The Eclipse's Dawn

VATICAN'S SECRET ARCHIVES

The Vatican was under siege—but not from armies but from within.

From whispers behind robes. From shadows that walked like men. From holy hands that no longer bore the warmth of God.

Inside the Apostolic Palace, deep beneath layers of marble and cathedrals, lay a vault few knew existed—the Vatican's f*******n Archives. Older than the Pontifical Library. Older than the Jesuit Order itself. Sealed under Pope Leo III in 798 A.D., after what was called The Sanguine Concord, a secret war between angels and creatures birthed from Cain's blood.

Only four men alive held the keys.

Now, Father Antoine Mathieu was about to become the fifth.

Annes Diane, swaddled in fresh bandages and black cassock armor, followed Antoine past a maze of spiral staircases, glass-eyed saints, and archways carved with scenes from Revelation. The hallway was silent, save for the echoes of their boots and the distant hum of Latin chants.

She bore her new scars like armor. The wound on her shoulder still ached from the vampire's bite. But the Oil of Lamentation had done more than destroy—it had awakened something inside her. Her senses were sharper. Her instincts, unnervingly clear. It was as if the fire had burned away her fear.

Antoine approached a gilded door bound in silver, marked only with a crucifix fused with a serpent biting its tail—the symbol of the Inquisitorial Codex.

“Place your palm on the seal,” he said.

Annes obeyed.

The door groaned open.

Inside, the f*******n Archives stretched far beyond the architecture above it—as if space itself had folded. Endless halls of parchments, locked cases, sarcophagi, ancient relics, and tablets lined the walls.

A floating golden sphere hovered in the center—a sentient record keeper known only as Veritas, powered by sacred AI forged from lost alchemical codices and the writings of Saint Malachi.

It spoke in a language older than Latin, but the words translated themselves in her mind:

"Welcome, Flamebearer."

Annes blinked. “What did it call me?”

Antoine gave her a troubled look. “Only two people have ever been called that by Veritas… and the last one led the Crusade of Saint Vioran. He died slaying the first Cospius heir.”

She exhaled. “Then history’s repeating.”

The two moved toward a sealed chamber within the archive—Vault C3-X, labeled:

"Genealogiae Sanguinis Draculis"

(The Bloodline of Dracula)

Inside were manuscripts wrapped in flesh-like parchment, inked with ancient blood, protected by glyphs that shimmered in response to faith. Antoine opened the first scroll with trembling fingers.

“Dracula was not the first. He was... the vessel.”

The records revealed Dracula I, also known as Vlad Tepes, had been possessed—during a failed assassination in 1476—by a disembodied dark entity born from Cain’s original curse. That entity was Sargoth, the Demon of Hunger, who could only inhabit one host every 500 years.

Cospius was the fifth host.

Worse, the scroll said:

“The fifth host will be permanent. There will be no sixth.”

Annes studied the second scroll. It bore a sigil she had seen before—in the oil painting in her orphanage chapel as a child. A woman holding a chalice, a serpent wrapped around her feet, and her eyes bleeding light.

“That’s…” she whispered, “...my mother.”

Antoine froze.

“It can’t be.”

But the scroll told the truth. Her mother, Dahlia Veran, had been part of the Order of Veronica, a splinter group of early Christian mystics believed to be descended from the line of Magdalene—their blood capable of disrupting demonic entities.

Annes dropped the scroll.

“I’m not just a soldier. I’m the weapon.”

Meanwhile, above them, the Vatican halls buzzed with commotion.

Another cardinal had been found dead in his chambers. No sign of entry. No blood in his body.

The Pope, Papestine Hawort, sat in private prayer with three of his remaining inner circle.

“I fear Cospius is no longer hiding,” he said. “He’s infiltrating the Conclave.”

One of the cardinals—Cardinal Reggiani—nodded. “And if the College falls…”

“Then the Vatican becomes his throne,” Hawort finished.

He turned toward the altar and lifted a small, golden cube.

The Reliquary of Saint Longinus.

Inside it rested the smallest fragment of the Spear that pierced Christ.

And beneath it… a locked chamber known only to the Pope.

“Awaken the Knights of the Crimson Veil,” he commanded. “The seal is breaking.”

Back in the archives, Veritas spoke again:

“The tomb of Cospius was only a cage. The lock was broken not by blood—but by betrayal.”

Annes narrowed her eyes.

“Someone inside the Vatican let him out.”

Antoine turned white.

“No… It couldn’t be…”

Far across Rome, in the shadow of Castel Sant’Angelo, Brother Cassian—once Annes’ closest comrade-in-training—stood atop the bridge in full black armor. His eyes gleamed with regret and fury.

And in his hand… he held a sealed letter from Cospius.

“My brother in faith, we are not so different. Come to my side. And I will give you what your Church never did… truth.”

Cassian crushed the seal.

And walked into the dark.