"My Daughter, I will harbor no ill will toward you in whatever life comes next."

"Mother, speak no more" The woman of obsidian and stars voice quivered begging her mother to tell her this was all a vision of an alternate future as she struggled to split her attention between maintaining shields around her people and the horror that awaits. "This child is not strong enough to break free. I feel him..." her mother sobbed, caressing the demons’ hands, outstretching its hands within her flesh. "I feel him drowning and struggling."

"Then" The woman blocks a sword meant for her mother and drains the assailant of its blood delivering the nutrients to a nearby ally. "He is not fit enough to live."

"Mi Soli," her mother took on the tongue of the ancients to say her pet name. "You are the only one."

"If my hands -" the woman's vision blurred at the imagery. "What will father think?" She pleaded. "What about me!"

The mother looked up into the abyss, to the bodies pooling up around them, and then took a few steps back away from her child's shield. "Solánine Mors, the last descendent of Adez Shadow. You are destined to be followed by greatness, but without this child it will fizzle too early. Today, he will live, or we will die." She declared. An enemy soldier flew down at the opportunity, but was thrown away as Solánine Mors sacrificed the protection of others to expand the barrier around her mother. "Okay," She conceded. She bent down, grabbed one of her mother's curved twin blades and ran it quickly across her palm. She waited until the blood pooled at her feet before smearing it across the blade. "Prepare yourself."

Her mother nodded, sliding to her knees open palm as if showing reverence to her deity in the flesh. Solánine gripped the sword, her blood dying the hilt, the last letter delivered and her tears making it undeliverable as she sliced her mother's belly open. She wished it cut deeper, but when the infant opened Its large venomous eyes she was paralyzed. Her barrier dropped. Her senses consumed by her inability to prevent the customary actions of a natural borne vampire's first kill. Anyone who came within three feet of the feasting parasite formed a wall of vulnerable lives including the vice leader of the uprising whose arms will never be graced by their spouse’s murderer.

On this day, three hundred and seventy-six years of bloodshed and chaos came to an infallible halt at the tip of a sword, an arrow, and the wails of the future. Finally, the creatures that dwelled on the outskirts and underbellies of common society no longer need to hide. The beings of myth; often vilified in nursery rhymes as a lesson for tykes or fetishized by adolescence as their strawman to take hold of their agency (, a faux rebel in the face of puritanical morality) will write their own histories without the censorship of mortal lines or judgement.

The world moved on. Decades blurred into several centuries grinding down the rebel villain's skulls into dust swept from the street. Their images ­­­­­nothing more than abstract art, little weight to become the new distorted boogeyman.  Lineages erased from whispers. Whole Races of collaborator dwindled from millions to hundreds; some unable to evolve back into existence. History, given the space of a footnote, beyond the utterance from heroes that now lead the continent as the eight Vampire Lords. Today a regular meeting takes place in Heartscape, one of the advanced countries outside of the military province in the west. As a show of power, they are all meant to arrive when the sun is at its highest point, but the Lord of Vherion wanted to spend his extensive travels in leisure and away from the complex noises that muffled his senses. So, he arrived a day prior. He passes the hours consuming ancient literature and rehearsing conversations with his fellow leaders, until he was startled by crackling bellows of a boy becoming a man announcing: "Lord of Heartscape, Mikaél Axis".

The dancing lights that provided comfort to Misha's book intensified as if celebrating the appearance of the silver eyed man that followed. When the last strand of the man’s mulberry braid swept passed the entrance threshold, his banner, a bleeding heart in the shape of a city breaking free of chains, grew in size and flapped in invisible wind that he took as much notice of as Misha. Mikaél was more focused on his balancing act of mound of records, glasses, pens and his favorite chalice. He sat down, throwing his braid over his shoulder before proceeding to organize his belongings in order of conversation. Some time passed before Misha considered interrupting the silence or returning to his book.

"Lady of Finsole, Oshun." Both men looked with anticipation towards the rhythmic echoes of thick heels on stone and caught each other's eye. "My Friend!" Mikaél reached across the table to take up course hands. "Make a sound. Make a sound." His laugh bounced off the airy space. "Oh, I could've died, if you had ill will."

"It's fine. I'm not here." Oshun ducked through the doors.

"Oh" The men scrambled to their feet. Mikaél performing an exaggeratory kneel between friends, windmilling the tips of his fingers to the ground. "Forgive me, my lady," he grinned. "I meant to extend that."

