"Kill him!"
The voice shattered the heavens, an anguished roar from a dying god. The skies above Zarethul convulsed with light and wrath, fire pouring down like divine punishment.
Alucard Virelthane, the Monarch of the Ninth Eclipse, stood blood-soaked at the heart of the battlefield. His obsidian armor split at the chest, jagged like fangs. His black mantle, once a thing of reverence hung scorched, whipping violently in the sacred wind.
Around him, the earth cracked and burned. Holy lances of flame rained from above, piercing flesh and stone alike. His soldiers... shadows of the damned, fangs bared and blades drawn were already ash, turned to dust by the purging light.
Angelica Seraphim, clad in robes of light, hovered in the skies above like a vision of vengeance. Her halo burned like a second sun. Wings blazing. Sword divine.
"Your reign ends, Blood-King!" she cried, voice reverberating across dimensions.
Alucard didn't flinch. He stood tall, crimson eyes seething with defiance. Black mist coiled around his fingers as he raised his hand, summoning a vortex of cursed power that pulsed like a second heartbeat.
"You would trade salvation for tyranny," he growled, "and call it holy."
With a guttural scream, he launched himself upward, colliding mid-air with the Seraphim. Her blade clashed against his, light against void. Each blow tore the sky open, rippling through time and memory.
Below them, the battlefield burned. Fallen angels screamed. War horns sounded across realms.
Blood. Ash. Light.
Then another presence emerged, cloaked in golden flame, eyes like suns: The First Warden.
Alucard turned, eyes widening. "No!!"
The Warden thrust his radiant spear straight through Alucard's back, the divine steel puncturing both armor and soul.
A gasp tore from the Blood-King's throat. The black mist that encased him dissipated. His wings crumbled to dust, his knees hit the fractured sky. The Seraphim descended. Her blade arced down in a holy strike.
Alucard roared as the light engulfed him, shadows ripped from his body like torn skin. His crown fell, tumbling into the abyss, swallowed by smoke.
**********
Caelan screamed and jolted upright, body drenched in cold sweat, breath ragged like he'd surfaced from drowning. His hands flew to his chest, but there was no wound. No sword. Only silence. Only flesh.
He froze. Pale. Trembling. Fragile. These weren't his hands.
"This... isn't real."
His voice rasped from a throat unused. He glanced around wildly. The bed was threadbare, the canopy torn and sagging like wilted wings. A cracked chandelier above him creaked with every whisper of wind. The wallpaper peeled like rotting skin. Dust danced in the air like dying embers.
A wave of nausea hit him. The air reeked of mildew and something old... something forgotten. His head throbbed as fragmented visions lashed through him.
He stumbled from the bed, legs weak, knees hitting the warped floorboards with a heavy thud. His palms scraped against splinters. He didn't feel the pain, only the pulse of memories trying to claw their way free.
"You died a king..."
The whisper was not external. It came from within, curling like smoke around his soul.
"...but you return a shadow."
He spun, panting, eyes darting around the room as if the voice had a mouth somewhere. No one. Just the wheezing moan of the wind outside the cracked window.
He staggered to the corner of the room, dragged by something instinctual. Something ancient. A tall mirror stood there, cloaked in dust. With a shaking hand, he reached out, wiped a line across the glass.
And froze.
His reflection was not his own. The man staring back had his face... yes, but too young. Too soft.
Still dazed, Caelan stumbled down the hallway, his mind still a haze of memories and nightmares. The faint echo of raised voices drifted from behind the closed study door, sharp and strained. He paused, leaning against the cold stone wall for support, his hands trembling. The words, even muffled, sliced through the air like a blade.
Lord Erhart's voice was a storm barely held behind the dam of civility. "We should've sent him to the northern barracks. Edenveil is a sanctuary, not a crucible. He'll disgrace us."
Caelan clenched his jaw, instinctively knowing what came next. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and fury swirling within him.
"And have the Council breathe down our necks for ignoring tradition?" came Lady Seraphine's reply, cold and calculating, a counterpoint to her husband's raw anger. "If our son doesn't attend, the bloodline rumors will spiral. And you know how the rumors spiral, Laurent."
Her tone was sharp as glass, each word calculated, yet with a quiet venom underneath. Caelan could practically feel her gaze from across the threshold, the weight of it pushing against him even from the other side of the door.
"The Church will spin every little mistake into a scandal. If he does not go to Edenveil, they will use it against us. They'll question our legitimacy. Our lineage. Our future."
Lord Erhart's voice cut through the air, jagged with frustration. "Our future? This house is crumbling, Seraphine. We've already sacrificed too much to appease those vultures. And now, you want me to send him to an academy? An academy of heroes?"
There was a pause, an unbearable silence before Lady Seraphine spoke again, her voice deliberate and heavy.
"It is the price of power. You know this as well as I. If the rumors continue to spread... our bloodline will be seen as tainted. The Church will declare us heretics, and every noble house in the kingdom will turn on us."
