Chapter 17

Sleep did not come easily to Daniel anymore. When it did, it arrived broken and thin—filled with razor-sharp fragments of a past he had spent a century trying to bury. But this  night, the dream was different. It began with absolute, suffocating silence.

Daniel stood alone beneath a sprawling canopy of shattered stone arches. Pale moonlight poured through cracked stained-glass windows, painting the ruined marble floor in faded hues of crimson and bruised indigo. Dust floated in the still air like drifting ash. It was a cathedral—ancient, abandoned, and radiating a dense, oppressive wrongness that made his skin crawl.

Daniel turned slowly, his crimson eyes scanning the vast, empty nave. His instincts screamed a warning. This is not a memory. And this is not a normal dream.

He kept his posture rigid, forcing his breathing to remain steady despite the heavy hum in the atmosphere. The air vibrated with magic—old, dark, and unmistakable. Warlock magic.

Lowering his gaze, Daniel studied the floor. Etched into the cracked marble were dozens of sigils. They weren't the sloppy scribbles of an amateur or the crude bindings of a wannabe wizard; these were clean, precise, and drawn with terrifying precision in concentric rings of overlapping geometry.

Daniel’s jaw set hard. He knew every stroke of those lines.

“...Dranum,” Daniel spoke into the gloom, his voice barely a rasp.

The name bounced off the high stone arches. For a long second, the cathedral remained dead silent. Then, a voice drifted out from the shadows—calm, cultured, and intimately familiar.

“You still remember the craft,” the voice murmured.

Daniel’s muscles coiled tight. The sound didn't come from a single direction; it echoed from the pillars, the floorboards, and the space behind his own eyes like cool smoke.

“You walk the earth as if the chains fell away,” the voice continued smoothly. “Yet every step you take still lands precisely on the path I carved for you.”

A flicker of white-hot anger cut through Daniel’s chest. He took one sharp step forward, his eyes burning bright red. “Show yourself, Dranum.”

A low, amused chuckle rippled through the hall. “Not yet, my boy.”

Beneath Daniel’s boots, the etched sigils burst into a faint, sickening violet light. Cold energy seeped up through the soles of his shoes, anchoring him to the stone.

“Come and see,” the voice whispered, fading into the dark. “Come see what you’ve really become.”

The cathedral structure shuddered, the dream snapped like dry glass, and Daniel sat bolt upright in his bed.

His eyes were wide, his lungs pulling in sharp, ragged gasps. The packhouse room was pitch-black, save for the faint silver wash of moonlight through the blinds. The old wood of the house creaked in the night wind, but Daniel’s focus was miles away.

The residual magic from the dream clung to his skin like frost. The sigils remained burned into his retinas with absolute clarity. He had drawn those exact channels centuries ago, kneeling on cold stone under Dranum’s unblinking supervision.

He swung his legs over the frame and stood. A faint, sickening tug pressed against his gut—a localized knot of high-tier dark magic stirring in the real world. Nearby.

Daniel moved to his door, pulling it open just as Eva stepped into the hallway. She was already dressed in her leather jacket, her wolf ears twitched high, and her green eyes locked onto his instantly.

“You felt that wierd stuff too,” she said quietly.

Daniel nodded once.

Angelina emerged from the shadows of the stairwell, her broadsword resting over her shoulder. She looked exhausted, irritable, but still lethal. “Please tell me we aren't chasing another supernatural disaster before dawn.”

Daniel didn't answer immediately. He stared down the dark corridor, his eyes glowing faint crimson. “There’s a structure on the far end of the district. If I’m right... I know who’s waiting there.”

Eva frowned, her hand drifting toward the hunting knife at her hip. “What kind of place is it, Daniel?”

“A trap,” he said flatly.

Angelina let out a short, humorless grunt, adjusting her grip on her sword. “And we’re walking into it anyway?”

Daniel stepped past them toward the stairs. “I am. It’s better if you two stay here.”

Eva caught his arm, her grip tight and unyielding. “Not happening. Move.”

The cathedral sat on the abandoned edge of the old city district, abandoned after a structural fire thirty years prior. Its tall, blackened spires jutted into the night sky like broken teeth. Moonlight streamed through the exposed roof trusses, and the massive oak doors hung crookedly off their rusted iron hinges.

Daniel halted at the threshold. Eva and Angelina flanked him, their senses dialed to maximum.

“This place radiates filth,” Eva muttered, her nose twitching at the sharp odor of scorched copper and old ash.

Angelina eyed the rotting timber above them. “Understatement of the century.”

Daniel crossed the threshold. The moment his boot hit the interior stone, the air pressurized. The dust hanging in the moonlight didn't drift—it vibrated.

Angelina stopped dead three feet inside the door, her eyes widening in disgust. “Oh, hell.”

The entire floor of the nave was covered in intricate, glowing sigils—hundreds of them, freshly gouged deep into the marble floor, encircling the central aisle like a web.

“Daniel...” Eva warned, her voice dropping an octave.

