Upon the western edge of the tiny kingdom, at the very border of the southeastern corner of the continent, there was a peninsula. It was a tiny, yet well-protected peninsula, surrounded by tall, rocky cliffs thick with ferals who made the waters below their hunting grounds. The only land access into the peninsula was through a deadly swamp that the Tigress clans called home.

At the highest point of this peninsula stood the ruins of a city. The city's position had once been key to trade on a near-global scale, long before the ferals had become the menace they now were. It was during this time that the city had seen hundreds upon hundreds of caves and elevators built within the ground, leading down to the sea. But with the loss of trade and the rise of ferals, the ways to the sea underneath had been sealed, closed off to prevent those which lived in the sea from crawling up into the city.

Its role had slowly dwindled over time until it became little more than a glorified lighthouse, yet one that had, for a time, been owned by a very important noble family. Yet that too was lost to time, the old owners of this place long since dethroned, their stronghold destroyed, their servants reduced to a shadow of their once appreciable numbers.

Now all that remained were ruins, and a village's worth of humans living around the castle at the very heart of it, trapped in spirit even if not physically chained, terrified of the wrath and hunger of their Vampire rulers.

Perhaps, had they met a human from the outside world, they might have known of the history of the place they lived in. Perhaps, if mothers were allowed to raise their children, they would have understood they carried the blood of nobles, of conquerors and knights. Perhaps, if the books hadn't been burned, the art torn, and the tongues cut, then there might have persisted at least a whisper of the past.

History had not played out this way, however, and now only the Vampire Champion that ruled this land remembered. To some, she was known as the Red Queen, to others as the Bloody Moon, none knowing her true name or origins, only that she'd emerged seemingly out of nowhere before razing the city to the ground.

Now here she stood, a personification of grace, dressed in a fine black dress that hugged her figure. It was devoid of frills or pomp as the human nobles would often use to adorn their clothes. Yet despite the daring contours of the cloth, it was her dark-wine eyes that demanded attention, an infinite pool of cruelty simmering right beneath the surface, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

"The Darktons prepare to siege Sinco. The attack will come once the snow melts," the Vampire ruler spoke softly as she peered out to the setting sun, orange colors touching upon the sea and sprinkling the light like a mirror. "Our contact within the kingdom knows not that the city is not in our control, and we must not allow him to, either."

Behind her, there was another Vampire.

Lady Aimes trembled like a leaf, her face sunken in, a metal collar around her neck constantly reopening wounds, allowing her blood to stain the ground she walked. Weeks ago, these injuries would close as quickly as they’d open, but she was too weak, fed blood that was devoid of sustenance, just enough to keep the Hunger at bay.

"See to it that Sinco falls into proper hands."

The Vampire nodded hastily, bowing her head deeply, whimpering, "Yes, my Lady."

In the following silence, Aimes did not move, nor did she dare raise her head. Terror poured out of her much as her own blood did, making the air thick and viscous with her pungent desperation.

"Seeing how you could not handle multiple commands, you are to exclusively concern yourself with this one task and nothing else," the ruler of the ruined city stared over her shoulder, piercing red eyes pinning the Vampire in place before shifting her focus to the Ghoul that knelt a few paces behind Lady Aimes. "Zagan, you, on the other hand, are to bring Evans Bavtha to me. Nothing should distract you from this task. Aimes will support your endeavor where she can, or if you need it."

“Yes, my Lady,” the maiden replied with severity, bowing lower. “There is, however, the matter of their forces…”

“Sinco was devoid of a force before the tribes showed up to take over, at least that much you’d achieved.” Upon her words, the collar around Lady Aime’s throat tightened, piercing more deeply, even as the Vampire dared not make a sound of complaint. “I doubt those Orcs will stand a chance against the Darkton’s enchanted armaments. They will pretend to hunt for Vampires in the city, which unfortunately means they’d soon find the fledgling Evans Bavtha now is. You must prevent this encounter from taking place, and you must bring Evans Bavtha to us. No matter the cost.”

