Adrian barely slept that night. He tossed and turned in his narrow dorm bed, the echoes of Lord Vaelen's voice threading through his thoughts like whispers in a crypt.
You are the last of the bloodline...
To inherit my throne...
It had to be a dream. A hallucination. Something he read too late at night.
But the black envelope left in his locker the next morning said otherwise.
No name. No return address. Just a crimson wax seal stamped with an unfamiliar crest—an ornate "D" wrapped in thorns. Inside was a single card written in precise, flowing script:
Come to the old chapel at midnight. You must see what lies beneath.
—V.D.
Adrian almost threw it away.
But curiosity—cold, electric curiosity—pulled him toward the forbidden.
That night, he slipped out of his dorm, the moon veiled behind clouds. The old chapel sat at the far edge of campus, mostly abandoned, rumored haunted. Students avoided it. Some said it was cursed. Adrian always figured it was just another story.
Until now.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors. The scent of dust and forgotten incense clung to the air. Candles flickered along the pews. And at the altar stood Vaelen Drakaris, as if time had been waiting only for Adrian to arrive.
"You came," the vampire lord said, his voice both ancient and smooth.
"I had to know," Adrian said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Why me?"
Vaelen turned, his gaze grave. "Because your blood is not mortal. It is diluted, yes—lost in centuries of forgetting—but it still carries the mark of the Crimson Line."
Adrian blinked. "You're saying I'm... part vampire?"
"No," Vaelen said. "Not yet."
With a whisper, the floor beneath the altar creaked open, revealing a stone staircase that spiraled into darkness.
"What is this place?" Adrian asked.
"The Crimson Vault," Vaelen replied. "Where the truth sleeps."
Adrian hesitated. But he felt the pull again—of destiny, of mystery, of the unknown begging to be known.
He stepped onto the first stair.
And descended into the dark.