The Chronicles of Nemesis: Touch of the Blackthorn: The Chronicles of Nemesis, #1

By Andrea Kriksic

This is a story of power and what it takes to obtain it, the price one pays for it, and all the sweet benefits of owning it. I am Nemesis Blackslayer; a vampire born; Raised in fires of war and forged in fires of survival. Many wished to kill me and many more failed to see me fall. I fear no Death, it tested my resilience at birth and found me fitting to stand as its champion and extended hand of will. I am known by many names, a list of which you will find in my story.

First in line of 10 books to be released in the series under this name, Nemesis Blackslayer, stands as a throwback to the golden days of Dungeons and Dragons book releases; With its own story, original setting, monsters, and everything a good adventure needs. As someone who grew up reading such books and playing through a solid amount of sessions with this book, I want to bring back the old values in fantasy, for all of us DnD lovers to read through. Mixed in vampire lore of old; Vampires of this series are just that - MONSTERS who kill and have no shame about it; Humans are food, not romantic interests. An existing aspect of romance is set within the boundary of vampire society and kin.

So If you like Dungeons and Dragons, all books related to it, played the game - This is for you.
If by any chance Saga of Drizzt ( Written by R. A. Salvatore ) happens to be your cup of tea - This is for you.
If you like horror and gore and wish to read about vampires  with all the aspects of the nature of the beast - This is for you.
For all dark fantasy lovers out there, for all those seeking something different, old-fashioned, and brutally honest of things we so rearly dare to talk about - This is for you.

I appreciate your support and feel free to leave a review on how you liked it.

With warm greetings,

Andrea Kriksic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Kriksic
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201734466

Book preview

I am Nemesis

This is my home.

I’ve come for what is mine.

I found what you wanted to hide.

THE HEARTBEAT OF WAR paced furiously like never before. For the first time since its inception and founding, Redthrone was at war. With an enemy, they had long since learned to fear. They tried to destroy it; time and time again she rose from the ashes. Exiled, they foolishly thought it over. It is not. The banished princess arrived home, looking for revenge for all life in Redthrone gave her, payback to all who stood in her way. Several names on lips, all dead upon entry. Highborn or lowborn, everyone standing behind that door stands to make a decision of his or her destiny; stand by her as an ally, or die under the blade as an enemy.

On the walls of the outer palisades stood a group of powerful opponents. All waiting for this moment. Not alone, she returned with a group of allies equally motivated to follow and take what Redthrone owed them.

She burned, bleed, died, and was reborn out of ashes; ready to take off the layers of armour, masks, roles, and false faces the world made her wear. Nemesis they exiled will never return home; The deep black sea ate that naive vampire youngling. Fierce foe stands before the homeland, ready to see it ablaze in the pyre of retribution. 

˝ You will see the city drown back into the sand before I let you enjoy it! ˝ Nemesis shouted towards the top of the wall, flaming blade in hand pointed upwards, at her sister, formally crowned queen. The real power in the hands of another, one threat was intended for. The only rival in power behind the wall; is Morgana. Nemesis came for her head and cold dead heart. On this day the city will fall under the rule of one; bathed in the blood of the other.

Revenge and payback await behind the walls...

The gift

GIFT MEANT TO BE GIVEN publicly, before gathered elders of notable bloodlines. No one bought the lie of a formal army takeover; Cromwell would never leave the command of it in her hands. She hated him above all other vampires in Redthrone; Craved his blood. Knew the bastard to depths of the black corrupt soul and unbeating dead heart, tasted core of evil male carried so proudly many times over.

˝ Tell me you have something new for me this time. Old games are played out, getting predictable. ˝ Sitting opposite the father in a dress that hid very little, Nemesis appeared unamused. Almost naked; dress opened all the way to half of the waist on both sides of thighs, strapless, with open back. Held only by the fact it was deliberately made two sizes smaller and, as such, clung tightly to the body. Nothing foreign; modesty and purity are not ideas of Redthrone value, she least of all. It is well known there is nothing in between with her; you see everything or nothing. Nemesis owned a few dresses, preferring a small collection of various armour sets over them any day.

