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War, I detest it. Here I stand in front of a mirror and watch the horror of an era I wish not to see revived. I care to remember my crime but also a life-changing decision that allowed my species to survive. Many hate me, but everything I did, I did for us.
Denmark 1762
The subjects hid, slid along the walls, and the floors retracted themselves from the conflict. The once sparkling castle of Egeskov resembled a lugubrious graveyard. Crisping crackles, echoes of chuckles, and creaking closing doors swayed in the air around us. Decaying bodies of Repugnants grazed every level. Soulless, they sought blood and clung to me and my horde. The knights beheaded them; the carcass immediately became masses of white larvae devouring itself.
The Seconds waited for us. Aligned and on their knees on both sides of the corridor leading to his room. We took the stairs; we found no resistance on the first floor, though regrouped and ready to battle.
The large doors to the vast chamber opened, and fear gripped every one of my limbs as I advanced. If I possessed at least one beating heart, it would have galloped like a wild horse fleeing the fire. The guards meant to support me hid and shuffled behind, their armors banged like pots of copper and brass.
There he stood, his back turned to me in his reddest satin robes harboring our coat of arms which trailed on the floor, the first of all Firsts Vlad IV king of Wallachia and lord of Kvaerndrup. He lived, died, and revived as the father of the Strigoi. All the bats on the ceiling remained still though the room filtered the sunlight.
Blind, the echolocation allowed him to draw the outlines of my silhouette. When the distance seemed sufficient, I stopped.
"Venit aici."
My vocal cords strummed like broken lute strings as I mustered a reply, "It is the least I can do."
"Thank you for this honor, you at least you are not a coward," he swerved and bowed like a page with the cynical grin which showed his fangs, "your long hair misled me. For a second, I thought you were your brother."
"It was not my intent."
Once more, he delivered a crooked smile, "sorry, I was not expecting you. Do you want to join me for lunch? I have three young maidens I reaped at the crack of dawn.
He hovered to the round dining table where sat a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde woman. The virgins were motionless as dolls in their black velvet gowns.
His hands caressed each of their heads, and finally, he chose. His fingers glided along the blonde girl's face, and nails lengthened as they slid from her cheek to her neck. There, his index slit her throat in a smooth straight line.
The cut was not profound enough to kill her instantly but wide enough for him to drink without making much effort. He tilted the maiden's head to the side and let her blood drip into his glass before allowing the girl to drop back into the seat to die, a slow death, while her soul screamed for help from behind the gaze, which held it hostage.
