Crimson Crown:The Vampire Queen

From the moment Adrian Vale was old enough to understand the world around him, he knew that humanity was not the only thing that inhabited it. There were creatures that lived beyond the reach of ordinary men—creatures that lurked in the shadows, fed on human blood, and waged wars unseen by those who believed monsters existed only in stories. Adrian was born into a family that had spent generations hunting those creatures. The Vale name had been passed down through blood, steel, and sacrifice. His ancestors were vampire hunters, and from an early age, Adrian was trained to carry on their legacy. He learned how to recognize the signs of a vampire, how to track them through the night, and how to survive encounters that would have killed an ordinary man. For thirty years, Adrian lived as a hunter. Every scar across his body carried the memory of a battle. Every wound that healed left behind another reminder of the life he had chosen. He had watched friends fall, villages burn, and innocent people become victims of creatures that had no mercy for human life. Yet Adrian never allowed himself to become a monster in return. At the age of forty-five, he finally retired after one final battle left him permanently blind in one eye. It was the closest he had ever come to death, and when the fighting was finally over, Adrian realized that he could no longer continue living by the sword. He returned to the monastery where he had once spent part of his childhood and finally pursued the life he had secretly dreamed of for years. He became a priest. The transition was not easy. The hands of Father Adrian Vale had been stained with the blood of countless vampires, yet his conscience remained clear. He had never killed a human being. Every life he had taken belonged to creatures he believed had willingly abandoned their humanity and preyed upon innocent people. His hatred for vampires ran deep. And above all, he despised whoever ruled over them—the mysterious power that kept the vampire world united beneath its darkness. For years, Father Adrian devoted himself to prayer, charity, and helping the people who came to the monastery seeking refuge. He thought his days of hunting were finally behind him. He was wrong. One stormy evening, Adrian returned from the nearby town after purchasing supplies for the approaching storm. The rain had grown heavier by the minute, and before leaving, several townspeople had warned him not to remain outside for long. When he finally reached the monastery, Adrian closed and locked the iron gate behind him. Then he heard it. A baby crying. The sound came from somewhere near the church entrance. Adrian froze. He turned toward the darkness and listened carefully. There it was again. A small, desperate cry. He slowly approached the church doors and discovered a tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blanket. Something beneath it moved weakly. Adrian stared for a moment before lowering himself to one knee. “A child,” he murmured in his deep voice. The infant was awake. Judging by its size and development, it appeared to be somewhere between four and six months old. She could already lift her head and crawl, but she was still far too young to stand on her own. She continued to cry as though searching for the mother who had suddenly disappeared from her world. Adrian reached out to pick her up. Then he stopped. Something was wrong. His brow furrowed. The child did not look like an ordinary human infant. Her skin was unnaturally pale. Her eyes were a strange, misty gray. And her hair— It was completely white. Adrian slowly pulled his hand back. For a moment, his instincts as a former vampire hunter took control. He studied the child carefully, searching for the unmistakable signs of a vampire. But something about her existence made no sense. She could not be a vampire. At least, not according to everything Adrian had ever been taught. Vampires were not born from human mothers. They were created. A human became one only after being attacked and infected by the venom carried in a vampire's fangs. That was the rule. That was what Adrian had believed for most of his life. So what was this child? A vampire hunter's instincts told him to leave her where he found her. A priest's heart told him otherwise. The baby cried again, her tiny hands trembling beneath the blanket. Adrian sighed. “Whatever you are,” he whispered, “you are still a child.” His hesitation finally disappeared. He carefully lifted the infant into his arms and carried her inside the monastery. The storm continued to rage outside as he brought her into his small quarters. He warmed some water, cleaned the mud and rain from her delicate skin, and wrapped her in fresh, dry clothes. The entire time, Adrian could not stop looking at her. There was something unsettling about the child. Something he could not explain. Yet there was also something strangely innocent about her. She did not have the eyes of a monster. She had the eyes of a frightened child who had simply been abandoned. That night, Father Adrian Vale made a decision that would change the course of his life—and perhaps the fate of both humans and vampires. He decided to keep her. He did not know where she had come from. He did not know who her parents were. He did not know why she had been left at the doors of a church. And he certainly did not know why a child who should not have existed carried the unmistakable signs of the very creatures he had spent his entire life hunting. But one thing was