now it whispered sweet nothings in his ear, tempting him to surrender.
And what of his little hybrid, his precious daughter? If they discovered her true nature...he couldn't bear it. The shadows would come for her first, he was certain. They'd sense her uniqueness, her vulnerability. The Count's heart, long since still, seemed to ache with a long-forgotten pain. He had to protect her, no matter the cost.
With every passing moment, the villagers' hatred intensified. Flames danced in their eyes, mirroring the torches they made. The Count's attempts to reason fell on deaf ears. They had made up their minds; he was guilty.
As the crowd surged forward, the Count raised his hands, a futile gesture. The head chief threw a flaming torch at his feet. The dry underbrush ignited, engulfing him in a blazing inferno. The villagers cheered, their cries piercing the night air.
In his final thoughts, the Count knew he had failed. He'd underestimated humanity's capacity for cruelty. The darkness, sensing his weakness, laughed victoriously within him. And his daughter– his sweet, innocent daughter – was now vulnerable, exposed to the very evil he had tried to shield her from.
The flames roared, consuming the Count, his secrets, and his warnings. The prologue to tragedy ended in fire and bloodlust, as the villagers celebrated their perceived victory. Little did they know, they had merely unleashed a horror beyond their wildest imagination.
–
Arcel's eyes darted toward the doorway, ensuring they weren't being followed. He grasped the Countess's elbow, guiding her through the winding corridors, his usually steady hands shaking slightly. Behind them, the little girl clung to her mother's skirts, her wide eyes reflecting the terror she'd witnessed.
"We're almost there, milady," Arcel whispered, his words barely audible. He steered them toward a seemingly ordinary section of wall, adorned with faded tapestries. With a practiced touch, he pressed a hidden mechanism, and the stone slab slid open, revealing a narrow stairway.
"The vault, milady. Quickly, please." He gestured, his face pale.
The Countess hesitated, her gaze locked on the darkness below. "What if—?"
"No time, milady," Arcel snapped, his gentleness cracking. "The villagers...they're not stopping. We must go."
He ushered them onto the stairs, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old dust. The little girl whimpered, gripping her mother's hand tighter. As they descended, the sounds of chaos above grew muffled, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
Arcel led the Countess and her daughter deeper into the vault, the flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the walls. Three ornate coffins stood waiting, polished to perfection. Arcel's heart went out to the family; he had served them for so long, and this was the only way he knew to keep them safe.
"There, milady," he said, his voice cracking. "I've prepared everything, just as master instructed before..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
The Countess nodded numbly, her eyes welling up with tears. She guided her daughter towards one of the coffins, trying to reassure her with a gentle smile. But the child's fear was palpable, her small body trembling like a leaf.
"You will be safe in here, my love," the Countess whispered, stroking her hair. "Just for a little while."
Arcel stepped forward, his movements efficient. "One must remain sealed, milady. Until...until the time is right." He glanced at the little girl, his expression somber. "This one."
Arcel gently lifted the intricately carved coffin lid, revealing the plush, crimson lining inside. The Countess bit her lip, tears streaming down her cheeks. She kissed her daughter's forehead, holding her close for a long moment. The little girl sniffled, clinging to her mother.
"It's okay, darling," the Countess lied, trying to sound brave. "You will be safe here. Just sleep, and when you wake up... everything will be better."
Arcel swallowed hard, his eyes burning. He had never felt so helpless. He carefully lifted the little girl, placing her gently into the coffin. She looked so tiny, surrounded by velvet and wood.
"Shh, sweetie, shh," the Countess cooed, smoothing her daughter's hair. "We love you. So much."
Arcel hesitated, then reached out to close the lid. The soft click echoed through the vault like a funeral bell.
With trembling fingers, the Countess reached out to seal her daughter's coffin. Her hands moved mechanically, performing the ritual she had hoped she'd never have to use. As she activated the ancient mechanism, the coffin emitted a faint hum, and a soft, ethereal glow enveloped the lid. The air seemed to vibrate with an otherworldly energy.
