Azrael

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The man ran, but his legs were no longer his own. They were leaden weights, fueled only by the primal, screaming instinct to survive.

Branches whipped against his face like lashings, drawing fresh blood to mix with the sweat blinding his eyes. He didn't wipe it away. He couldn't. To stop for even a heartbeat meant death.

Behind him, the forest of Nox Eternum was alive.

It wasn't just the wind howling through the ancient pines. It was the other sounds. The wet snap of a twig being crushed at unnatural speed. The guttural, playful snarls drifting from the shadows. The rush of air displaced by bodies moving faster than sight.

Vampires.

They were herding him.

His squad—five veteran hunters of the White Wolf—had been slaughtered in seconds. He was the only one left, a rat trapped in a maze, allowed to run only because his fear flavored the meat.

He stumbled, his boot catching on a gnarled root, and crashed shoulder-first into the mud. Pain exploded in his arm, but he scrambled up, clawing at the dirt, gasping for air that tasted of copper and rot.

Ahead, the trees thinned. A break in the canopy. Moonlight spilled onto a vast, grassy field.

Freedom.

If he could just reach the open ground, the village watchmen might see him. The magical barrier might—

His heart gave a violent lurch, hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His legs finally betrayed him. He collapsed onto the cold, damp earth, sliding a few meters before coming to a halt.

He tried to push himself up, but his muscles refused to obey. He could only drag himself forward, fingers digging useless furrows into the soil.

From the darkness behind him came a sound that froze his blood.

Applause.

Slow, deliberate, mocking claps.

"Bravo," a voice purred, smooth as silk and cold as the grave. "You made it further than the others. A spirited performance."

The hunter rolled onto his back, his breath coming in ragged, terrified wheezes.

They emerged from the treeline like ghosts taking form. Ten figures. They didn't look like monsters; they looked like royalty.

They wore pristine white coats and tailored suits that remained impeccably clean despite the mud and gore of the forest. Their skin was pale as marble, their beauty sharp and unnatural.

But the eyes... the eyes were wrong. Burning red orbs, devoid of any soul, filled only with an ancient, insatiable hunger.

One figure stepped forward, separating from the pack.

He was taller than the rest, his presence suffocating. Long white hair cascaded down his back like a waterfall of silk, and his crimson eyes glowed with an intelligence that made the hunter want to weep.

Lord Gudras.

He didn't walk; he glided.

"S-STAY BACK!" the hunter screamed, his voice cracking. He fumbled for his silver katana, brandishing it with a trembling hand. The blade glowed faintly, a pathetic spark against the encroaching night.

Gudras laughed—a soft, melodic sound that terrified the hunter more than a roar would have.

"A sword?" Gudras tilted his head, amused. "Do you really think that piece of metal gives you the right to speak to us, cattle?"

"STAY AWAY!" the hunter swung the blade wildly at the air.

"How tragic," one of the female vampires muttered from behind Gudras, stifling a giggle. "He actually thinks he has a choice."

Gudras sighed, bored. "I admire your will to live, truly. But unfortunately, we have a dream to fulfill. And you filthy humans... are cluttering our world."

In a blur of motion, Gudras vanished.

Before the hunter could blink, the vampire lord was crouching over him. A pale hand clamped around the hunter’s wrist.

Crack.

The sound of bone fracturing was sickeningly loud. The hunter screamed, the katana dropping from his useless fingers into the mud.

Gudras didn't let go. With his other hand, he grabbed the hunter's chin, forcing his face up.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. It was a command woven into the magic of his voice.

The hunter stared into those abyss-like red eyes. His body went rigid. The pain faded, replaced by a cold, numbing lethargy. His heart slowed. His mind went blank.

"You are not a bad person," Gudras whispered, his voice like a lullaby. "Just a soul led astray. The only mercy I can offer you... is a painless end."

He stood up, wiping his hand on a handkerchief produced from thin air.

"Gravil. Finish him. Try not to make a mess. Then... you may feed."

A young vampire stepped forward. He looked no older than sixteen, with a face that could have been angelic if not for the cruel twist of his lips.

"Yes, Lord Gudras."

Gravil raised his hand. The air around his fingers distorted. Red energy—blood magic—coalesced into a swirling sphere of liquid fire, humming with unstable power. He aimed it directly at the hunter's chest.

"Consider yourself lucky," Gravil sneered. "Most don't get a funeral pyre."

The magic flared. The execution was ready.

THUD.

The sound was heavy. Metallic.

It wasn't the sound of magic. It was the sound of a boot striking the earth with the weight of a mountain.

Gravil flinched, the spell in his hand flickering.

The vampires froze. Their heads snapped toward the shadows of the forest path.

Silence fell over the clearing. The crickets stopped chirping. The wind died. It was as if the night itself was holding its breath in anticipation.

"What are you waiting for, Gravil?" Gudras asked sharply, his eyes narrowing.

"I... I don't know, My Lord," Gravil stammered, his hand shaking. The magic sphere dissipated into mist. "My arm... it's trembling. My instincts... they're screaming to run."

From the suffocating darkness of the trees, a silhouette emerged.

He walked slowly. Deliberately.

A tattered black cloak billowed around him like smoke. Wild, raven-black hair swayed in the unseen breeze. On his back, a massive greatsword—a slab of black iron that no ordinary man could lift—rested as lightly as a feather.

He stopped ten paces away.

He was just a man. Young. Human. No magical aura surrounded him. No holy light.

But his eyes.

They burned with a cold, piercing blue light that cut through the gloom, brighter and colder than the stars.

Gudras stepped forward, his arrogance warring with a sudden, unfamiliar chill in his spine.

"Who are you, human?"

The warrior didn't answer immediately. His blue gaze swept over the vampires, calculating, dissecting. Then it drifted to the broken hunter on the ground.

Finally, he spoke.

"Me?"

His voice was deep, devoid of emotion. The voice of a judge reading a sentence.

"I'm just a human."

Gudras stiffened. The air pressure around them seemed to drop, crushing down on their chests. This was no ordinary human. This was a predator walking among sheep.

"No..." the vampire lord whispered, stepping back involuntarily. "You are much more. What is your name?"

The young man reached over his shoulder. His hand grasped the hilt of the black greatsword.

SHIIING.

The sound of the blade leaving its sheath rang out—pure, sharp, and terrifying. He leveled the massive weapon at Gudras with one hand.

"Since you showed mercy to that man... I'll tell you."

The blue flames in his eyes flared.

"My name is Azrael. Azrael Noctis."

And in that moment—for the first time in centuries—the monsters learned what it meant to be afraid.