Chapter 3 - The Black Feast
The Crimson Palace glowed beneath the storm like a cathedral built for gods of darkness.
Rain cascaded endlessly across black marble towers while silver lightning illuminated the towering spires of Noctyra far below. The capital of Vahsravia of Eastern Elyria stretched beneath the mountain cliffs in a sea of moonlit rooftops, cathedral bridges, and silver lanterns flickering through the endless rain.
Tonight, however, the palace was alive.
Because the Black Feast had begun.
The feast was one of the oldest traditions of Vahsravia.
A royal gathering held beneath the blood moon every decade where vampire noble houses assembled within the palace to renew loyalty to the Blood Sovereign. To outsiders, it resembled an elegant celebration of aristocracy and ancient power.
In truth
it was a battlefield hidden beneath silk and candlelight.
The Grand Cathedral Hall had been transformed into a kingdom of shadows and gold.
Thousands of candles illuminated immense vaulted ceilings while crimson drapes hung between giant black pillars carved with ancient moon scriptures. Long banquet tables stretched across the hall covered in silver goblets, black wine, exotic meats, and glowing moon-fruits imported from distant kingdoms.
Musicians played softly from elevated balconies while servants moved silently between nobles carrying crystal trays beneath flickering candlelight.
Outside, thunder rolled across the heavens.
Inside, politics sharpened like knives.
The Vampiria, Vampire nobles watched one another carefully from behind elegant smiles.
Every conversation concealed hidden meaning.
Every glance measured weakness.
Every toast disguised ambition.
Because Vahsravia stood powerful
but divided.
Several noble houses had grown increasingly hostile toward Dragun’s rule over the past decade. The old vampire bloodlines disliked humanity’s growing influence inside the kingdom and feared Dragun’s laws weakened pureblood authority.
Some desired reform.
Others desired civil war.
A few desired the throne itself.
At the center of the hall sat Dragun Vahsravic upon a raised obsidian platform overlooking the feast.
The Blood Sovereign wore royal black attire lined with silver embroidery beneath a dark crimson cloak draped across the throne steps like spilled blood. Moonlight filtered through enormous stained-glass windows behind him while silver lightning illuminated his silhouette against the storm.
He looked calm.
But his crimson eyes missed nothing.
Beside the throne stood Mordecai Blodskygge.
The king’s executioner.
Unlike the monstrous creature he would hundreds of years from now one day become, Mordecai still looked human.
Terrifyingly human.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he resembled a warrior carved from black stone: muscular physique, pale scarred skin, short black hair slicked neatly backward and sharp jawline beneath a trimmed black goatee.
His black ceremonial armor fit tightly against his massive frame while heavy chains crossed his chest beneath a crimson-lined cloak.
At his side rested Widowmaker, the colossal executioner sword feared across Elyria.
Several noblewomen watched him from afar throughout the feast.
Most quickly looked away.
Because Mordecai’s calmness felt dangerous like violence chained beneath flesh.
Father Lucian stood nearby speaking quietly with General Zerafin Lumina while servants poured dark wine into silver cups.
“This gathering feels wrong,” Lucian muttered.
Zerafin nodded subtly.
“Too many smiles.”
The general’s silver eyes scanned the hall carefully.
“And not enough loyalty.”
At the far end of the chamber, Lord Maltheor of House Veres raised a goblet toward Dragun.
“To the Blood Sovereign,” he declared loudly.
The nobles echoed the toast politely.
But Dragun noticed something.
Maltheor never drank from his own cup.
The storm outside intensified suddenly.
Thunder shook the palace walls.
And for the briefest moment
the candle flames dimmed unnaturally.
Mordecai noticed it immediately.
His hand slowly lowered toward Widowmaker.
Then the screaming began.
One of the servants collapsed beside the banquet tables choking violently on black blood.
Another noble suddenly convulsed as dark veins spread across his skin.
Poison.
The entire hall erupted into panic.
Several candles exploded simultaneously, plunging portions of the cathedral chamber into darkness.
And from within the shadows the assassins emerged.
They wore black ceremonial masks shaped like hollow skulls while silver daggers glowed with anti-vampire runes stolen from forbidden cathedral vaults.
