Year 40017, Month 13, Day 29 — Two days before year's end.
It's been just under two years since Lucius bought us. In that time, we were trained rigorously—indoctrinated, really—until we could recite every nuance of Vampire society. Its structure. Its customs. Its allies. Its enemies. All etched into our minds like ritual scars.
Today, that education ends. Today, we shall travel to the resting place of a Vampire Progenitor.
We were led into a teleportation chamber—much like the one we first arrived in—only this time, it shuddered with a strange energy. A moment later, we emerged in a forward camp, temporary and utilitarian, established near the ritual site.
The first thing I noticed was the sky: a blood-red moon hung low, swollen and ominous. The land was twisted. The ground cracked with veins of dark mineral. There was no grass, no green. The plant life here looked brittle, shadowy—like it would crumble under sunlight. A graveyard of flora clinging to darkness.
They ushered us toward a wide canvas tent, where we received final instructions. Most of the ritual made sense, at least in the context of vampire tradition. But some parts felt... excessive. One detail in particular clung to my thoughts: I would be the one to plunge a dagger into the Progenitor's heart the moment he awakened.
Symbolic? Practical? Dangerous? I didn't ask. I knew better by now.
After the briefing, we were taken to a smaller tent nearby and told to wait. No clocks. No windows. Just candlelight and silence.
So, we waited. Some reclined, some fidgeted. There was nothing to do but pass the time and quiet the unease building in our chests.
The ritual was coming.
* * *
Meanwhile, on the Efox continent in the Central Region, located in the Kingdom of Urislanda, there was the trade city of Garandale. Nestled near the borders of three neighboring kingdoms, the city was alive with noble chatter and political undercurrents.
On the sunlit veranda of the Governor's manor, a tea party was in full swing. Around an elegantly set table sat a circle of girls, all young, all noble, and all prodigies in their own right.
Loretta Ray Grandoble, sixteen, Governor of Garandale and the party's hostess, poured the tea. Beside her was Charlotte Ray Urislanda, second princess of the kingdom.
From Derringer came Elizabeth Ray Zethya, daughter of the Ducal House of Zethya, Claudia Ray Fletchgard of the Marquessate House of Fletchgard, and Alena Ray Dathora, daughter of Count Dathora.
From the neighboring Kingdom of Osarith came three sisters—Princesses Fiona, Tiana, and Flora Ray Osarith—and Rosanna Ray Monrose, the refined heir of the Ducal House of Monrose.
Behind each girl stood at least one attendant, silent and poised, waiting for their mistress's command.
A harpist played in the background, soft notes floating like whispers, holding the calm together.
Despite their titles, the girls spoke freely. The city's geography had brought them together often over the years, and what began as formal meetings had become genuine friendship. Now, with the year drawing to a close, they had chosen to spend the final days of the season in one another's company.
Teacups clinked gently as the late-afternoon sun played across lace parasols and polished silver trays.
Loretta, stirred a spoon through her rose-lavender tea, eyes drifting from her notepad towards the low hills in the distance.
"I heard that the hunters were on the move," she murmured.
Charlotte gave a soft sigh. " The kingdom's Chief Hunter sent word about reinforcements from Wardenvale. I heard Hunter Raiding Parties were spotted near the Myrran Pass just two days ago."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. For the young progenitor's territory? What's the name again...?"
Loretta answered without looking up from her notepad. "No official name recorded. But it's in the opposite corner of our kingdom—way past the Forest of Mourning, under the shadow of House Rutherdell's lands. The progenitor there is a fledgling by vampire standards, barely three thousand years old.
Alena gave a dry smile. "Adorable."
That drew a quiet laugh from Charlotte.
"Well, the hunters certainly don't think so. My elder brother told me they've built twenty-three outposts near the corruption zone. And a Hunter Bastion—can you believe that? An actual bastion. That's how bad it's gotten."
Rosanna, composed and curious, leaned in slightly. "Are they targeting the progenitor directly?"
Tiana shook her head. "Not yet. The current focus is on rooting out the spawn mothers—cutting off the bloodline before it matures. According to the report I read, at least four of the spawn hives have already been incinerated."
Fiona clicked her tongue. "Brutal, but smart. Progenitors are hard to kill, but starving them of influence? That's a clean way to pressure them."
Flora cradled her cup carefully. "What happens if the progenitor retaliates? Will the council intervene?"
Elizabeth shrugged, eyes half-lidded. "Unlikely. He's not important enough. And besides, it's not in our territory. House Rothurdell requested the raids quietly. They don't want another Blood Incursion like the one on the Trikall Continent."
The conversation lingered for a moment in silence, each girl considering the implications in her own way.
Then Loretta smiled brightly, forcing the weight from the moment.
"Enough of vampires and spawn. Has anyone tried the apple tarts yet? They're infused with ginger syrup—I had them shipped in from Vernath this morning."
That lightened the mood. A few girls reached for the platter as the harpist on the veranda changed tune.
As the girls chatted and laughed, sunlight still warming the polished terrace stones, something strange shimmered on the horizon.
From the edges of Garandale, beams of light suddenly erupted into the sky—eight in total—shooting upward in perfect symmetry. They curved inward, converging high above the city's heart until they formed a dome of radiant threads, like a cage of woven starlight.
The laughter died. Teacups trembled in their saucers.
One of the attendants, Edward—Alena's personal guard—stepped forward with urgency written across his face.
"Forgive the interruption," he said, voice tight with panic. "But that is a Greater Mass Area Teleportation Ritual. It's powerful enough to move this entire city... anywhere in the world."
The girls stared, stunned.
"I understand it is dishonorable to flee without understanding the situation," Edward continued, "but I strongly advise you all to use your wayscrolls. Now. You must get to safety."
The other attendants, usually silent as shadows, now exchanged sharp glances and nodded in agreement. Several reached for their wards and began preparing defensive postures.
Without hesitation, the noble girls retrieved their wayscrolls—ancient artifacts bound to personal escape runes—and began activating them. Enchanted glyphs flared in the air around them, then sputtered.
Again, they tried. And again.
Nothing.
Edward's face went ghostly pale. "They've deployed a jamming ritual," he whispered. "If that's the case... we're trapped. There's nothing we can do now but wait."
A tense, trembling silence fell over the veranda. The beams of light continued to pulse rhythmically, as if counting down.
Then the air shifted.
From the center of the dome, a glowing sphere began to swell outward, white-hot and humming with arcane resonance. It expanded like a heartbeat, engulfing the manor, the gardens, the entire city.
A single moment of blinding radiance—and then black.
The girls collapsed where they stood. The attendants fell beside them. The harp stopped mid-note.