“The Succubus-”

Lady Aime’s words choked, the collar tightening and blood poured out of her lips.

“Yes, the Succubus. The Succubus that could have joined us. The ANCIENT Succubus that you chose to play with!” Their ruler hissed, turning to face the kneeling maiden, a gesture of her hand sending the wounded Vampire smashing against the far wall. The metal spikes dug deeper into her throat, cutting through her windpipe yet avoiding the major arteries and veins. The Vampire couldn’t make more than choking sounds, clutching at the metal around her throat, legs kicking wildly as she was held midair.

“What should I do?” Zagan spoke, lowering her head further.

For a moment it looked as if Aime would be kept midair until she breathed her last, but with a gesture, she was dropped.

“You will take four elder Fangs with you. Kill anyone that gets in your way, but if you encounter the Succubus or her human, you will not harm a hair on their heads.”

“And… if she gets in our way?”

“Regardless of how ancient she might be, she’d never dare fight seriously. To unleash her full power risks the kingdom finding out what she truly is and calling for the Imperial Purifiers.” The Vampire shook her head. “Those zealots would sooner turn this kingdom to ash than allow a single Succubus to breathe.”

Zagan bowed deeper. “The Fledgling was turned by Lady Neura; she carries her blood, and… the Succubus killed Lady Neura.”

The Vampire took a moment to stare at Zagan. “The blood-debt is moot.”

Though none present said a word, the stunned sounds coming from them were loud enough on their own.

“The code was written to teach the mortals that for each drop of blood they spilled, we’d take a hundred of their precious humans.” She took a slow step, staring down at the Ghoul. “With our own collar manufacturing, we will no more be bound in our numbers. We will be able to amass a proper army, no longer bound to this cold rock.”

“A kingdom of blood.” The Ghoul spoke in reverence, the cracks upon her body glowing.

“Just so,” the leader nodded. “For this reason, I need you to pick your forces carefully. The four elder Fangs you will bring with you must be from the traditionalist faction of the Red Circle.” She made a gesture with her arm, spreading a wave of power over the room, thickening the air with the flavor of her blood-tainted energy. “Evans Bavtha must be ours whatever the cost… any sacrifice is an acceptable one if it means success.”

“As is your will,” Zagan bowed deeper, fangs peeking as she grinned.

 

---

 

The Boss leaned back into his desk. He was an imposing man, a perfect specimen of strength, health, and intellect. His frame was solidly built upon prominent shoulders and a square jawline, with eyes that stared through their target, as if meticulously dismantling them piece by piece. The man looked sharply dressed even when he was only wearing a simple robe.

He was noble by blood, even if a cold and calculating revolutionary at heart.

Fierce intellect shown in blue eyes as he perused the latest reports, a scowl gracing his rugged forehead.

It appeared the Darktons were following the plan to the letter, amassing forces to overwhelm the Vampire threat that had taken over Sinco. The spies within Aubria had verified this countless times, how the enchantments they were building were meant to combat Orcs and Vampires.

And yet, they’d turned down the prospect of anyone from joining in on this naked attack against the kingdom. They’d even turned down offers from other large families to commandeer some of their own forces.

This latter part was not part of the plan.

There were many other “minor” discrepancies. The sudden silence of the Aubrian court to the wider world, how the knights that had been sent to Sinco had up and vanished promptly after their return… and how they had needed to block a merchant from Sinco from purchasing radio equipment.

“Something is off.” Heavy fingers drummed on the murisium piece of furniture, echoing across his personal library. “Any reports from the Vampires?”

The maiden standing next to him promptly handed over another piece of paper, empty except for a singular sentence at the very top.

“They found the spy, huh.” His brows furrowed, heavy shoulders leaning forward in his seat. The drumming of fingers became louder.

The library’s door burst open. “My Lord!” A bunny-eared maiden rushed forward, holding papers above her head as she hastily knelt halfway into the room. “From Balet and Earl Vittchat.”

With a small gesture, the assistant walked over, picking up the paper. Manicured brows furrowed. “This is relevant, my Lord.” She approached the desk, handing the report over.

