Dark Desires

The marble steps stretched silently downward into the belly of the earth, as if the world had buried something it could not kill—only hide. Deep, far from light and memory, where even the stones kept quiet, and the walls drank blood instead of time. Below, the throne room waited—not with patience, but with the infinite calm known only to those who have seen everything, buried everyone, and over whom time no longer passes, because what lives there does not live—and yet it rules. The hall was vast, the columns rising high toward the black vault, where neither stars nor lamplight gleamed—only the depth's own darkness leaned over everything that existed below. The walls were clad in obsidian, with crimson light pulsing through its thin cracks—not fire, nor magic—but something older, something that had already throbbed when the world was still forming at the edge of creation. The floor was covered in gleaming marble, cold and smooth, so flawlessly polished that whoever stepped on it saw their fall reflected in their own image. The throne stood in the center of the hall—it seemed simple at first glance, even cold, like a death-dealing judgment seat, and that's exactly what it was: adorned with neither gold nor jewels, only bone and steel, the materials of ruthlessness. Its form was so perfect it almost hurt to look at—like a blade one should never see, only feel when it's already too late. And there he sat. Darethor Nyxar. The King of Vampires. The last heir of the First Bloodline. He who was not born, but from whom fear was born. He sat motionless, like a statue, and yet he was alive in every fiber—the kind of living that defied the terms of mortal and immortal alike, because what he embodied was no longer part of this world, and yet it cast its shadow over every layer of it. His face wore no mask, yet it was a secret—one glance was enough to bring thousand-year-old beings to their knees without a whisper. Before him stood the Council, a body of nine vampires, each of whom had long outlived centuries, had forgotten their human names, and whispered of past, future, and death—but now, they were silent. They did not dare speak, did not dare ask—only bowed, deeper and deeper, as if even their spines knew that the moment they raised their heads might be their last. Darethor said nothing. His fingers rested on the throne's armrest like two blades not yet drawn. His gaze rested on a single vampire, one who did not bow—because he no longer could: he was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, bloodied and broken, his skin seared as if fire had bitten into him—and perhaps it had. The price of betrayal is always personal. Darethor did not ask. He did not command. He did not raise his voice. The King of Vampires does not argue, does not persuade, does not explain. "You denied the blood," he said at last, softly, almost calmly, as if merely noting the weather—but his voice fell on the hall with such weight that the walls trembled for a heartbeat. The vampire's knees buckled, his gaze vacant, his voice died in his throat when he tried to speak. Darethor no longer looked at him. The body crumbled to dust—almost soundlessly, as if someone had undone the magic that had been holding it together until then. The Council watched in silence. None of them asked why. None of them dared. ⸻ Darethor looked out over the hall. Death did not move him. Destruction was no novelty. And yet... something had changed in recent days. A feeling. A movement at the edge of awareness. A scent from nowhere. A presence. Not vampire. Not human. Not enemy, not ally. Something... else. He wasn't searching. Not yet. But his instincts were already responding. His blood was answering something he didn't yet know. And Darethor never ignored what his blood whispered. Because vampires are not sensitive. They do not love. He least of all. But if an unknown heart beats too deeply in the darkness, it is not just unsettling. It is dangerous. He did not yet know her name. He did not know where she came from. But he suspected that whoever was drawing near would not only upend his life— But the fate of the entire blood empire.