"Yes, yes" she stiffly patted his head. "I suppose I've added a few sheets since last meeting." She extended her hand for him to stand. He obliged and made way for Misha. "Lady Oshun, " Misha held out his hand. "Allow me to escort you to your seat."

"For, I get lost," she lightly placed her hand on his. He pulled out the chair a space down from his own, the banner (two crossed fists behind a rose) grew in size the same as before as she lifted her coat and took her seat. Oshun inspected the table, landing her gaze on Mikaél's cup then him with a raised eyebrow. "Do you intend to make jerky of us?"

He chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks. "Here," he scraped his cup in her direction. "Allow me to water." He casually leaned back; arms crossed gauging her reaction. She crawled her thin, bony fingers over to the glass circling the base. Her long-pointed nails tapping the steam, wafting the aroma, listening for echoes until slightly tipped in her direction. "Gold?" She swirled, "and....sparkling."

"Ah I have the great, fearsome Oshun stumped!" Mikaél lifted his arms in excitement. Misha leaned over curious at the contents.

"Mikaél Axis?" She sneered.

"Lately," he explained. "I've come to favor exotic mixtures."

"No." She returned the cup to him. "I'll like something...basic."

Mikaél turned his gaze to Misha who seemed lost in thought, "and for you, My Friend?"

"Same." He stated although he was indeed curious but doesn't go out of his way to quench his thirst unless there is an insatiable need. "Quaint," Mikaél conceded disappointed.

He knocked on the table. "Zero!" Mikaél called out not raising his voice beyond conversational, and before you could count to five there was a boy no older than sixteen stumbling through the door. He adjusted himself, hid his arms full of rising slashes behind his back before introducing himself. "Master, it is Zero."

"Can't be bothered to name the children." Oshun remarked coldly.

"Interesting enough he came with the name. He's from the most recent batch."

"Recent?" Misha questioned. "All this in a year?" He analyzed the boys cut cone like ear, overlaying holes on his neck, and the hardly hidden — different stages of healing. Mikaél followed his gaze. "I let them govern themselves. As long as the people are fed, extra is done. I see no need to intervene."

"Why is one so young in circulation?" Oshun's concern also began to grow. Mikaél actively pondered. "Zero, when does your kind - " he was interrupted with the announcement of another guest. "General of La Rahim, Sir Chiel." a man in wide legged capris and a breathable shirt entered. Zero side steps to make room.

Mikaél sighed, "why are you present at my meeting?"  Unimpressed with the impeding answer he crossed his arms half listening to this walking corpse. "Apologies, My Lord. Sir Hanahl requests that I deliver all reports." Mikaél released a dramatic burst of air.

Oshun believed it was in everyone's best interest for her to take over. "Request, your leader’s presence, Chiel. Tell him he is to be here in 15 minutes, or I will ensure the rest of his country burns."

"15 minutes? My lady, that is impossible!"

"You are well traveled. I'm sure you'll find a way."

"Lord Misha," he pleaded the room, but Misha shrugged him away and Mikaél hissed. The boy was looking down and would have been of nary assistance. Chiel turned and began running across three countries at remarkable speed.

"Now, Zero. Is it?" her tone low as if speaking to a kitten and yet Zero panicked. "Please, I'll be better! I won't lose the games. I'll be quicker at chores."  Zero lowered his forehead to the ground revealing an orphan symbol. Someone had adopted him and used him as a Tribute in place of their own children. Not uncommon, but the branding meant he was in unfavorable conditions. Both Oshun and Mikaél had a knowing look one another. This was a practice outlawed with the rise of the vampires. Oshun rose from her seat, careful not to make any sudden movement. She shrank all over her seven-foot box frame next to the boy. "Zero," she was conscious of her strength as she placed a hand on his lower back. "Do you know who I am?"

He nodded.

"Look at me."

"Yes, Lady Oshun. Commander, Camp New Dawn. Skimmers Womb."

"Well, that's a new one, Skimmers Womb."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you know something else?" she asked leaning in closer to him. "I help those who have been wronged. It's part of the reason I'm here today."

"Really!" His eyes began to dry. "Even Tributes?"

"Under circumstance." she pondered. "Do you have any special talents?"

"I can make soup and get back up."

"Well — "

"Let me stop you." Mikaél interjected. "He belongs to me. I will be the one to take care of it."

"You wouldn't have even known." Oshun snipped.

