My Blood Legacy: Bloodlines

A few hours before the smell of warm blood filled the kitchen and the dangerously sweet smile that awaited Victor, Serafall sat in her office, immersed in a silence that was not comfortable, but necessary.

The room was spacious, organized with a precision that perfectly reflected the mind of its occupant, each document aligned, each object in its proper place, as if the environment itself had been trained not to make mistakes.

The light that entered through the tall windows was soft, filtered by heavy curtains that prevented any excess, creating a space where time seemed to move more cautiously, respecting the presence of whoever was thinking there.

Before her, open on the table, was the report sent by Natasha, forwarded by Gaia with the same silent efficiency as always.

The pages were impeccably organized, each detail described with technical precision, each observation recorded without exaggeration or unnecessary dramatization. It was a military report, cold, objective, straight to the point. And yet, the content it carried was far from simple.

Serafall held one of the photographs between her fingers, the slightly stiffer paper betraying the analog method used.

Her eyes were fixed on the image with absolute attention, not superficial, not distant, but deep enough for every detail to be absorbed without the protection of the emotional detachment that many commanders learned to cultivate. The image showed a vampire child. Small. Fragile. Dead.

The body was partially covered in debris, as if crushed in the collapse of some structure, but the injuries left no doubt that this had not been merely the consequence of collateral damage. There were marks.

There was intent. And, above all, there was a complete absence of mercy.

Serafall did not look away.

Her fingers did not tremble.

Her breathing remained controlled.

But there was something there, somewhere deeper inside, that moved with a heavy slowness, like an old gear being forced to turn after a long time stopped. She had seen death before. Many deaths. In different forms, in different contexts, in different eras.

Death, for someone like her, was nothing new, nor something that could be avoided with idealistic illusions. It was part of existence, especially in a world where power and survival always walked hand in hand.

Yet... this was different.

Not because of death itself.

But because of what it represented.

Her eyes slowly slid across the image, analyzing not only the body, but the surrounding scenery, the shadows, the angles, the way everything had been captured. Natasha wasn’t someone who took pictures without purpose. Each photograph carried information. Every detail had value. And that one... that one said more than any line in the report.

Serafall rested her elbow lightly on the table, bringing her hand closer to her face while holding the image between her fingers, her gaze still fixed, but now more distant, as if connecting it to something greater, something that wasn’t explicitly written.

"Extermination..." she murmured to herself, the word coming out low, almost like a test, as if she were assessing its weight before accepting it as an option.

It was an ancient word.

Heavy.

And dangerous.

During the Age of Blood, it would have been used without hesitation. In those times, decisions like that didn’t require lengthy reflections, nor complex political or strategic analyses. The world was simple in its brutality: the strongest prevailed, and any threat was eliminated directly, absolutely, without room for ambiguity. Serafall had been born in that period, a few hundred years after the sealing of the Primordial, in a world where individual power was not only valued—it was everything.

She grew up in a reality where strength defined existence, where alliances were fragile and respect was earned with blood. It was a time when vampires were at the height of their brutality and glory, where each territory was maintained not by treaties, but by uncontested dominion. And, in that era... a situation like that would have had only one response.

Annihilation.

No negotiation.

No warning.

No regrets.

But the world was no longer the same.

His eyes finally shifted from the photograph, slowly gliding over the rest of the report, but without truly focusing on the words. His mind was already elsewhere, piecing together contexts, overlapping eras, comparing realities that no longer coexisted in the same way.

Now, they lived in the so-called Star Age.

A name that, for many, carried with it progress, refinement, civilization. A world where influence, wealth, and connections often outweighed brute force, where open wars were avoided not out of incapacity, but out of cost. Outside the vampire realm, this was even more evident. Humans, demons, other races... all had learned to play a different game, where power was wielded in more subtle, more calculated, more... economical ways.

Within the Vampire Kingdom, however, the change had been partial.

Strength still mattered. A lot.

But now it was managed.

Channeled.

Regulated.

The vampires had become more noble, more restrained, less impulsive in their brutality. Not because they had lost their nature, but because they had learned that surviving in a changing world required more than just crushing everything around them. It required control.

And that was exactly what made this situation so... delicate.

Serafall placed the photograph back on the table, aligning it with the others with almost automatic care, while her eyes narrowed slightly, not from irritation, but from focus. Her fingers drummed once on the surface, a small gesture, but revealing that her mind was in full strategic workings.

Declaring war was an option.

It always was.

But it wasn’t a simple option.

Not in that era.

Not in that context.

Werewolves invading border territories wasn’t entirely unprecedented, but the scale, the pattern of the attacks, the way they were being conducted... everything indicated something beyond simple territorial expansion. There was organization there. There was intent. And possibly... someone was coordinating it from a higher level.

