In the far reaches of the Blackthorn Mountains, where night never truly gave way to day, stood a castle as dark and vast as a nightmare. Its black spires pierced the blood-red sky, and its walls oozed a silence heavy with dread. This was the seat of power for the Vampire King—Leng Yue, ruler of shadows and sworn enemy of mercy.
The castle was not a sanctuary, not even for his own kind. It was a prison of power, where even his most loyal men walked on eggshells, fearing the sharp flick of his gaze or the slow curl of his lips when he was displeased. He was feared not for his strength alone—but for the cruelty that came so naturally to him.
Human blood was his obsession. Not just any blood—but the fear-tainted essence that flowed in humans when they were hunted, cornered, broken. He believed the more terrified the prey, the more potent the power gained from their blood.
And so, the hunting parties never ceased.
They would return each moon with chained mortals—young men, trembling women, and even children. The villagers below had long since stopped resisting. They would simply hide when the black carriages rolled in. Yet none were truly safe.
One morning cloaked in crimson mist, a girl no older than seven was dragged into the throne room. Her hair was tangled, her feet bare, her arms bound in iron cuffs too heavy for her fragile frame. She trembled with each step, her eyes darting across the cavernous hall as if searching for a way to escape.
On the throne of obsidian sat Leng Yue, draped in robes darker than the night. His crown gleamed like a twisted halo of bone and onyx, and his crimson eyes glowed with sick amusement.
"A gift for His Majesty," said one of the guards with a deep bow, forcing the girl to her knees.
Leng Yue tilted his head, studying the child with idle curiosity—like one might observe a new kind of animal. Then he descended from his throne, each step echoing through the hall like a death toll.
"What is your name, little lamb?" he asked, his voice low and eerily smooth.
The girl couldn't speak. She only sobbed, her body quaking with terror.
"Ah," he mused. "Your silence offends me."
With a sharp flick of his fingers, the guard slapped her, making her cry out.
"Much better," Leng Yue smiled.
He crouched before her, lifting her chin with a single clawed finger. "So full of fear… delicious." He leaned in, inhaling her scent as if it were perfume.
"Do you know what happens to little girls who are brought to the Crimson Court?" he whispered.
Her sobs intensified.
"They die," he finished coldly.
Without hesitation, he sank his fangs into her neck. Her scream echoed once—then faded into a sickening silence. He fed until the last drop of blood left her small body, then let her fall to the stone floor like a broken toy.
"Remove this," he ordered. "And send for another. Preferably someone who cries louder."
The guards, hardened as they were, moved with hurried obedience, afraid that a second's hesitation might make them the next victim.
---
Leng Yue's cruelty had no pattern. Some days, he would summon three maidens from a village and force them to fight each other for a promise of freedom—only to kill them all after.
Other days, he would make sport of noble vampire lords, challenging them to duels and, when they lost, tearing out their hearts with his bare hands.
There were whispers in the castle's lowest chambers—servants who said he bathed in human blood on nights when the moon turned black, believing it preserved his youth and heightened his power.
Even among his own court, no one dared look him directly in the eyes. Many vampires had fled his kingdom under the cover of night, choosing exile over the constant threat of death. Yet, they were brought back to the palace and were slaughtered brutally for excaping. And even for those who remained, fear was still their daily companion.
Leng Yue ruled not through loyalty, but through absolute terror.
And in that dark, cursed land, a single prophecy still lingered on the lips of those brave enough to whisper it:
"One born of light and blood shall rise...
And from the shadows, the tyrant shall fall."
But Leng Yue only laughed when he heard it.
He was the night.
And night, he believed, could never be overthrown.
---
The moon hung low and heavy in the twilight sky, casting a silver glow over the Enchanted Glade—the heart of the witches' domain. Tonight, soft blue flames floated in the air like stars come to dance. It was the Moonfire Ceremony, a sacred and joyful celebration that marked the turning of years for children in the coven.
But this year was special.
It was the sixth turning day of the vampire prince. Lanterns weaved through the treetops, strings of moonblossoms dangled from enchanted branches, and music hummed from wind-touched flutes carved by forest spirits. The witches had outdone themselves. The banquet table overflowed with honeyed fruits, star cakes, and skyroot cider.
Mei Lian, eight and ever radiant, pulled the prince by the hand through the garden path, giggling as her slippers slid over flower petals conjured by the dancing witches. "You must try the firecakes! They burst like fireworks in your mouth!" she said.
The prince smiled, quiet but truly happy. These witches had taken him in, taught him kindness, allowed him a place to grow. For once, he didn't feel like a monster.
He helped carry jugs of moonwine to the gathering. As he approached a group of elder witches, he politely poured a cup for each, beginning with a tall woman draped in raven feathers.
Her name was Witch Ziyue.
She took the wine but looked down at him, her eyes cool and unreadable.
"How courteous," she said, voice silken with judgment. "It's easy to forget he is not one of us… until moments like this."
The sentence struck like ice. A silence fell around them. The other witches tensed.
The prince stiffened, his hands faltering. A flicker of hurt crossed his face, like a cloud darkening the moon. He said nothing—only gave a small nod and turned away, shoulders heavy with something more than just disappointment.
From her place at the banquet table, Queen Xi Wang rose, fury in her steps. But before she could speak, a small voice pierced the crowd.
"He is one of us."
All turned to see Mei Lian standing beside the prince's spilled jug, fists clenched, her tiny frame trembling with emotion.
"He helped decorate the trees. He gave up his own starfruit so I could have it. He laughs when we laugh and is hurt when we are hurt." Her voice quivered, but she didn't stop. "He's trying—so hard—to belong. And instead of making him feel welcome, you hurt him?!"
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Her voice rose, young yet defiant. "You don't need to be born here to belong. He's special. And I—I'm glad he's here."
With that, she turned and ran, silver tears sparkling down her cheeks.
The witches stood frozen. Ziyue looked away, unbothered, but Queen Xi Wang gave her a glare sharp enough to turn stone to ash making her shiver in guilt.
---
Far from the celebration, the prince sat alone beneath the Whispering Willow, a peaceful grove near the Moonwell at the edge of the palace. It was quiet there. The rustle of the willow's tendrils in the wind felt like murmured lullabies. He stared into the silver-lit waters, his reflection blurry but sad.
"Why do I feel like I'll never be enough?" he whispered to no one.
Soft steps approached.
"You are enough," said Mei Lian, her voice gentle but sure.
He turned, startled. "You shouldn't be here."
"I go where I'm needed," she said stubbornly, brushing aside a willow leaf. "And right now, I'm needed here."
He looked away. "She's right. I don't belong. I'm a curse. A vampire. A blood sucking monster."
"No," she said softly. "You're something more. You're a blessing to us. The Queen believes in you. So.... Believe in yourself."
He glanced at her, confused.
Mei Lian sat beside him, folding her legs and leaning close. "You're brave. You're kind. You listen when others don't. You protect me even when you're scared." Her voice dropped. "And I've never had a better friend."
A silence fell between them, warm this time. The willow swayed above.
"Don't let one cruel voice silence everything good you've heard," she whispered.
He looked at her deeply. Her eyes sparkled with sincerity, still wet from tears, and a small smile crept to his lips.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Come back to the party," she said. "There's still cake. And... I saved you a starfruit."
He laughed, a soft, real sound.
Together, they walked back through the willow path, side by side. This time, he didn't feel like a guest at the celebration. He felt like someone who belonged.