The Weight of Legacy

The cold night stretched endlessly, cloaking the towering spires of Blackthorne Keep in darkness. The blood moon hung heavy in the sky, casting an eerie crimson glow upon the castle’s courtyard, where a lone figure stood—Princess Azrael of House Vauclain, the Midnight Heir of the Vampire Throne.

Her breath was steady, measured, though anticipation coiled in her veins like a serpent ready to strike. Dressed in an intricate black battle suit woven with enchanted threads. Her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back, her golden eyes burning with lethal focus

This was the night of the Eclipsed Moon Trials—a brutal tradition where only the strongest of vampire nobility proved their worth in combat. But Azrael was not here to simply prove herself. She was here to win—to remind them all why she was the daughter of Valerion, the Blood Emperor.

The sound of clapping cut through the courtyard—slow, mocking

Her twin brother, Raphael, stepped into the blood-drenched moonlight, his expression sharp with amusement. His snow-white hair, a reflection of their father’s, caught the light, a stark contrast to the black steel of his armor.

“Sister,” he drawled, smirking. “You always did have a flair for dramatics.”

Azrael did not smile. “And you always did enjoy hearing yourself speak.”

His laughter was smooth, practiced. “Perhaps. But I wonder, do you truly believe you can win?”

“I don’t believe,” she said coolly. “I know.”

The nobility were gathered, they were whispering among themselves then as the duel began, the courtyard fell silent

A chilling breeze swept through the courtyard as Raphael lunged forward without warning.

Azrael barely dodged the first strike, tilting her head as his blade whistled past her cheek, slicing through strands of her black hair.

He was fast but she was untouchable

She sidestepped, twisting around him in a split second her own blade flashed as she slashed at his ribs. Steel met steel in a symphony of ringing clashes as they traded blows—each strike swift, deadly, precise.

Raphael fought with calculated aggression, each movement crisp and efficient. His snow-white hair whipped through the air as he twisted, parried, and countered with relentless precision.

Azrael, however, was unpredictable. She did not fight with rigid formality, but with a lethal grace that mimicked a shadow slipping through cracks. She ducked low, rolled beneath his sweeping strike, and countered with an upward slash, forcing him to leap back.

“You’re holding back,” he taunted, circling her like a predator.

“So are you,” she shot back, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip.

The gathered court watched in breathless silence as the siblings vanished and reappeared across the courtyard, clashing in bursts of violent speed. Every impact sent shockwaves rippling through the air, cracking the stone beneath their feet

Azrael’s movements were precise, but Raphael was overpowering her with sheer force. He drove her back, pressing the attack with a flurry of vicious strikes—each one heavier than the last. She blocked, deflected, but her arms ached from the relentless impact.

Then, she saw her opening

Raphael overextended on his next strike—a fraction of a second too slow. Azrael twisted her blade, redirecting his momentum, and drove her knee into his ribs.

He staggered back, his smirk vanishing

Now! Azrael vanished and in the blink of an eye, she appeared behind him. She drove her sword forward, aiming for his shoulder

But Raphael was ready.

Faster than a breath, he spun—and his fist collided with her stomach, sending her flying back.

Azrael crashed into the stone with brutal force, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs.

The court gasped.

Raphael walked forward, his blade glinting under the crimson moon. “Stay down, sister. Father already favors me, you know this. Surrender, and perhaps I’ll show mercy.”

Azrael’s fingers curled against the shattered stone. Mercy?

Slowly, she pushed herself up, wiping the blood from her mouth. Her golden eyes burned with defiance.

“I am Azrael Vauclain.” Her voice was unwavering “And I do not yield!"

A shadow could around her as she tapped into her power, the darkness bending to her will

Raphael lunged, but this time Azrael was faster.

She vanished into the shadows, her form flickering like smoke. Then she was behind him.

Raphael had only enough time to widen his eyes before her blade pressed against his throat.

The courtyard fell into grave silence

The nobles stared in stunned disbelief as Azrael stood with her sword at her twin brother’s neck, her golden eyes burning with victory. She had won.

Raphael’s chest rose and fell heavily. Slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Hmph. Well played.”

Azrael’s grip on her sword tightened, but before she could say anything, a slow clap echoed through the courtyard

And it came from her father

The Vampire King Valerion remained seated on his throne, his wine-red eyes locked onto them both. He neither smiled nor frowned—his face was a mask of cold detachment.

“Finally.” His voice was smooth, unreadable. “On your tenth duel, you have managed a single victory.”