The Boss skimmed the contents, brows slowly rising, then rising further still, until, slowly, he stood up. “Rick… Killing a Charmer… Lord of Sinco… Awakening Elves!?” All considerations were thrown aside as he turned to the rabbit. “Any confirmation on any of this?”

“Our only source is from our spy amongst the Earl’s knights,” the servant shook her head emphatically. “As of right now, the Earl’s imposed a gag order on the all of his maidens. Not even the court of Balet knows of this.”

“No doubt he’s told the King by now, demanding the bounty be paid and the otherworlder be granted a proper title of Lordship.” His mind spun like a cart that was wildly plummeting down a hill. “That the King has not made an announcement must mean he intends to verify. A royal messenger will be sent to Sinco.”

“Should we kill them?”

The Boss laughed. “We’d have better chances digging through a mountain with a spoon. It’d take too many resources. Worse, it would show our hand.” Fingers drummed against metal. “We have to keep them from reaching Sinco before the Darktons make their move.”

“What should be our goal?”

“When the Darktons win, our agents on the ground will gather evidence of them having attacked a rightful Lord. Falsify evidence of them having heard rumors of this fact, and it’ll become a useful favor in my pocket,” he shrugged.

“And if they lose?”

“If they lose?” The Boss pondered on the question.

It was not an impossible prospect. The new Lord of Sinco had what few orcs there were in the south of the Kingdom under his command, as well as, apparently, a squadron’s worth of Dark Elves. But to win against the Darktons, he’d require far more than that. The Elves from the grove might just be enough, but he saw no real chance of definitive victory without also receiving aid from the vampires.

Meaning that so long as the vampires kept their distance or sabotaged the Lord, then failure was all that awaited.

Still, it was always best to cover every option.

“We’ll bolster Darkton forces with some tools and trinkets that might prove useful against Dark Elves and Elves. If they lose even then, then this new Lord will be worth my attention.”

The assistant nodded. “Considering the patterns of previous years, the feral Frostcaller is likely to keep the blizzard going for another two months. Perhaps it might be a better investment not to delay the courier, but to hasten the timeframe for the attack?”

“Not a bad idea.” Drumming his fingers against the table, the Boss hummed. “Then I will lend Guinevere to the Darktons… to help cut this foul weather short, as a sign of goodwill. After all, as far as anyone knows, vampires currently rule Sinco.” He grinned. “I’m sure she’ll look forward to having something to play with.”

The two maidens twitched, hesitation clear in their eyes as they shared a concerned look.

“Oh, I do seem to remember our pureblooded candidate happens to be in the area.” The Boss slowly leaned back into his seat.

“Mark, sir. He’s not shown up for the scheduled debriefing after his mission into Sinco.”

“Yes, him.” With a chuckle, the drumming of fingers slowed. “Be sure to inform Guinevere that she’s to look for Mark during this trip of hers. I trust she’ll teach him why I appreciate discipline in my agents.”

The assistant bowed. “And if she doesn’t find him?”

“Then we send the Hounds.”

The rabbit maiden swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding. “Yes, my Lord.”

 

---

 

“The Vampires are preparing to make a move. They send thralls, claiming them to be scouts, yet the scouts never return. They are amassing forces beyond the swamp,” Throag proclaimed as she entered the darkened room.

She was a Sabertooth, a massive one at that, nearly three meters in height with a body forged by constant combat. Scars littered her orange fur, golden eyes scanning for weakness, for prey. The annoyance was clear upon her posture, hunched as it was within the low ceiling of the room, her claws pushing out and back in as she inhaled the scent of the clan Mother.

“We cannot stall any longer,” she said, even now trying to pierce through the elder’s shadows.

“Do not mistake patience for hesitation,” the Mother of the clan spoke from all around her. “The weather was not in our favor.”

Throag scoffed. “Cold is no bother.”

“You have not hunted in snow, little one, and it shows,” the Mother chided. “It is impossible to hide in snow from a Tigress. Sound becomes louder. Even a cub would pick up the beat of my heart.”