Laughing, Cromwell replied;

˝ Why such distrust? ˝ A sarcastic look on her part was a sufficient answer to his question. Cromwell loved to point out she was not truly his blood. The way he measured her body sent tingles through the entire length of her spine. She hated it when he did it. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of, muscular body attracted the attention of males often. Especially those who were, like her, born inside the walls. None particularly attractive as a potential mate. Here and there one or two would warm a usually cold bed but nothing serious. One-night stands with no obligations. Ending as soon as all got what they came for. A body carved into fantasy adorned with black eyes is hard to look at for long. Dark violet hair bound in a braid with elements of silver ornaments entwined into it, falling all the way to the end of the back. A silver wire chain of broken red crystals around the neck illuminated ghost-white skin. When a ray of light touched it, the necklace would shine red light, shining from black walls all around the nightmare pulling open hearse. The street leading to the hall was endless.

The hall. Fucking hall of Mirrors. She hated it.

Heard ridicule at own expense long before arrival. Close to home, this huge villa had only one function; the masquerade. Socialising, acting, and wearing masks absent of purpose - no one can be trusted even if showing face. Beautiful in decoration inside out; with statues, stone candlesticks, thousands of mirrors, and only the finest materials. Filthiest building in Redthrone, both in and out. Glossy floors polished to perfection made it impossible to avoid reflection in it. What she saw in hers was someone else, a vampire nonexistent. Attempted not to look down, avoiding contact with any reflective surface. Impossible. There is something at every step, it forces you to face yourself. She wasn't ready. Not after the recent turn of events. Faces of guests reminded her why she didn't fit in, no one could look into black eyes for long. All saw her as a highborn monster, surviving birth due to the fact her mother held the position she did.

˝ I don't have time for this shit. ˝ She answered firmly. Left speechless when Cromwell finally uncovered the cloth of the gift sitting on the floor between them. She stood up in fear, nearly falling backward into the crowd seeing it.

˝ You must be joking! ˝ She exclaimed fiercely. Much like other gathered guests stood in fear of public torment about to unravel. Short asshole was the grand master of it.

Nodding left and right Cromwell laughed;

˝ Appropriate gift. ˝ He remarked snickering.

˝ They say only the legendary Lauron can teach you something new, so here you are - learn. ˝ He wasn't joking, he forced his hand on the handle of the two-handed sword. She struggled to avoid any contact with it by any possible means, clutching her fingers tighter until long claws broke through the soft skin of the palm.

Blackslayer, known as the Black Thorn.

For years, she watched it in the royal library as a trophy, never daring to approach the glass in which it slept. With reason. Impossible to hold in hand; the handle is decorated with elements of metal thorns along its entire length; whoever takes it in hands suffers bleeding continuously when they impale the skin of the palm. Five gems fused with the handle when it was forged. Black metal polished to the point of reflection when clean. Only the metal of stellar fire can be polished and sharpened so far without breaking. Cromwell never even bothered, all these years the blade was left to wait firmly locked in a glass closet in the library. Touched only by dust and particles of sand stuck inside the glass case.

Even at this distance, she could feel the power within the blade; anyone with wit dares not to touch it. Only the legendary Warblade knew the secret of ruling the arbitrariness of the blade for which he became famous. All who hoped to master it following him fell victim to curse; by the whole range of spells, hidden deep in the five most beautiful light blue colours. Blade waited dormant for a fitting master. Until today, when Cromwell decided to pull it out of rest. With only one intent; punishment and downgrading of daughter, a threat to his rule.