Members of the Crimson Hand.
A secret extremist faction hidden among the vampire nobility.
Their leader pointed directly toward the throne.
“Kill the Sovereign!”
The assassins moved instantly.
Some leapt across banquet tables.
Others descended from cathedral rafters hidden among the shadows above.
The feast transformed into slaughter.
One assassin lunged toward Dragun with twin silver blades aimed directly for his throat.
The vampire king did not move.
Mordecai did.
Widowmaker screamed from its sheath. The gigantic black blade cleaved through the assassin’s torso instantly, splitting armor, bone, and flesh in a single brutal strike.
Blood sprayed across the cathedral floor. The hall erupted into chaos.
Nobles fled screaming while guards clashed against masked killers beneath exploding chandeliers and burning curtains.
General Zerafin drew his silver longsword and intercepted two assassins near the throne stairs.
Steel flashed.
One assassin lost his arm.
The other lost his head.
Father Lucian dragged wounded servants toward cathedral pillars while reciting protective moon prayers beneath the thunder.
But the assassins kept coming.
Too many.
Then Dragun finally stood.
And the atmosphere changed instantly.
The storm outside roared violently.
Every candle inside the hall extinguished at once.
Darkness swallowed the cathedral.
Only crimson lightning remained.
The assassins hesitated.
That hesitation killed them.
Dragun vanished. One moment he stood beside the throne.
The next an assassin’s body slammed violently into a cathedral pillar hard enough to shatter stone.
Another attacker suddenly froze mid-charge as crimson lightning erupted through his chest from behind.
The smell of burning flesh filled the hall.
Dragun moved through the darkness like living death.
Not elegant. Not noble. Predatory.
An assassin leapt from above with silver blades aimed toward the king’s neck.
Dragun caught him by the face midair.
Then slammed him through a banquet table hard enough to break both stone and bone.
The assassin screamed once before shadow bats descended from the cathedral rafters and devoured him alive beneath shrieking black wings.
Lightning illuminated the cathedral repeatedly: bodies collapsing, silver blades flashing and blood staining black marble floors.
The feast had become a massacre.
Lord Maltheor attempted to flee through the side corridors. Mordecai intercepted him.
The noble froze immediately as the executioner blocked the cathedral doorway.
“Please…” Maltheor whispered.
Mordecai stared at him silently.
Emotionless.
“You funded them,” the executioner said calmly.
Maltheor backed away trembling.
“You don’t understand”
Widowmaker rose slowly.
“You betrayed the kingdom.”
The blade fell.
The noble’s head rolled across the cathedral floor before the body collapsed beside the burning curtains.
Blood flowed down the marble steps like red wine.
Elsewhere inside the hall, the remaining assassins realized too late what they had truly challenged.
They had not attacked a king.
They had attacked a predator older than kingdoms.
Dragun walked slowly through the cathedral carnage while crimson lightning crawled across his armor.
One surviving assassin dropped his weapon immediately.
“Mercy”
The Blood Sovereign tore his throat out before the word finished.
Silence eventually returned to the hall.
Only thunder remained.
Bodies covered the cathedral floor: assassins, guards and burning nobles.
Blood reflected candlelight across shattered marble.
The Black Feast had ended in slaughter. Dragun stood at the center of the ruined cathedral breathing calmly while rain poured through broken stained-glass windows high above.
His crimson eyes scanned the dead silently. No anger remained now.
Only disappointment.
Father Lucian looked around the destroyed hall grimly.
“This kingdom is rotting from within.”
General Zerafin wiped blood from his blade.
“And something beyond our borders smells the decay.”
Mordecai approached Dragun slowly.
His executioner armor stained black with blood.
For a brief moment lightning illuminated him standing amidst the corpses like death itself. Not yet a monster.
But close enough that the difference already felt thin.
Dragun looked toward his executioner silently.
Something dark passed briefly between them.
A future neither fully understood yet.
One day Mordecai would lose his voice.
Lose his humanity.
Lose even his own face beneath living shadow armor.
He would become the Death Reaper feared across ruined worlds.
A weapon too broken to die.
But tonight
he was still a man standing beside his king beneath candlelight and storm.
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