If it were just a pack.

She would have already given the order.

But it didn’t seem to be.

And declaring extermination against werewolves, even in response to attacks like those, wouldn’t just be a military action. It would be a political statement. A move that could trigger chain reactions, involving not only vampires and werewolves, but other factions watching from afar, always ready to exploit any instability.

Serafall leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes finally leaving the table to stare at the emptiness ahead, as if observing an invisible chessboard where each piece needed to be positioned with absolute precision.

She didn’t have the luxury of acting as she did in the Age of Blood.

But she also couldn’t allow herself to hesitate like so many did in the Star Age.

Her role was to balance both.

To be the intersection between brutality and control.

Between past and present.

Between strength... and strategy.

Her lips pressed slightly together, not in doubt, but in deep deliberation. Every possible scenario raced through her mind with absurd speed, each consequence being evaluated, each risk weighed. Extermination would solve the immediate problem, yes. But it would create others. Negotiation could avoid large-scale conflict, but it could also be interpreted as weakness, encouraging new attacks.

There was no perfect answer.

There never was.

But there was the best possible answer within the moment.

And that was what she needed to decide.

Serafall closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing the silence of the environment to completely envelop her, blocking out external noises, concentrating everything on the core of her own analysis. When she opened them again, there was no more distraction in her gaze.

Only focus.

Cold.

Calculated.

She reached out, pulling another document toward herself, already beginning to organize the next steps, the next orders, the next moves that would need to be made before the situation spiraled out of control.

The silence of the office remained absolute for a few moments after the decision began to form in Serafall’s mind, but not for long. Amidst the controlled quiet of that space, something stood out—not explosively, nor obviously, but enough to be perceived by someone like her. A subtle sound, almost imperceptible to anyone else, vibrated through the structure of the office, coming from a lower level, like a muffled echo of movement where there shouldn’t be any.

Serafall’s eyes moved first.

Then, the rest of her body.

She showed no hurry, but she didn’t ignore it either. She rose from her chair with the same silent elegance as always, leaving the report behind as if she had already extracted everything she needed from it. Her steps were firm, measured, each carrying a precision that allowed no deviation. The environment around her seemed to adjust to her presence as she walked to the door, opening it without hesitation.

The corridor was empty.

But the sound... persisted.

Low.

Irregular.

Coming from below.

Serafall didn’t call anyone. She didn’t announce her presence. There was no need. If something was out of place in that space, she would deal with it herself. She descended the stairs with the same controlled cadence, her gaze fixed ahead, while her perception subtly expanded, capturing nuances that would go unnoticed by anyone else.

The closer she got, the clearer it became.

It wasn’t an attack.

It wasn’t an invasion.

It was... presence.

And that, in itself, was enough to transform curiosity into something more profound.

She stopped before Victor’s bedroom door.

For a brief moment, she simply observed.

There were no signs of forced entry.

There was no evident hostile energy.

But there was... something.

Her hand moved.

The doorknob turned.

And the door opened.

What he found on the other side wasn’t chaos.

It wasn’t violence.

It was... silence.

A strange silence, almost too intimate.

Victor was in bed.

Asleep.

Tranquil.

Steady breathing, relaxed expression, as if the world around him simply didn’t exist. And, in a way... at that moment, it didn’t.

But he wasn’t alone.

On either side of his body, two women.

Lying down.

Close.

Too close.

Their bodies aligned with his with a naturalness that left no room for innocent interpretations, as if that configuration were simply... common. One of them partially resting against his chest, the other close enough that the space between them practically didn’t exist.

For a second—

The world stopped.

Literally.

There was no movement.

There was no sound.

There was no breathing.

Serafall’s body simply... froze.

Her fingers remained on the doorknob, motionless, as if they had lost the ability to respond to any command. Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, while something began to slowly rise inside her—not fast, not explosive... but steady.

Her throat tightened.

She choked.

Not from lack of air.

But from an excess of something that couldn’t find an immediate outlet.

Her eyes, which until then had maintained that absolute control, opened wider than usual, fixing on the scene before her with an intensity that didn’t seek understanding... only confirmation.

And there was.

Too much confirmation.

Reality wasn’t distorted.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a misunderstanding.

He was there.

With them.

Sleeping.

Peaceful.

As if that were... acceptable.

The silence inside the room became heavy. Dense.

Almost suffocating.

And yet, he didn’t wake up.

None of them woke up.

As if the world itself were waiting.

Waiting for her.

Serafall’s lips parted slowly, but no words came out immediately. The sound remained trapped, contained, as if it had to traverse something deeper before becoming real. Her eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t look away. They didn’t yield.

And then—

Finally—

In a low whisper.

That didn’t need to be loud to cut deeper than any scream—

"You... betrayed me..."