Looking at the reflection in the blade thought crossed mind;

˝ I should have known he would pull this relic out of rest. He played so far, now it's serious. Don't let him win, take the blade and drive it straight down his throat. Even if it punishes you for it. He deserves it. Rise above his games. He can't break you. ˝ She could hear the voice from within answering thoughts. It spoke using an eerie silent voice, warning and calling to be taken in hand at the same time. She gave him and all gathered a promise with bitter spite behind spoken words as fingers opened to hold it:

˝ One day you will open your eyes to see my sword at the base of your neck, begging me not to use it. I will bathe in your blood Cromwell, I swear. ˝

˝ I'm offering you one. Come on, take it. ˝ He dared her. Two-handed sword long enough to travel through the full torso if pushed between the jaws. Cromwell was not known for height, some of the edges would be exposed following the successful hit. Blade called to be taken. Perhaps if she offered fresh blood with the first blow it might show mercy. The dry edge of the blade knows to be relentless in hunger, it must be starving for blood. According to myth, Lauron cleaned it with fresh blood to keep it at peak sharpness and under control.

Desperate times call for desperate measures; Hand moved to take the sword, daring Cromwell's power as she had always done. Grabbed firm and raised blade swung deftly enough to cut into his neck. He dodged, leaving the wound superficial - enough for the blade to taste fine royal blood left alive through the first cut. She remained standing with the blade in hands, closed palm around the handle in a firm grip, feeling the thorns break through soft palm skin, demanding more blood. It was not light, heavier than she could imagine. The metal itself is not easy to work with, thick, and unsuitable for melting. If one is lucky enough to get a hand on it, bending the shape requires living dragon fire. She tightened the grip in answer to the pain. In years of training for the vampire army, she had to learn to hold much heavier weapons and master them - survival depended on it.

The room fell silent.

Even the king stood visibly shaken. Perhaps he was wrong; If Nemesis claims The Blackslayer his position as king, authority, and very existence could turn highly questionable amongst many rivals. List long as high walls of Redthrone, personal and political rivals seeking little cause to stand up and see dead upon throne bastard refused to give up.

She intended just that - to master the blade. Long enough to shove it between his teeth, deep through the soft flesh of throat and neck. Return all the well-meaning services this rude, bald male gave through life. Taking a step closer, ready to take the risk; if strike fails some form of madness can always be the gift. The blade bestowed it to mother last time Cromwell decided to showcase his treasured find and amuse allies with a death show. Her mother survived the ordeal, Nemesis can't do

less.

They say the queen fell to the ground following the betrayal of her mate, giving her common sense as a sacrifice to the blade in return for survival. Shortly after fighting for the life of her second daughter near the Blood Well. Cromwell tolerated political enemies and disliked free-willed females, his queen stood as both. The brilliant mind of a political mastermind surpassed his ten times over, turning mate into a political threat. When brought before the condemnation of the blade no one expected such a mild punishment of Lilyth. At least he hoped for physical deformations, burning from the inside out or worse; something tangible. The Queen kept appearance at the price of the last bits of sanity left in her.

One look at the queen made him laugh; nervous she walked from one end of the room to the other in a deep quarrel with herself; yelling in another lucid episode. The Queen talked nonsense; of sand dancing in a jar made of water. It only passed as normal because it amused him. Encouraged to show it openly in order to diminish the queen's political power. No one but him had the right to judge the queen. If she decided to walk the streets of Redthrone naked and sing of black unicorns no one was to stop her, as long as he was amused. Nemesis would openly stand in the way of such episodes, defending only the vampire who stood in defence of a bastard daughter unwanted by the world, paying for it with a sane mind. Her mother hated her. Said countless times Nemesis was the reason for her downfall. True as it may be, Nemesis was the only one staying in defence when everyone else didn't dare to oppose the king's amusement.

The time came for the daughter to suffer the same.

A wave of painful agony began to spread through the young body, magic carved into a skeletal vampire structure, changing everything within. The incision from the top of the skull to the back of legs felt clear, accompanied by a sense of living fire burning inside out, ready to devour where she stood. Black eyes filled with pain and suffering but, looking at Cromwell, showed no surrender in tears. Wanted to scream. So hard. Couldn't let him win. Through years of training, she learned pain and types of it, but none tore flesh and bones in this way. It showed no signs of slowing, it intensified, and hurt endlessly more and more. Painful magic turned focus from bones into flesh and muscles that connected to them; cutting through soft and sensitive muscle, breaking through, carving burns into the surface of white skin.

