The Extra Wants Control

Crimson tapestries, woven with scenes of past glories and whispered hunts, draped the vast hall of Castle Evermore. Crystal chandeliers, each a cascading waterfall of firelight, cast an opulent glow on the gathered Vampire nobility. Whispers, curled through the air, thick with anticipation.

Tonight, Queen Verona held a grand ceremony, and rumors – juicier than any juicy morsel – swirled around the purpose. A prince. The queen, veiled in an enigma of crimson silk, was said to have an heir.

Vampire lords and ladies mingled in a decadent dance. Velvet gowns, as dark as midnight, shimmered with unseen embroidery. Gaunt figures, their eyes glowing with an ancient hunger, moved with surprising grace. Ambitious parents, both those with sons and daughters, cast pointed glances at their offspring. Conversations, laced with veiled ambition, circled the elusive prince.

"Mira," a voice, smooth as polished obsidian, murmured into a young woman's ear. Her emerald gown, the color of fresh blood, clung to her slender form. "Your father insists you make a good impression tonight." Mira, her crimson lips pursed in a practiced smile, turned to find Lord Lother, his face as sharp as his tailored suit.

"The prince, my dear," he continued, his voice low, "an alliance with him would elevate our House."

Across the hall, a young lord named Andrew, his black hair styled in a rebellious mess, scoffed. His father, a stern man with a receding hairline, hissed in his ear, "Straighten your back, Andrew! Tonight, you make nice with the prince or there will be… consequences." Andrew rolled his eyes, a movement barely perceptible in the dim light.

"There's no guarantee there even is a prince, Father," he muttered. But a flicker of curiosity sparked in his eyes, betraying his nonchalance.

Tonight, the Queen held court and the Vampire Count Clans, the apex of nobility below royalty, were gathered.

Among them were the formidable Countess Blanche and the dazzling Countess Chatham, their gowns shimmering like rival constellations. Blanche, her beauty sharp as a newly sharpened dagger, had brought her two daughters – raven-haired Lane and the more reserved, Mera – and her niece, the fiery-eyed Vivienne.

Each daughter held herself with a practiced elegance, their movements a silent display of ambition for the rumored prince.

Across from them, Count Mordred, a man whose imposing stature was barely softened by his velvet cloak, held court with his brood. Five sons, each a reflection of their father's stoic power, stood behind him, a silent army vying for the Queen's favor. A flicker of amusement danced in Countess Blanche's eyes as she noted the display.

Count LeNoir, etched with the lines of a life both long and ruthless, leaned on his polished cane. His son, Edgar, stood beside him, a stark contrast in his youthful earnestness. Edgar's eyes, shielded behind thick spectacles, scanned the room with a mix of curiosity and nervous energy.

They settled, for a fleeting moment, on Countess Chatham, her solitude a stark contrast to the family displays around her. A hint of a smile played on her lips, a secret held close in the dim, blood-red glow of the hall.

As the music swelled and the vampires began their elegant waltz, a hush fell over the room.Crystal chandeliers cast a shimmering glow over the opulent hall of Castle Evermore, their brilliance failing to dim the growing impatience of the assembled Vampire Nobility. The early hours of revelry, filled with rich wines and lively conversation, had given way to a simmering discontent.

Queen Verona's absence loomed large, a tangible entity in the grand, empty space beside the throne.

Viscount Anastasia, her crimson gown a tempestuous contrast to her cool demeanor, fanned herself with a lace handkerchief. "This delay," she hissed, her voice tight with frustration, "is an affront. We were summoned, promised a grand announcement, and left to fester like mortals in a sunlit courtyard!"

Lord Lother, his face as pinched as his tailored suit, chimed in, "Indeed! And the state of the Continent is a further insult. Trade routes choked, travel restrictions, the withdrawal of our children from the Academy – a complete lack of transparency!"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The recent lockdown enacted by the Queen had severely hampered their undead existence. Whispers drifted between groups, laced with both frustration and morbid curiosity. "Did you hear about the Baroness' shipment of vintage burgundy being stuck at the border?" one hissed. "Unthinkable!"

Across the hall, a gaggle of young vampires, their pristine appearances belying their ancient bloodlines, gossiped with a fervor rarely seen among the undead. "It has to be Count LeNoir," Elara, Countess Blanche's golden-haired daughter, declared, her voice barely a whisper.

"Volkov is far too… uncouth," Lane, her raven-haired sister, countered, rolling her eyes dramatically. "My money's on that rogue envoy from the Eastern Provinces."

Their niece, Vivienne, scoffed. "Please. The Queen wouldn't stoop to a nobody." A sly smile played on her lips. "Besides, wouldn't that be deliciously scandalous?"

The whispers and complaints continued, a rising tide of discontent threatening to engulf the opulent setting. Yet, amidst the growing disquiet, a singular question throbbed in every undead heart: who could be the father of the rumored Prince? The answer, shrouded in as much mystery as the Queen's absence, promised a revelation that could reshape the balance of power in the centuries to come.