“I know,” Daniel said, his jaw working. He traced the geometry with his eyes. Every curve, every intersecting rune was an exact match for his dream. “This is Dranum’s handiwork.”

A slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the altar at the far end of the hall.

Daniel didn't turn right away, but Eva and Angelina spun toward the sound, weapons cleared.

A man stepped out from behind a massive stone pillar. He was tall, gaunt, and draped in heavy dark robes that hung off his skeletal frame like shroud-cloth. His skin was the color of curdled milk under the moonlight.

Malachar. One of Dranum’s elite disciples.

Malachar offered a thin, sickly smile. “I was beginning to worry the dream wouldn't fetch you, pet.”

Angelina took a low, aggressive stance, leveling her blade. “Did you invite us here to die, bone-bag?”

Malachar tilted his head toward her, his dark eyes hollow. “Oh, no. You invited yourselves. He was always going to come.” His gaze shifted to Daniel.

Daniel’s voice was arctic. “You invaded my mind.”

“I merely walked through the door Dranum left unlocked in your skull,” Malachar chuckled.

Before the last word cleared his teeth, the sigils across the floor flared with violent, violet fire.

Daniel’s limbs instantly turned to lead. The sudden disruption in his internal magic channels locked his posture for a fraction of a second—and a fraction was all Malachar needed.

The warlock blurred forward with terrifying speed, his palm striking Daniel squarely in the sternum. The kinetic impact sounded like a cannon shot. Daniel flew backward across the nave, crashing through a row of heavy wooden pews that shattered into fragments.

“Daniel!” Eva roared, her eyes flashing bright gold as her claws extended.

Angelina lunged at Malachar with a broad, sweeping strike. Malachar didn't even turn his head, he flicked his left wrist, unleashing a wave of invisible force that caught Angelina mid-air and slammed her violently into a load-bearing stone pillar. She hit the floor with a heavy thud, gasping for air.

Eva charged next, but Malachar tossed a burning rune from his fingers. The spell detonated against her chest, blasting her twenty feet across the marble floor.

Rubble exploded upward near the entrance as Daniel rose from the wreckage. A line of dark blood dripped from his lip, but his expression was completely dead. His crimson eyes burned like live coals.

“Enough,” Daniel growled.

He moved.

Vampire speed turned his body into a continuous black streak across the cathedral. Malachar raised a hand to ward him off, but Daniel’s strike bypassed the magic entirely. His fist smashed into Malachar’s jaw with enough raw force to shatter bone.

The warlock exploded backward, crashing through the altar railing and collapsing against the rear wall. Before he could recover, Daniel was on top of him, iron fingers clamping around Malachar’s throat and pinning him three feet off the floor against the stone carving.

“You made a mistake coming here,” Daniel snarled, raising his free hand to drive his fist through Malachar’s chest.

Malachar didn't flinch. Instead, his ruined jaw twisted into a wide, unnatural grin.

The sigils beneath them roared to life again, blindingly bright.

Daniel’s arm suddenly felt impossibly heavy. The blood in his veins burned like acid as his magic channels were forcibly jammed shut from the outside. “What is this binding?” Daniel thought, his teeth grinding together against the sudden paralysis.

Malachar leaned in close, whispering a guttural phrase in an ancient, dead dialect.

Pain exploded through Daniel’s nervous system. Malachar drove his elbow down into Daniel’s ribcage with powerful, crushing precision. CRACK. Two ribs fractured instantly.

Daniel staggered backward, dropping the warlock. Malachar pursued him like a viper, moving with a fluid, terrifying martial grace he had never possessed before.

A heavy fist smashed into Daniel’s throat, cutting off his windpipe. A follow-up strike drove into his lower spine, disabling his legs for a second. Finally, a crushing knee planted directly into Daniel’s broken chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing back onto the stone floor.

Daniel lay in the dust, coughing up dark blood. He could calculate every strike, could see the angles coming, but the sigils on the floor were bleeding his speed away, making every reaction feel like moving through wet cement.

In a desperate, blind surge, Daniel swung his arm upward as Malachar stepped in to finish him. His fingers caught Malachar across the chest, shredding the dark robes and leaving three deep, bloody furrows across his torso.

The spell binding Daniel’s limbs flickered and died.

Yet Malachar didn't scream. He didn't even recoil. Instead, his posture subtly adjusted. His shoulders dropped into an ancient, familiar slope. His shallow breathing instantly slowed into a deep, rhythmic measure.

And when he raised his head, his eyes were no longer hollow—they were completely black, absorbing the moonlight.

Daniel froze on the floor, his blood running cold. “...Malachar doesn't fight like that.”

The vessel slowly tilted its head. When it spoke, Malachar’s vocal cords produced a deep, resonant familiar baritone that echoed with absolute authority.

“Of course he doesn't, Daniel.”

The room seemed to shrink. A cold, heavy weight pressed down on Daniel’s lungs as the full, sickening truth hit him.

Dranum.