She screamed. Couldn't take it anymore.

Knee gave way and touched the floor. Screaming ever more loudly and painfully for it; choosing to touch the ground with any part of the body was a mistake - contact of skin with the floor would be sufficient punishment, without magic pressure on the flesh and bones from within. For a moment, Cromwell felt a sweet sense of victory. Laughing at the princess, holding the queen in a tight grip, made to watch, look straight into the scene before her.

˝ You thought you were so smart. Invading my home with foreign blood, made me live with it. You can't save her. Not this time. ˝ Words served back with vengeance to choke on when Nemesis stood up. The same order of red vampire runes engraved in the right hand as in the backbone of the blade in hand, for all to see, making it clear to everyone gathered that the Blackslayer choose its master, merging with her body as proof. It did not kill - It strengthened. Nemesis offered and paid the price of mastery; skin no longer completely white. Lines of vampire runes in bright red stood written on it, on parts of neck and face, still fresh raised remains of burnt scars cooling down to settle in the skin in light healing white.

Cromwell shivered with rage, others with fear. They knew her as an opponent not easy to kill to begin with, in possession of skill requiring years and years of effort, blood, and struggle to be successfully exploited. Victory over the will of the black blade could cost all who hoped to destroy her their existence should she turn against them. Cromwell didn’t win, he did, however, gather a solid audience to see her do so against him. Word will spread quickly through Redthrone, and everyone will know.

Standing ready to feed Cromwell the gift, eager to do it, even though aware it was not yet time. Nemesis knew she could kill him at any moment; now in possession of the Blackslayer, experience, and knowledge to use it with fair efficiency. Killing Cromwell was never a matter of skill, rather political power. Cypher is a creature fast enough to get her out of the city in time, no one can stand in her way with him underneath. Death will ride on his back, death will strike if he stops and disappears in the darkness of the sand island.

When the time is right, not yet. Redthrone has time to bathe in blood, it's not the first time it had. The tip of the blade stood pointed at the short bastard, all incised runes on her skin and blade glowing inside out in a deep shade of green;

˝ Leave mother out of this Cromwell. This is between you and me. ˝ She warned

˝ Double the guards, death in your shadow has just risen greater. If you are not careful, you may be overwhelmed and disappear into its gaping jaw. ˝ She tried to leave, blocked by bloodline standing firm in place, showing no fear as always. It didn't matter what powers she had, what she knew, and how well she fought. Not to Cassandra. After all she had done to obtain it Cassandra had no intention to let go of birthright just like that; The Throne of Redthrone - Not without a fight.

The red sand of time

REDTHRONE. A METROPOLIS of vampire society. Fortress on the island world no longer remembers. Known only by the name of one who resurrected it from oblivion, after whom it is still known today; Morgana. Those who call it home call the island Morganus, the rest of the world remains oblivious to its existence. New maps don't show it, old ones are hard to come by. Nothing good lives there; Death rules the domain of darkness, lurking at every inch of sand-filled island and deep oceans on all four sides of the world. Even if a skilled sailor finds a way to get through the darkness, and navigate through the dangers of the sea and monstrous creatures lurking beneath it, he will find nothing but dangers and more monsters adapted to live in conditions where the eye of the living is blind. They hide under the red sand and underground caverns, waiting to destroy all threats to a secret hidden deep under the sand. Beneath the solid surface of chilled volcanic magma formed from the remnants of ether magic responsible for the creation of all things.