certain. The little girl was not an ordinary child. FROM THE MOMENT the child entered Father Adrian Vale’s life, something within the old priest began to change. For the first time in many years, genuine smiles returned to his face. The nuns and other members of the monastery noticed that Adrian had become more cheerful and lively. Even his Sunday services seemed different. His sermons carried more warmth, and the once-stern priest could often be seen smiling whenever he spoke about hope, kindness, and the innocence of children. The little girl had brought light into a life that had been surrounded by darkness for decades. Adrian eventually gave her a name. Scarlet Snow. “Scarlet” was chosen in memory of his late mother, a woman whose kindness Adrian had carried with him throughout his life. “Snow,” on the other hand, came from the child's most striking feature—her unusually pale skin and beautiful white hair. From then on, she became known simply as Snow. Father Adrian did not raise her alone. Several of the nuns in the monastery helped care for the child, but none became more involved than the Mother Superior, Mother Venessa. Venessa was responsible for teaching Snow discipline, manners, and the rules of the monastery. She was strict when she needed to be, especially when Snow became too mischievous for her own good. But despite Mother Venessa's important role in her upbringing, Snow remained closest to Father Adrian. To the little girl, he was not simply the priest who had rescued her from the storm. He was her father. And to Adrian, Snow was no longer the mysterious child he had discovered outside the church. She was his daughter. He loved her. Perhaps more than he had ever expected to love anyone again. For years, Snow grew up surrounded by the peaceful walls of the monastery. She learned prayers from the nuns, helped with simple chores, and spent her days playing around the grounds. Yet there was always something unusual about her. Her appearance made her stand out wherever she went. Her white hair and pale complexion were unlike those of the other children, and because of this, she was sometimes teased by children from the nearby orphanage who spent time at the monastery. They called her strange. They mocked her appearance. Sometimes, they deliberately excluded her from their games. But Snow never fought back. Whenever the other children hurt her feelings, she would simply run to Mother Venessa or Father Adrian and tell them what had happened. She was gentle. Kind. Forgiving. At least, that was what everyone believed. Until Snow turned five. One afternoon, Father Adrian discovered that his beloved cat, Whiskers, was missing. He searched the monastery grounds, calling the cat's name again and again. He checked the gardens, the storage rooms, the chapel, and even the surrounding fields. Nothing. Eventually, he heard a faint sound behind the monastery. He followed it. And what he saw made him stop in his tracks. Snow was standing alone behind the building. Her small hands were stained with blood. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Whiskers…” She kept repeating the cat's name over and over. “Whiskers… Whiskers…” Adrian's heart dropped. He immediately rushed toward her and lifted the frightened child into his arms. “Snow! What happened?” He examined her carefully, searching for injuries. “Where is Whiskers? What happened to him?” But Snow could not answer. She was only five years old. She was crying too hard to explain what she had seen—or what she believed had happened. Adrian continued asking questions, but the frightened child could only shake her head and call for her cat. Eventually, Father Adrian found Whiskers nearby. The cat was dead, with an injury around its neck. Adrian stood silently for a long moment. He had seen wounds like that before. He knew what kind of strength could cause them. And for the first time since bringing Snow into his life, an old instinct buried deep inside him began to awaken. The instinct of a vampire hunter. He remembered the strange child he had found years ago. The white hair. The pale skin. The unnatural gray eyes. The questions he had never been able to answer. Could there really be a connection? Could Snow somehow be responsible? The thought terrified him. But Adrian refused to believe it. He buried Whiskers himself that evening. As he stood over the small grave, he found himself looking back toward the monastery, where Snow was being comforted by Mother Venessa. He had spent thirty years hunting monsters. He knew what monsters looked like. And Snow did not look like one. She was kind. She was affectionate. She helped the elderly nuns carry things around the monastery. She shared her food with the other children. She cried whenever someone was hurt. She never fought back when she was bullied. How could he possibly look at that innocent little girl and see a monster? So Adrian buried his suspicions along with the cat. He convinced himself that there had to be another explanation. Perhaps Whiskers had been attacked by a wild animal. Perhaps Snow had simply found him afterward. Perhaps the blood on her hands belonged to someone else. There were countless possibilities. And Adrian chose to believe the one that allowed him to keep loving his daughter without fear. He never questioned Snow again. But somewhere deep inside the old hunter, a small voice remained. A voice that whispered something he desperately did not want to hear. Snow was not an ordinary child. And the death of Whiskers was only the first sign.