"You won't kill me. You're my watch vampire," the King declared, rising from his throne with a confidence he didn't quite feel.
The God Mage's expression shifted, growing serious and dark. When he spoke, his voice emerged in a slow, deep tone he hadn't revealed before—a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "You think I'm not going to end your life? How foolish are you?" Contempt dripped from every word. "To think you became Vampire King disappoints me beyond measure. You need to be killed. After all, you're nothing." His voice grew lighter, almost mocking, as if he were discussing something trivial. "Remember your predecessors? Past Kings far stronger than you? If you fought against any one of them, they would have ended your life without breaking a sweat. I couldn't defeat those other four Kings in the past, but I can defeat you. Easily."
The God Mage lifted his hand with deliberate slowness. White energy shimmered from his palm, sliding down his arm like liquid light to envelop his entire body. The King watched, transfixed, as the transformation took hold. The God Mage's black hair began to change—strands turning white as though age itself were consuming him. His eyes became pitch white, devoid of any pigment, glowing with an otherworldly power that made the King's chest tighten.
The Vampire King raised his hand defensively, trying to steady the tremor in his fingers. "You might be right," he admitted, hating how his voice wavered. "You might think me weaker than all my predecessors. You might call me the weakest King of them all, but I can fight. I've won against people stronger than me in the past, and I'll win again." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
"You won't," the God Mage said flatly, with the certainty of someone stating an immutable fact. "You know that. Deep down, you've always known."
The God Mage lifted his hand again, and this time something different happened. Black energy began seeping out, pooling in the air like ink spreading through water. What is he doing? the Vampire King thought, his pulse quickening as he stared at the gathering darkness. The black energy coalesced, taking shape, forming limbs and features. Eventually, a man with black hair, black eyes, and black armor materialized beside the God Mage, as solid and real as death itself.
The God Mage's smile turned wicked, cruel in its satisfaction. "You're not going against one. You're going up against two."
The Vampire King's face fell instantly, all pretense of confidence crumbling. No. No. He brought the Black Mage. The King's thoughts raced, tumbling over each other in mounting panic. I said I was strong. I said I've beaten people stronger than me before, but there's no chance—not against both of them. I'd struggle against just the God Mage, but now that the Black Mage is here too, there's no chance of winning. None at all.
The King's red eyes dimmed slightly as a flicker—just a tiny flicker—of fear crossed his face. It was barely perceptible, lasting only a heartbeat, but it was enough for the God Mage to sense. Enough for him to savor.
"You're scared," the God Mage observed, his tone almost gentle now, which somehow made it worse. "You don't need to be. After all, you're going to die quickly. I know you fear death. I know you're terrified of dying, of fading into nothing while your people watch. But let's be real for a moment—you don't really have a choice in the matter. You never did."
The Black Mage stood motionless beside the God Mage, a statue carved from shadow. Then, slowly, he raised his hand with mechanical precision. "I have been called to execute you," he intoned in a deep, dark voice that sent shivers cascading down the King's spine. "My duty will be executed without fail. Without mercy."
The Black Mage clapped his hands together. The sound echoed through the throne room like a death knell. A beam shot out—pitch black, darker than the void itself—rushing toward the King with terrible speed. The King tried to dodge, instinct screaming at him to move, but he couldn't. His body refused to obey. He looked down, confusion giving way to horror. Black chains bound him, wrapped around his ankles, his wrists, his torso.
"Can't move?" the God Mage taunted, clearly relishing the moment. "He automatically locks you in place as soon as he arrives. You're done for. It's already over."
The God Mage was right. The King tried to wiggle his toes, to shift his weight, to do anything, but he couldn't. His arms, his legs, his entire body was bound to the ground as if the very earth had claimed him. The beam rushed forward and struck him straight in the chest with devastating force. He couldn't fly back—the chains held him fast. The beam simply hit, and he stood still, absorbing the full impact.
A gaping hole opened where the beam struck, boring into his chest, tearing through flesh and muscle until his ribs were nearly visible beneath the ruined tissue. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and all-consuming. He began to regenerate, his vampire nature struggling to repair the damage, but his regeneration was slow. Agonizingly slow. His regeneration had always been slow, but he'd never worried about it before. The other vampires in the settlement were weaker than him, and their strength fed his invincibility through the ancient bonds of their kind.
But now he understood the truth. It wasn't their fault they didn't train as often—it was his. After the last King had died, after Elias had perished defending their people, he had been slacking off. He knew it. He'd always known it, buried deep beneath layers of denial and false pride.
Elias and all the other predecessors had been amazing Kings, worthy of the title. They had provided the people with strength, with power, with hope. But him? He wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that. He would be the vampires' downfall, the weak link in a chain of greatness.
His regeneration wasn't holding up. The hole barely closed, the edges of the wound knitting together with painful slowness before tearing open again. The King closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him in waves. He was tired. So tired. Maybe a little rest would heal him up. Maybe if his eyes closed, they would open again to a different world.
But he knew better. He knew his eyes might close and never open again.
The King's consciousness began to fade, darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision. His body slumped forward against the chains, and for a moment, everything went black.
Then—a sound.
A distant rumble that shook the very foundations of the throne room. The God Mage's triumphant expression faltered. The Black Mage's head snapped toward the entrance, his chains loosening just a fraction.
The King's eyes flickered open, barely conscious, as a voice—ancient, powerful, and furious—echoed through the chamber from somewhere beyond the walls.
"You dare touch our King?"
The doors to the throne room exploded inward with a deafening crash. Through the King's fading vision, he saw a figure silhouetted against blinding light. But before he could make out who—or what—had arrived, his eyes closed once more.
The last thing he heard was the God Mage's voice, stripped of all mockery, filled with something the King had never expected to hear from him.
Fear.
"Impossible. You're supposed to be dead."