If legends are to be believed, the origin of the island is attributed to the gods, who, in search of individuals ready to rise from something transient, seek a path to immortality. Together, they broke the parts of the ether energy enveloping the world, connected again to give birth to a field for training and testing the desires of those brave enough to face it. Every grain of red sand is shrouded in magic, every form of monstrous calling it home pure magic. Everything on the island grows bigger and more dangerous than anywhere else in the world. Although at first glance there is nothing; a Red carpet of sand as far as the eye can see, if you have eyes accustomed to such darkness to see in it. To those removed the gift it seems as if one fell into the wastelands of empty space somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It's impossible to orient oneself with a sense of time, it is inverted and reversed in so many ways. Just when you think you’ve figured out where you are and when, magic surprises you, and throws you into a sense of the past or the uncertainty of the future. Nothing is safe on the sand. Sound is non-existent in true form, it comes with a delay, muffled by sounds not produced.

Yet, one creature found a way to survive there. A vampire. The Lord of darkness and shadow raised the city from the sand, and fortified the walls with immortal flesh and blood, forming a civilization far removed from the growing human threat. They adapted to life in the circumstances around them. Not out of desire - out of need.

The world stopped fearing the vampire and forgot their strength and power. From a hunter vampire turned to prey, left to die in memory of a legend it once had. On the verge of extinction, the last of the vampire lineage gathered and left the world of humans, led by one promising everything the old world denied. Pushed down to live on knees, destroyed of fortifications and stolen blood; Offering something the human race will never have - immortality and long life. Slaves to humans, sheep they once fed off, all attempts to return given blows would mealy stifle an enemy they did not know how to defeat; Hunters specialized in killing creatures not born out of light. Living in the darkness vampires have a gift so precious to all creatures who don't have it desire; Not limited by years, by the concept of the passage of time, a messenger of death walks in their shadow but does not touch. Those who chose to stay ended up hunted to the last. The old world no longer knows vampire kin.

Walls built of black stone with veins of deep red trough which light penetrates inside out. Breaking the darkness just enough so the monsters with which they share the island prefer to keep distance. Veins of light spread throughout the city, and vampires co-exist in veins of dim light, absorbing the magic by living along it. There is no need to seek blood; they live surrounded by the living blood of those who sacrificed everything they could give, their blood and flesh, so the city rises from the sand. Nothing is given; If you want it - you have to give something in return. They wanted refuge, paid for with their lives.

Redthrone is a prison. Surrounded on all four sides by darkness even the vampire sight no longer penetrates, trapped inside the city under the influence of the magic comfort it provides. Redthrone vampires forgot to hunt. Forgot what it means to listen to the soothing cries of dying humans, to feed on the suffering and pain of natural prey, to master it. Instead, they turned to each other, driven by old blood wars, pride, and revenge.

Inside the walls they have everything needed; homes separated by long streets, buildings only vampires can form in such beauty, seven tall towers whose main function is to overlook the city, and the largest standing army of vampires they ever had. Vampires formed a society built on old rules in equal measure to the new, with strict regulation and a dominant tradition. Divided into highborn and lowborn, the two castes rarely socialise openly. If it happens it happens in the shadows.

The beginning

THE ISLAND WAS. IT always will be. A dark secret is hidden in a domain where rays of light never set. Place sun is terrified to shine upon to reveal the horrors it would have to its sight. Place reserved for the strong and brave.

That's how it was for aeons. Until...

Until human curiosity saw the White Horns, the only gateway into the darkness. Sailors travelled deep until they got their answer to the eternal question- Is there an end? In place of the end, they discovered white horns, and high rock formations rising from the sea. Behind it darkness, the deepest one they could imagine. A spark of curiosity in the human heart ignited the flame, it had to know what secrets it held. Expeditions, one after the other and then the third. Ended with the same result; either no one returned, or did, blind and mad. Telling stories of voices that accompany them in the daytime and images of nightmares so real preventing sleep until imminent death. What the eye sees in darkness is not meant for the eyes of mortals. Lesson living learned the hard way.