Discontent simmered like a stagnant blood pool in the grand hall of Castle Evermore. The murmuring throng of Vampire Nobility, having simmered in impatience for Queen Verona's arrival, now shifted uneasily under her piercing gaze. Her absence had been a calculated move, and the tension it built now crackled in the air.

Verona's gaze swept into the room with a regal iciness that silenced the whispers. Disappointment etched deep lines across her ageless face.

"I envisioned this a joyous ceremony," she began, her voice resonating with a power that resonated through every undead bone. "But the sight before me is… disappointing."

A collective gasp rippled through the hall. Verona, a queen known for her ruthlessness, rarely displayed such open disapproval. Her words hung heavy, a potent mix of disappointment and a barely veiled threat.

"You, who once were monsters that made the very air tremble with fear, now resemble nothing more than… potbelly pigs!" The insult hung in the air, a grotesque comparison aimed at those who had grown complacent. "A vampire dares call himself a Baron when his power barely reaches five stars?" she scoffed, her gaze landing on a particularly portly figure who shrank under her scrutiny.

"Some of you Viscounts," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain, "haven't even reached seven stars! There are only three ranks Baro, Viscount and Counts, yet you wallow in weakness. The power disparity between Viscounts and Counts is a chasm!"

A bead of sweat trickled down Count Mordred's pale forehead as the Queen's attention fell on him. "You, Mordred," she addressed him directly, "a Count for a century… and still a low-ten star? For 110 years you haven't progressed. Shameful!"

Blanche, her face emotionless, flinched under the Queen's harsh scrutiny. Though Verona acknowledged Blanche's progress, the veiled criticism of her "half-hearted" efforts was clear.

"And then there's the human girl," Verona declared, her voice dropping to a low growl. "The one who became Empress. Within seven years, she'll be an eleven-star, surpassing all of you who have stagnated for decades!"

The room held its breath. A human surpassing the most powerful vampires in such a short time? It was a terrifying prospect.

Verona scanned the room once more, her eyes finally settling on Countess Chatham, the lone figure. "Clan Chatham, however," she announced, a hint of a smile gracing her lips for the first time, "will be promoted. You shall become the first Ducal House of the Vampires! And..."

"The continent will remain closed," she echoed, her voice echoing through the cavernous hall even after she vanished.

A collective groan rippled through the crowd. Trade routes were their lifeline, and the lockdown bit deep. Yet, compared to the Queen's next statement, it felt like a minor inconvenience.

"Three years," she had declared, the words dripping with icy finality. "Three years until all titles are revoked. Everything. Except Duke and Royal. But even those," she continued, a cruel smile playing on her lips before they disappeared, "can be challenged. Just know I don't give titles recklessly that applies to everyone, even my own son who will be participating anonymously."

The room erupted in chaos. Generations of entitlement evaporated in a heartbeat. They were weak, the Queen had said, complacent leeches living off inherited power. Now, it would all be stripped away. Titles, respect, perhaps even their bloodlines.

"A tournament," someone bellowed above the din. Or a bloodbath?"

The murmur spread like wildfire. A continental tournament? Open to all – nobles, commoners, even plebeians, the dregs of society. Verona didn't care about blood purity; she would grant it herself. This was a game of survival, a culling of the weak, and an opportunity for the hungry to rise.

Countess Chatham remained a solitary island of calm amidst the storm. Her newly bestowed Dukedom felt less like a reward and more like a target painted on her back. A flicker of worry crossed her face, a concern not for herself but for the unseen figure the Queen had alluded to – the prince, forced to fight for recognition, and ge will be up against people with Laws and Domains as well.

Across the hall, Blanche's face contorted in a mask of fury and fear. Her daughters exchanged panicked glances. Their lineage, their privilege, all hung in the balance. Mera, ever the pragmatist, straightened her spine, a steely glint entering her eyes. Survival wasn't a new concept to vampires.

Mordred, his face ashen, slammed his fist against the wall. A century of complacency had brought him to this precipice. Now, he would have to fight for everything, even his very existence.

The silence in Castle Evermore was deafening. Queen Verona's pronouncement hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight that pressed down on every vampire present. Among them, Count Mordred was a volcano on the verge of eruption.

"A century she disappears," he snarled to himself, his voice barely a whisper but laced with enough venom to curdle blood, "and when she returns she spouts this nonsense? What gives her the right?"

Discontent simmered within him, a poisonous stew fueled by years of stagnant power and a gnawing sense of entitlement. The other Counts, including LeNoir and Blanche, had approached the newly appointed Duke Chatham, offering congratulations and carefully veiled attempts at currying favor. Mordred, however, remained rooted to the spot, a dark scowl twisting his features.

Suddenly, Bianca, her face a mask of forced cheer. With a practiced smile and a flourish, she presented a sealed letter to the Duke. "Congratulations once again, dear Chatham," she chirped, her voice laced with a hint of forced sweetness. "The Queen has entrusted you with a new territory – the northern expanse. Your task, reclaiming and developing it."

She knew "reclaim" wasn't a euphemism used for fallow land. The north was a wild frontier, sparsely populated by vampires and rumored to be teeming with something far more unsettling – intelligent monsters.

"And," Bianca continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "the Queen hinted she might visit with her son."