Caelan's hand tightened on the doorframe, his knuckles white. His breath quickened, and a tight knot of anger coiled in his chest. The words rang in his ears, each one sharpening the memories of the treachery that had led to his death.
Lord Erhart scoffed. "The Church never forgets a stain."
'Neither do I,' Caelan thought, his fingers curling into the doorframe until the wood creaked.
The name, Edenveil Academy echoed in his mind. He knew that name, that's where the Hero was trained. The one who pierced his heart. The one who killed him. His gaze darkened, he swallowed hard, but the bile in his throat wouldn't go away.
"The bloodline..." Lady Seraphine's voice softened, but the coldness was still there, wrapped tightly around every syllable. "It is not just about our son, it's about preserving the legacy. The Erhart name must survive, even if we have to sacrifice him to do it."
A breathless silence followed.
Caelan's mind was spinning, fury burning like acid in his veins. He pressed his forehead to the door, the voices inside blending with the thundering pulse in his ears. His memories of his past life twisted with the present. Betrayed. Used. A pawn.
The Hero had been an Erhart. A blood relative.
Caelan's heart pounded harder, his body trembling. The pain of his death, of that final betrayal, rushed back like a flood. His mind was a whirlwind of images, but now, in this body, in this life, he could feel the sharp edge of vengeance brewing in his veins.
The conversation inside continued, but Caelan no longer heard the words. His gaze shifted to the floor, his breath shaky, and he closed his eyes, allowing the memories to consume him.
When he opened his eyes, his lips curled into a razor-edged smirk. "How poetic," he muttered. "I'm the son of the very bloodline that killed me."
**********
The carriage wheels ground to a halt on the pale cobbled path, the sound dull beneath a grey sky.
Caelan stepped out slowly, his boots touching the stone with an uncertain quiet. The Edenveil Academy uniform hung stiff on his thin frame... deep navy, silver-trimmed, almost too polished against his sallow skin. The crest of House Erhart lay flat on his chest, worn like obligation, not pride.
His complexion was pale, almost bloodless. His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, swept across the courtyard in silence. Every movement was controlled, as if his limbs were unsure whether they still belonged to him.
The murmurs began almost immediately.
Students, gathered in small, polished groups, turned to watch. Some whispered. Others stared. A few frowned in quiet judgment. He looks ill... fragile... not like the others. No one greeted him. No one approached. He didn't expect them to.
Before him, Edenveil Academy towered like a relic of another age, its marble arches stretched toward the heavens, wrapped in a silence too still to be peaceful. Silver-inked wards flickered faintly across the stone, and ancient relics embedded in the walls pulsed with dormant power.
The air smelled faintly of incense and old parchment. Caelan adjusted the gloves on his hands and walked forward, his steps slow but steady, toward a place that had once celebrated his execution.
The grand archway leading into the academy was engraved with celestial scripture and lined with ancient relics and chains that once bound the unholy. Caelan's eyes flicked upward as he passed beneath it.
A massive tapestry hung across the entryway, threads woven in divine gold and scarlet. It depicted the final Crusade. The last stand of the Vampire Monarch.
Him.
There he was, immortalized in defeat. Kneeling in shadows, a crown slipping from his brow, angelic spears piercing his chest as holy light rained from above. A false memory carved by victors.
Caelan's gaze lingered, unreadable. He said nothing, but his fingers twitched beneath the gloves.
The courtyard beyond was filled with faculty in ceremonial robes, clerics adorned in silver sashes, and students in varying ranks. Trumpets echoed from the cathedral steps, announcing the start of the entrance rite.
And that was when he felt it, a divine aura brushed his senses and he turned his head slowly... calm, curious, and saw her.
At the top of the cathedral steps stood a girl cloaked in white and violet, her long hair cascading like molten silver. A crystal pendant rested at her throat, pulsing faintly with divine resonance. Her posture was straight, chin slightly raised, but her eyes... piercing, pale blue, were fixed solely on him.
Lysandra Veyre. Descendant of Saint Lysavelle. Holy blood, untainted lineage. The Church's golden child. She tilted her head, brows narrowing ever so slightly as he ascended the steps. He hadn't spoken. Hadn't looked directly at her.
"You… feel wrong." She said softly, barely above a whisper.
Caelan stopped a few steps below her, lifted his gaze and smiled. "That's a strange thing to say to someone you just met."
Her eyes didn't blink... didn't shift. But her grip on her pendant tightened slightly.
"Just a feeling."
Her voice was light, but there was something beneath it... Suspicion Caelan held her gaze a moment longer, unreadable. Then, with the faintest inclination of his head, he offered a shallow bow.
"Then I hope I make a better impression next time," he said softly, his tone even, controlled.
Without waiting for her response, he turned and stepped past her, his movements careful, calculated. Every step felt like walking through a cathedral where the wrong breath might shatter stained glass.
'I have to be careful, and not draw too much attention to myself.'