1802 — Blood and Truth
Alaric did not give up.
He crossed ports.
Questioned sailors.
Followed rumors whispered in taverns where no one ever spoke the too-ancient names.
They spoke to him of a forgotten territory.
Of a manor under a veiled moon.
Of a bloodline thought lost.
The closer he got,
the heavier the silences became.
It was in a damp alley, at the edge of a cemetery, that he met him.
A man too pale.
With eyes too bright.
With a voice too calm.
— You seek the one who sleeps beneath the stone.
Alaric understood without understanding.
The vampire smiled.
— She does not die, scholar. She awakens.
The world cracked.
They revealed the truth to him:
Victoria had not succumbed to illness.
She had been marked.
Chosen.
Transformed.
Victoria of Sangremare.
Lunevoile.
Forgotten lineage.
— And you, asked the creature, what would you be willing to become to find her?
Alaric did not answer.
He simply held out the rose.
Still red.
Intact.
The answer was already given.
The bite was quick.
The blood, burning.
The night, infinite.
When he opened his eyes,
the world had changed.
And so had he.
The Waiting
He did not find her.
Not yet.
He wandered.
Between ruins and cold stones.
Between rumors and ancient pacts.
He learned to master the thirst.
To listen to the shadows.
To walk without a reflection.
But he did not feed on blood.
He fed on waiting.
In his dark room,
on a bed too vast,
he kept the rose close to his heart.
It did not wilt.
Or perhaps he did not want to see that it was drying out.
He murmured her name.
Sometimes.
In a low voice.
And on moonless nights,
he thought he heard a violin.