“You have one?” Throag snorted in amusement.

“It might appear meaningless to you, but I was once offered means to prolong my life. A Warlock who’d replaced her heart with wood, long ago, wandering the land in search for the means to sate her thirst for vengeance,” the Mother sighed, tone laced with bitterness.

“Do you regret your choice?”

“Had I taken it, I would not have known the ravages of time, and I would’ve never ascended beyond the Sabertooth I’d once been,” the matriarch chuckled. “If I have regrets, then they are that I failed to learn my lessons sooner. But that, I suppose, is something we all go through.”

“Not me.”

The Mother laughed. “Of course not, cub, you’ve barely lived; there hasn’t been much chance to learn. Allow me to impart you a crucial lesson when hunting.” The darkness receded, pulling into the shape of a silhouette. “You only need to be the second loudest hunter.”

With a rumbling chuckle, Throag’s lips curled into a grin, fangs growing as her whole body vibrated with enthusiasm at the prospect of a rematch with Monica.

“It is the human that holds the future of our clan,” the elder replied. “We must attempt to bring in the white Sabertooth, but…”

“But any that stand in the clan’s way are to meet our claws and fangs.”

The elder only gave the barest of nods.

 

---

 

Within the city of Sinco, a singular building was the heart of the city’s industrial complex. It was, by all appearances, a box - a big box - made out of Orc-wood. Above ground, the box only had two floors: the base work-area that led into the many smaller and contained laboratories, and the “offices” on the second floor.

The Lord of Sinco sat within one of the empty laboratories, a space that would be occupied by new machines in a few weeks, but that was currently only four walls and a door.

He stood with a slump, staring into nothing at all as he rubbed his temples, trying to calm the ache. The bags under his eyes betrayed the lack of sleep, the exhaustion having entered into every corner of his body and soul. The clothes he wore were no less worn out, frayed and in many spots either stained or bleached.

Around the room, there were eight mice. Not just any mice, either—Tigermice.

All eight of them had their legs crossed, a hand reaching out to press against some patch of skin or another that Rick had exposed. One of them had even buried her fingers into his scalp.

“Cheese.” The mice chanted, united as one, their minds rallying against Rick’s frayed nerves as they sought to pierce through his barriers. “Cheese.” They spoke in unison, raw unfiltered determination hammering against a growing migraine like a battering ram against closed doors. “Cheese.”

Their psychic force was unrelenting, the bond providing them an easier way to breach the connection and into his mind. To Rick’s faltering thoughts, it was like trying to hold onto a jewel while dozens of hands pried his fingers open one by one. The only recourse of escape was to pull away or try to make his skin sleeker. But the mice’s psychic touch was growing bolder and more insistent.

“Cheese.”

It was a word that kept bouncing inside his skull. As much as he could keep them out, the insistence that hammered into his mind made it impossible not to think of exactly that which they sought.

“Cheese.”

One slip-up was all it took before the mice broke through.

Suddenly, the vague memory of a cut of cheese became a storm of memories flooding the forefront of his brain: pizza, calzone, garlic bread with cheese, mac-and-cheese, gnocchi, and so much more. The intensity of each filled his mouth with the recollection, and suddenly the room exploded with moans.

All eight mice squirmed, gasped, and shuddered.

Rick just slumped, gasping, drenched, and pressing his hands against his eyes to fight back the intense throbbing that was happening behind his eyes. Vaguely, he heard one of the mousegirls whimpering as she stuffed her mouth with almond cheese in a desperate attempt to satisfy the deep craving.

“Told you you’d regret it,” he grumbled.

These mental fortitude training sessions were “for his own good” and “to make it easier to not be overwhelmed” and “to keep him from going insane from all the bonds”, but every time he came out of it feeling like shit.

“We must find cows.”

It was like a bell ringing out, all eight of them rushing out of the room.

Several minutes passed, and Rick realized there was actually such a thing as a Cowgirl maiden breed.

“SHIT!”

Scrambling to his feet to run out, he swore.

He’d probably need Monica to stop the Horde before they did anything crazy.

Again.