Perhaps the best-documented expedition is one led by Belphond Erivale, wizard of world renown power. He broke the secret of darkness and found a way to illuminate it long enough to see into it, paying for it with mind and body. Over a hundred people followed him, only he returned. Some were slaughtered in a ship revolt, some refused to go through the door and preferred to throw themselves into the sea, others were swallowed by the Black Sea, and the rest fell one by one when they set out to explore the island. Belphont lost memory of how he returned. Found wandering the sea alone, on a small boat made of rotten wood. He was talking to himself, turning in an insane manner, and screaming in fear as soon as eyes fell in the direction where the door was, to the east. He never looked east again. Belphont left valuable notes behind but never saw or understood the world again. He paid the price of curiosity. Lost eyes as a result of magic; strong enough to dispel the darkness but taking sight in return. The same magic in the old world would be blinding. Belphont realised that too late. Admittedly, if he ever understood.

Morgana, a famous sorceress of the necropolis Larrat, found the notes. She knew of the dangers but made a call to risk her own life and the lives of those who decided to follow. Enlightened, an organization of hunters from all over the world began to breathe down at their necks, destroying fortresses one by one until their domain fell under the rule of the Order. Vampires became servants, slaves, and cheap entertainment for the masses. United behind Morgana, the last breath of a corpse called vampire society left the old world in search of their own. Hesitated, yes. It is not easy to look upon the wall of darkness and door outlined by white stone in the shape of horns rising from the deep black sea. Decorated with thousands of smaller statues of intricate bodies trapped in the appearance of eternal torment, arms outstretched in their last attempt at escape.

Belphond wrote of this;

I didn't dare to take the offered hand, I'm afraid it would pull me in. I dared to swim together with those fleeing to look into the bottom of the black sea. The darkness of hopelessness looks back at you, thousands and thousands of small eyes watch from the darkness, large ones in size with equal curiosity. Pillars. Horns are pillars with curved tops. Bodies I saw on the surface continue their entire length into the depths. As far as I personally had the opportunity to see humanoids make up only the top, beneath them are forms and monsters in an equal state of terror and fear. They two held out their hands to me. I did not accept the offer and didn't dare to dive too deep. It was that sound, the loud sound of a voice that I understood but didn’t recognize - neither humanoid nor of monster origin. I still hear it in my head to this day. It spoke;

Living has no place behind my horns.

Based on that I made the decision to classify what we know as the White Horns as an ancient, perhaps titan-aged living entity. It guards the entrance to darkness, maybe even is the darkness. Whatever it was, the warning was enough to drive me out of the water, but not back home. The award must be legendary if kept so well. I had to know more.

Taken from Adventure into darkness by

Belphond Erivale

Any further expeditions into the domain led to the same result; crazy, blind, and lucid. More and more theories of doors leading into the domain of Death, a titan whose shadow falls over every living creature in the world. The more they dug around its domain, the more furious Death became. Shortly after the great wave of death ravaged much of the world population, a theory began to gain more following. No one went through the door, at least not alive. Ships with dying sent through them, as an apology to the titan. Practice lasted for a solid number of years until it became too expensive to maintain. Ship after ship, full of dead and dying, sank into the ocean as soon as it passed the door; So much they saw. What they failed to see were monsters feasting on remnants of their gifts. However, over time, the practice became too expensive and living wanted to keep the bodies of their loved ones closer, where they could visit them, and mourn. Temple Cities began to rise, places where the dead found their peace under the safety and protection of gods of the afterlife.

Morgana, a vampire not bound by the limitations of death, found the secret scroll during a visit to old Belphont in a villa near the coast. Retired in solitude, waiting for the last days of life to pass, hoping all those outstretched hands would not reach for the return of his essence. He spoke often of hearing their call, reaching out in hopes of pulling out the last breath of life from a shell called man. This is where her campaign began, the decision to silence warnings and pleas to change her mind came from. Desperate times look for desperate solutions. Vampire kind had nowhere to go back to, this promised to be their last resort.

