Eternal Night

(III) Chapter 35: Together

Vladislaus had seen enough of war in his nearly a millennia of existence to be unsurprised by much of it – the carnage, the frenzy, the sheer debasement of all that made men human as they lost themselves to the slaughter, to pure animal instinct.

Kill or be killed.

Maybe it was his advancing age, or perhaps having so much of his own humanity restored in this last year in particular had made him soft, but he took a moment to pause, standing atop one of the towers connected to the palace wall – halfway between the man and the winged beast of his darkest nature, claws digging into rock and stone to support himself at this precarious height.

Budapest – the city that had once been as much his home as that of Târgovişte, nestled in his native Carpathians – was burning.

The palace courtyard had transformed into a killing field, the grounds and fountains and statuary running red with blood.

And on a night as clear and as bitterly cold as this, with the moon so bright it was almost blinding – the sight of it made his eyes burn.

How had they come to this – to slaughter and ruin?

He had had such noble plans for his race, hopes and dreams of domination and superiority, of peace and prosperity the likes of which civilization at large had never before known. This was supposed to be their sanctuary, a beacon of hope in an eternal night. But now it had become a tomb – a mass grave of souls he would never know, and yet he felt each loss like a small cut on his flesh.

Vlad watched in silence as his people – at least those that had not had their very wills stripped from them by the demonic forces at work – continued to flood into the palace district. He'd never forget the sight of them as he, Francesca, the Dracul Sânge, and remaining key members of the alliance all stood at the gates of the palace that afternoon, only to turn to see what remained of the population advancing. They were gathered, marching as one, the chants for liberty and the pounding of feet – a song of revolution.

Somehow, in the daylight hours, they had rallied – Feng and his small legion of assassins leading them forward.

And then the lycans had come, Vesper at their head, the young dhampir's eyes filled with resolution as Tristan's cadre was shadowed by thousands of werewolves, armed to the teeth. Evidently the teenager and his young hybrid granddaughter, Anna-Sophie, had been the catalyst for the shift in the Elder's change of position.

He had never been more internally repentant for his old prejudiced ways of keeping the species "pure and separate" than he had been in that very moment.

There was strength when they were unified – the symbolism of it was not lost to him. And for that single, glimmering moment, he thought that perhaps they could win this with minimal casualties, that perhaps this would be an easy thing – turning the world upside down. But such a hope had been naïve at best. What he was witnessing now was evidence of that.

Marcus had been ready for them.

Where he had gotten the bodies to fuel his hell-possessed army, he still didn't know – but if this night was to be Augustine's final night on earth, it was clear he had no intention of going quietly into the dawn.

Francesca was still struggling to get through the fray to breech the palace doors, Lyra like a sentinel, remaining close by her maker in case that moment ever arrived. But each glimpse of opportunity had been fleeting and subsequently missed.

They needed a diversion, something to distract Marcus' hordes long enough to give them an in. But their numbers were already dwindling. They couldn't sustain the beating they had been taking for the last two hours.