"There," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Only—only one chosen can unlock this."
Arcel watched, awestruck, as the magic took hold. He knew the legend, passed down through generations of their loyal servants: a blood tie could not break the seal, nor any ordinary mortal hand. Only a predestined individual, born with a spark of something extraordinary, could awaken the sleeping hybrid.
The Countess stepped back, her eyes fixed on the coffin, her heart heavy with the weight of her decision. She had just sentenced her child to a long slumber, dependent on fate to bring her savior.
Her mind reeling with the possibility of never holding her again. But she knew she had to follow the plan, no matter how much it hurt. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and turned to Arcel.
"I will go first," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arcel nodded solemnly, stepping aside. The Countess approached her own coffin, her footsteps slow and deliberate. She ran her fingers over the intricate carvings, feeling the familiar patterns etched into the wood.
As the Countess prepared to lie down, Arcel stood beside her, his face etched with sorrow. But unlike the little girl's coffin, theirs remained open, a morbid invitation. The Countess paused, her fingers hovering above the rim.
Suddenly, the air seemed to ripple. The little girl's soft, childish voice echoed in her mother's mind, an intrusion.
"Mother... "
The Countess stood up, startled. Arcel caught her elbow, concerned. "Milady?"
"Father... He.." The little girl's voice sounds grief.
"He is not coming back, is he?"
The Countess felt like she'd been punched. Her knees buckled, and Arcel had to hold her upright. She shook her head, refusing to believe it.
No, no, no. Not like this. Not without him.
"The villagers... they burned father."
The little girl's mental whisper was a desperate whimper. She was too young to fully grasp the concept of death, but she sensed something was broken.
The Countess swayed, her world crumbling. Arcel's grip tightened, trying to stabilize her.
"Milady, calm down. We cannot—"
"I can hear them, Mother. They are laughing. They think they have won."
The little girl's mental presence trembled, overwhelmed by the commotion outside.
In the silence of the vault, the Countess felt her daughter's terror, her own anguish mirroring it. If her daughter could hear... then it was true. The villagers truly had...
The Countess's face crumpled, her knees giving way completely. Arcel barely managed to lower her into the coffin, holding her like a fragile doll. She stared blankly ahead, her words barely audible, "Arcel… he's gone."
He froze, his grip tightening reflexively. "Gone, milady?" He repeated, hoping against hope he'd misheard.
She nodded, once, twice. "They burned him. They—they thought he was a monster. They didn't listen..." Her voice cracked, shattering into a sob.
Arcel's face turned even more pale. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. The Count… His master, his friend, is now dead. The silence that followed was deafening.
Arcel's hands moved, as if detached from his body. He gently guided the Countess back into her coffin, his vision blurring. He couldn't believe this was happening. Not like this. Not without the Count's guidance, his wisdom...his presence.
He closed his eyes, fighting back tears, and slowly lowered the lid. The sound echoed through the vault, hollow and final. The Countess's sobs muffled, but still echoing in his still heart.
"It's done, milady," he whispered, his voice cracking. He stepped back, his emotions heavy with grief. One family, two coffins, and an eternity of darkness ahead. They're vampires, but the softest ones, with emotions, and can feel grief.
With a heavy still heart, Arcel approached his own resting place. He glanced back at the two coffins, his mind reeling with the thought that he would soon join them. The weight of his loyalty, his duty, compelled him to follow the Count's final wishes. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the long sleep ahead.
"This is it, then," he murmured, running his hand over the cool surface of his own coffin.
"Farewell, world."
He climbed inside, his joints stiffening in anticipation of the extended slumber. The padding enveloped him, a cold embrace. Arcel settled into the silence, his eyes fixed on the darkness above. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek.
And so, the three lay there, suspended in time, surrounded by shadows that seemed to pulse with an eerie life of their own. The only sound, the soft echo of forgotten breaths, lingering in the air like whispers of a forgotten era.