"I do now." He snapped back, rubbing his eye replaying an old memory. "Come here," he beckoned the boy and motioned for him to hold out his hand. Mikaél carved his name in a forgotten text on the boy's palm. "Go down to the third level, find Leonna and ask her for a candied chrysanthemum. Pass on the task of refreshment to another on your way. understood?"

Zero nodded and hastened himself in his task.

An uncomfortable silence roamed about the space. Each member avoided their gaze lingering on one person too long. Misha caressed his book reminiscing of a time that ignorance and survival bound them together like his worn pages. Oshun elongated her spine, correcting her posture; mentally boxing her friends who's won many trials alongside her away, leaving the shells of foreign diplomats. And Mikaél, crushing the reflection he's become in his glasses.  Oshun chipped the silence first. "It is unlike Soli to be late." She glanced to Misha's right.

"Ah," he looked up from thought. "She sent me an . . . unorthodox message."

"She wanted you to call after Nerium arrived?" Oshun chuckled under her breath. "Is she still avoiding him?"

"The other way." Mikaél smoothed out flyways developing from stressful perspiration. He took a sip of golden brew and grounded himself in the present, then affixed his glasses high on top of his face. Once satisfied that long dead demons couldn't hurt him any longer, a soft smile went unnoticed by those undetailed.

A knock at the door.  "Enter." Mikaél allowed two women, sporting three small dots on each wrist. They bowed to their master, his guest, then well-rehearsed went in opposite directions placing clear glasses, displaying thick red liquid at each seat. They crossed paths on the other end like a dance, meeting back up at their original placements, bowed to their master’s guest, then their master. "May your glasses never empty for as long as you are a friend." They turned on their heels in 180 and departed as gracefully as they arrived, but the door hung ajar behind them.

"They can fill a glass, but bad manners." Oshun remarked admiring the warmth radiating of steam glass.

That is unusual, indeed. Mikaél thought of getting up to follow through with the server’s task. conspicuous hushes and arguing could be heard several feet away. "ya -Hoo!"A short, curvy woman's bangs popped out around the corner. "Beauty!" Mikaél greeted her with jubilees open arms pulling her the rest of the way around obstacle into his arms. Her shawl performing a curtain around his waist for a layered embrace.

"L-Lady of Macros,” the owner of the scratchy voice hesitated. "Djinn Genei."

"That rascal, couldn't wait." Djinn looked up at Mikaél who was lost in his embrace while absentmindedly brushing her bangs back over her small one-inch horns. "Loyal guards you have."

"Uh, yes" he stepped back embarrassed. "Thank, the generous Oshun." He swept his arms to Oshun who was now on her feet.

"No, it is respect." she reached up and patted his stern chest. "I couldn't convince them of a simple prank."

"Thank you. I don't do much."

"Be careful. They may start to infer intentions if that is true." She took his hand. "Now," she twirled in her layered half revealing dress. "What do you think?"

"Absolutely gorgeous!" He grinned watching her walk away, dismissive pitter-patter overlapped her every step.

"Good. My subjects made it just for the trip. I brought plenty of clothing. spices, and even”, she turned and winked. "Something more. 10,000 Nales." She shook Oshun's hand and nodded a greeting to Misha before crossing her legs in the only backless seat snug in between the two. Her colorful tapestry glowed behind her, two center seemed to endlessly pour into one another.

Mikaél stood by the door dumbfounded. Once he fully comprehended the weight of her words he spun around. "10, 000 Nales?!" He double checked on his fingers and triple checked in the air. "10,000 Nales. How much did you bring? No, wait —" he shook his head "Nales?! that is too much this is not a market."

"Oh, my~" she feigned faint. "The Couriers are long gone, and my poor little wings couldn't possibly."

Misha stifled a chuckle knowing full well the outcome of this conversation. Oshun added sauce to the already sweet dish by patting Djinn pitifully on the head and wiping her dry eyes. "10,000 " Mikaél whispered his resolve weakening. "1,000,000 Selca" he countered weakly.

"My poor Artist will have to ration out crumbs amongst their families." She buried her face underneath Oshun's bosoms. Oshun cajoled her, caressing shoulders in a motherly fashion.

"General of La Rahim, Sir Chiel."

"No, um" he took an awkward step towards her. "2,000,000 and uh 37"

"I suppose they can cover their needle pricks with sweet dreams and drown their sorrows with a berry each."

"My beauty, that is too much. I must also feed my people."

Thwonk