Morgana was not alone. Her mate, Lauron, equally tired from the fight lost, followed. He struggled with humans pushing vampires into the last space of dignity for years, he too ran out of manoeuvrable space. His kind became almost human, less and less of vampire blood and glory. Amongst themselves, vampires fought for supremacy and power in a kingdom falling apart before their eyes. He believed as much as Morgana did; there has to be something more, something better. As insane as that sounded at the time, Lauron had to try. To perhaps regroup in peace and return the blow received when a vampire as such is strong enough to do so. Or die trying.

She had the influence, he was the weapon. The ideal combination to succeed. His army and her knowledge, all they had to offer. Lauron took only a few sentimental trifles; armour he used in battles from the past and his blade, legendary Blackslayer. The world got to know him through it. Legend of Lauron was carved by it. The blade is strong, and length and weight ensures tearing of meat and bones if you know how to use it. He did and did so well. Blackslayer was his weapon, the magic of the Fire Dragon, the distinctive spell of Morgana. Enough to break the darkness and keep monsters at bay. A great number of vampire expedition fell victim to the spell, survivors paid the price of crossing with appearance. Scars deeply inflicted, never to heal burned sections of skin.

Regardless of the price they paid, vampires passed through the gates. To everyone's surprise and shock they passed unharmed. Just like Morgana told them. Living cannot pass, only the dead have the right to enter the darkness. The water hit huge ships, they could hear it but not see. Morgana waited for the right moment to summon the dragon of light into a world of darkness strategically, based on what she learned it is best to keep everyone blind to it. Belphond advised her so personally. A desperate expedition floated in the dimension of time, levitating in an ether space of nothing, pointlessly lost in darkness. Lauron took a risk, reached through the window of the ship, and tested it. Icy cold. It should be frozen according to all known laws of nature. But it is not so. Water is ice but liquid. It left a feeling of burning salt between fingers. Speech between passengers on all ships varied between accelerated and decelerated. Sound faded and came on abruptly, speaking words not yet said. Holes in time. For a moment they knew where and when they were, for another utterly lost to the idea. Enough to chase anyone out through the soft light of a fading door. Option receded soon, the door started to shrink until it disappeared. There was no going back. Not anymore.

As the first ships touched the shore, a light appeared in the sky above, cast by the magic of sorceress Morgana. There is an island, it is true. And yes, it is full of creatures of nightmares just like the sea behind them.

˝ You crossed the sea, pay the price. ˝ Loud voice spoke inside the head of the sorceress removed time to warn others before monsters of the water snatched the last ship with all its passengers, others fled to the sandy ground, looking in shock and wondering what was going on. On one side hordes of monsters staring at, on the other, sea feasting on a served wooden plate of vampire flesh. As soon as Morgana ran, so did others burning in dimmed sunlight yet healed in equal measure as burned. More paid the price for crossing the island when sand erupted beneath their feet, releasing the jaws of thousand monsters hungry for the flesh of undying. Voice grew louder. It led across the sand to where she was told to stop. Suddenly the dragon stopped giving light, leaving everyone at mercy of creatures that followed the scent of fresh blood. A large number paid the price for that negligence. She should have known this is no ordinary darkness; It devours everything it is given and does not tolerate light. It suffocates life and air out of everything it touches. Upon repeated summoning light showed death. Beneath the feet of Morgana stood a dead army of vampire corpses. Survivors stood in a zone of delayed screams and pain. One of the fallen Lauron and his sword, the legendary Blackslayer, sank into the sand next to a lifeless body. Redthrone was built on his last sacrifice, out of Morgana's pain and screams of horror a great city was erected, walls guarding the last elements of what a vampire is.

How much is actually left of the ancient monster known as the vampire remains as freedom of opinion. Legends and myths change from one memory to another if given enough time; the truth never dies. Redthrone stands today a shadow of what it was on the day of creation. Conceived as a place of gathering Redthrone is the centre of war vampires took with them; Bloodline honour, power, and lineage. One bloodline is stronger, older, and greater than the other. Old secrets, intrigues, and lies. Just like