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Azrael’s jaw clenched.

She had trained relentlessly, fought tirelessly, but all he saw was one win out of ten.

Valerion leaned back, his presence suffocating. “You’re improving, at least. But it is consistency that defines strength, not a fleeting moment of triumph.”

A quiet, knowing smirk curled on Raphael’s lips as he wiped the blood from his chin. “Father’s right, sister. One victory hardly tips the scales.” He took a step closer, voice dropping just for her. “You’ll never be my equal.”

Azrael felt her blood simmer, but she swallowed the urge to lash out.

She could not afford to lose control.

Valerion’s gaze flickered over them both. Then, without another word, he rose from his throne.

The trial was over.

The nobles dispersed, murmuring amongst themselves. Some spared her glances of mild surprise, but none looked at her as a true contender for the throne.

Azrael turned sharply on her heel, fists clenched as she strode out of the courtyard.

She had won. And yet, it meant nothing.

Azrael’s boots echoed sharply against the stone corridors. She stormed down the halls, tension radiating off her like a storm cloud.

A familiar voice called out. “Azrael!”

She didn’t stop. “Not now, Eva.”

Eva quickened her pace, catching up with her. “Oh no, you don’t. Not when you just beat that insufferable brother of yours.”

Azrael scoffed. “Did I? My Father didn’t seem to think so.”

Eva studied her, then smiled, voice warm. “You were incredible, Azrael. They saw it. He saw it. Even if he refuses to say it.”

Azrael exhaled sharply as they entered her chambers. The moment the doors shut, she turned, her expression dark.

“It’s not enough.” She yanked off her gloves, tossing them aside. “I need more than a single victory. I need to prove that I am more fit to rule than Raphael. I need to show this court that I am not some—” She waved a hand in frustration. “—decorative princess to be auctioned off to the highest noble.”

Eva folded her arms. “The suitors again?”

Azrael shot her a look. “They circle like vultures. It’s only a matter of time before my father asks me to marry one of them.”

Eva’s lips curved in amusement. “Poor fools. They have no idea who they’re dealing with.”

Azrael allowed a small smirk before it faded. “That’s precisely the problem, Eva. They think I’m just another noble daughter to be wed and bred for power.” Her golden eyes burned. “I want more. I deserve more.”

Eva stepped closer, voice softer. “And you will have it. I believe in you, Azrael.”

Azrael’s expression wavered for just a second. Then, a small breath of a laugh. “What would I ever do without you?”

Before Eva could answer, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Both women turned as a courier entered, bowing deeply.

“Your Highness. Mistress Eva. The King has called a war council.”

The war council chamber buzzed with restless whispers. Lords and generals shifted in their seats, the tension thick as fog

Azrael took her place at the long stone table, opposite Raphael. Valerion sat at the head, his presence commanding absolute silence.

A messenger stepped forward, pale and shaken. “A massacre, my King. At the borderlands.”

Murmurs rippled through the court.

The messenger continued, voice grave.

“A noble family hosted a ball last night. Dozens of esteemed guests in attendance. At dawn, their estate was found in ruin.”

The air grew cold.

“They were slaughtered.” His voice trembled. “Bodies torn to shreds. Limbs ripped apart. Blood painted across the walls like a savage display.”

A sharp inhale from one of the lords. Another noble covered his mouth, looking sick.

The description alone was enough to curdle blood.

A grave silence fell before Lord Cassius spoke, voice grim. “Only one explanation fits.”

Another lord nodded. “Lycan attack.”

More voices joined in agreement, each more convinced than the last.

Azrael’s hands curled into fists. The hatred was instant, instinctual. Werewolves. Beasts. Monsters.

She lifted her chin. “I will handle this matter personally.”

The chamber fell into stunned silence.

Then, Raphael chuckled. “Brave words, sister. But this is no simple task. Father will want someone wh—"

“I wasn't speaking to you.” Azrael’s voice cut cleanly through the room. Her golden eyes turned to Valerion. “Father. Send me. I will uncover the truth and deal with the threat accordingly.”

Valerion studied her for a long moment. The room held its breath

Finally, he inclined his head. “Very well. You may go.”

A victory.

But his next words landed like a blade against her spine.

“Do not disappoint me.”

Azrael dipped her head, voice steady. “I won’t.”

Then, without another word, she turned and left the chamber

As the doors shut behind her, she exhaled slowly.

This was her chance

A mission. A real mission. A chance to prove herself—not just to her father but to all of them.

And if the werewolves were responsible… She would make them bleed for it.