The entity possessing Malachar’s flesh moved before Daniel could even process the realization. The vessel blurred forward, iron fingers clamping around Daniel’s left wrist. With a precise twist of leverage, Dranum slammed Daniel face-first into the marble floor.

The entire cathedral floor cracked beneath the impact.

Daniel roared, unleashing his raw vampire strength and pulling from his dark magic reserves simultaneously. A massive shockwave of mixed energy erupted from his body, blowing out the remaining stained-glass windows and causing the ceiling arches to rain dust and stone.

Yet Dranum stood unmoved at the center of the storm.

He casually raised one hand, flicking two fingers toward the floor. The sigils re-ignited in unison, swallowing Daniel’s explosive aura instantly and forcing his power back down his own throat.

Daniel’s body seized under the magical backfire.

In the span of a single heartbeat, Dranum executed three precise, devastating strikes: a brutal palm-heel to Daniel’s fractured ribs, an open-hand strike to the base of his skull, and a heavy side-kick that launched Daniel forty feet across the nave.

Daniel flew through a massive stone column, shattering it into boulder-sized debris, before crashing hard onto the altar steps.

“Daniel!” Eva screamed, scrambling up from the floor, blood running down her arm.

Dranum’s vessel didn't even turn around. He simply flicked his hand sideways. An invisible wall of kinetic force slammed into Eva mid-stride, freezing her in place and pinning her against the wall like a butterfly on a board.

Nearby, Angelina pushed herself up from the rubble, wiping blood from her forehead, her blade shaking in her hands. “What the hell are you...?” she gasped.

Dranum ignored her entirely. His pitch-black eyes remained fixed on Daniel, who was slowly, excruciatingly pushing himself up from the ruined stone of the altar.

Blood covered Daniel’s face. The binding sigils carved into the floor were actively suppressing his vampire regeneration—his ribs remained broken, his vision blurred, and his skin burned where the magic touched him.

Dranum walked up the altar steps, his steps light, measured, and entirely silent. He stood over Daniel, studying him like an unfinished painting.

“Interesting,” Dranum murmured through Malachar’s throat.

Daniel spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the vessel’s boots, his crimson eyes glaring upward through his matted hair. “Finished?”

“Not quite,” Dranum said softly.

He drove his fist straight down into Daniel’s chest. The impact cratered the marble beneath Daniel’s back, sending a fresh wave of agony screaming through his nervous system.

For a long, quiet moment, Dranum simply stared down into Daniel’s eyes.

“You still hesitate before delivering a lethal strike,” Dranum observed, his voice laced with faint disappointment. “Even when your life is threatened.”

Daniel glared up at the black eyes of his creator. “Maybe I’m not the monster you thought designed.”

Malachar’s face remained entirely impassive. “Everything I touch eventually becomes what I intend, Daniel.” He tilted his head slightly. “Your evolution... is merely incomplete.”

Daniel tried to summon enough strength to strike out again, but Dranum casually pressed one hand flat against Daniel’s broken sternum, pinning him effortlessly to the floor.

Dranum stared into his eyes for three more seconds, as if reading the secret architecture of Daniel’s soul. Then, he offered a brief, satisfied nod.

“That will suffice for tonight,” Dranum said.

The presence vanished instantly.

Malachar’s body jerked violently. The pitch-black color drained from his eyes, leaving them dull and bloodshot. His spine buckled, and his mouth fell open in a silent, agonizing gasp.

Daniel frowned through his pain, watching the warlock collapse sideways onto the steps.

“He... burned... my soul to fuel the link...” Malachar choked out, his chest heaving once before his eyes went glassy and fixed. He lay still, dead before his head hit the stone.

The kinetic wall holding Eva collapsed. She dropped to her knees, breathing heavily, before sprinting up the altar steps toward Daniel.

Angelina walked up slowly, her sword lowered, her boot cautiously nudging Malachar’s unmoving shoulder. “...He’s dead.”

Eva knelt beside Daniel, her hands hovering over his crushed chest, terrified to touch him. “Daniel, stay still. You’re bleeding everywhere—your chest isn't knitting.”

Daniel ignored the blinding pain, forcing himself to sit up. His focus remained locked on Malachar’s corpse.

Angelina crouched down, using the tip of her blade to pull aside the shredded fabric of Malachar’s robe. Her face instantly went pale. “Daniel... look at this.”

Burned deep into the dead flesh over Malachar’s heart was a black, smoking sigil—the branded mark of Dranum’s personal court.

Daniel stared at the smoking mark, his breathing slow and measured as his vampire healing finally fought past the fading sigils on the floor.

“He was already dead when he walked through those doors,” Daniel said, his voice a low, hollow rasp. He stood up slowly, leaning heavily against a stone pillar, his blood-stained face turning toward the dark shadows of the cathedral ceiling. “He wasn't sent here to kill me.”

Eva’s stomach dropped. “Then why did Dranum send him?”

Daniel looked down at Malachar’s lifeless body one last time, his eyes cold and dark.

“He was sizing me up.” Daniel whispered into the quiet hall. “He was testing the monster.”