Far from the blood-stained floors of the tower, across the Blackwater Gulf and beyond the salt-choked mountain passes, stood a fortress carved into the bones of the world.
The Castle Noctis.
Cloaked in cloud and shadow, its spires pierced the heavens like black needles, always half-swallowed in mist. Gargoyles perched like sentries along the balconies. The great stained-glass window in the main hall showed no saints—only fanged kings, wreathed in thorns and flame.
Inside this grand palace, the air smelled like cold ash and incense.
Alucard Nosferatu reclined against his throne, with red velvet and black marble and twisted silver fixtures. His long legs crossed while leaning on the armrest with an amused expression spread across his face.
Although his advisors seemed nervous and ferocious, Alucard didn't care for their bumbling excuses and words.
"Volkov's grandson has been crowned," said one. "The boy survived the Blood Trials… and the alliance held."
