The crimson moon loomed high above the obsidian spires of Castle Noctis, bathing the ancient fortress in a cold red light. Within its towering stone walls, silence reigned—except for the echo of hurried footsteps, the soft rustle of silk, and the agonizing scream that tore through the grand birthing chamber.
"Push, my Queen. One more time—just once more," the midwife whispered, trembling. She dared not look into the Queen's eyes for long; they carried a sorrow that spoke of centuries.
Queen Seraphielle, the seventh vampire queen, clenched her teeth as another contraction rocked her. Her golden-white hair clung to her temples, slick with sweat. Her hands gripped the velvet-covered arms of the chair, knuckles pale from strain. Beside her, the old advisor knelt—Lord Malrik Thorne, a stoic figure draped in shadow and wisdom. His wrinkled hands rested gently on hers.
"You're almost there, Seraphielle," he murmured. "He's coming."
A final cry, a last surge of will, and then—
The infant's scream pierced the silence like a blade.
The Queen slumped back, panting, as the midwife wrapped the child in black silk. Malrik took the baby with trembling fingers and gasped.
Light brown skin. Faint crimson eyes. Silver strands of hair mixed with black. And a heat—barely perceptible—radiating from his skin.
"His aura… it's unstable," the midwife whispered.
"No," Malrik said quietly, "it's balanced. Two natures converging." He looked at Seraphielle. "He's not just vampire."
The Queen gave a weak smile. "He is… my light. My Kenneth."
"Does the King know?" Malrik asked, voice low.
Her expression stiffened. "No. And he must never know. This child is the result of a love long buried... but still burning." She closed her eyes. "My one betrayal."
From that moment on, Kenneth Prince David—the child of a forbidden union between a vampire queen and the alpha of the werewolves—was destined to shatter the world.
---
Castle Noctis, Age 6
Kenneth darted through the castle halls, barefoot, laughter bouncing off the cold marble floors. He was small for his age but graceful, faster than the guards expected, and strangely hard to catch even for those with vampire speed.
"Kenneth! Not again—!" cried a flustered maid chasing after him.
He skidded around a corner and ran headfirst into a tall, red-robed vampire knight. The knight stumbled slightly and looked down in alarm. Kenneth stared up with wide, innocent eyes.
"S-Sir Valthor! Sorry!"
The knight blinked. "You again… You shouldn't be playing in the war corridors, pup."
"I'm not a pup!" Kenneth protested, brushing back a lock of silver hair. "I'm gonna be a knight too. A great one."
Valthor studied him. Despite Kenneth's charm, his presence always unsettled the others. There was something different in him—something wild behind his eyes, something that didn't fit the clean-cut mold of the vampire court.
Behind them, one of Kenneth's elder half-brothers watched in silence from a high balcony. Prince Vaelen—the firstborn, the King's favored heir. His crimson eyes narrowed.
"Always in the way," he muttered. "That boy doesn't belong."
---
Age 10 — The Training Grounds
The sky above Castle Noctis was dark as always, lit only by pale lanterns and flickering runes. Kenneth stood at the center of the courtyard, breathing heavily. Around him, four vampire squires lay on the ground groaning.
Malrik stood nearby, arms folded.
"You move well," he said, "but you're still not using blood technique. You're relying on your body."
Kenneth frowned. "I don't… feel it, Master. Not like the others."
"It's because your blood doesn't answer to just one command," Malrik said. "You are two things. Vampire and something else."
"Werewolf," Kenneth whispered, almost afraid to speak the word.
Malrik didn't deny it. "Your time will come. For now, sharpen your hands. Sharpen your mind."
---
Age 13 — The Revelation
The battle was chaos.
Blood splattered across ice-covered stone as vampire knights clashed with werewolf raiders beneath the northern cliffs. The King watched from a high vantage point, flanked by his sons.
Kenneth, armored in black and silver, stood at the front line, panting. Around him, bodies littered the snow.
Then it happened.
A piercing cry.
A surge of rage.
And Kenneth's body began to change.
Bones cracked. Fangs lengthened. His skin darkened, his muscles tore and reformed. His scream echoed through the valley—not of pain, but of awakening.
A monstrous werewolf form erupted from within him—elegant yet feral, eyes burning with crimson and silver light.
Time froze.
From the cliff, the King's face twisted in horror.
"He's a hybrid," Vaelen whispered. "A half-blood…"
The King said nothing. He turned and walked away from the battle, his cape trailing behind him like a death sentence.
---
That Night
Malrik stood in the Queen's chambers, holding her hand.
"He knows," Seraphielle said, tears in her eyes. "It's over."
"You must flee," Malrik urged. "Tonight."
"I can't. But Kenneth must live. He must." She kissed her son's forehead one last time. "I love you, my little star."
Kenneth stared up at her, confused.
Then the doors shattered open.
The King entered, sword in hand.
---
Later That Night — The Escape
Malrik fled through the forest, carrying a bloodied but conscious Kenneth.
Behind them, the castle burned.
The Queen was dead.
And Kenneth Prince David was no longer a prince.
He was an exile.
---