Astrael

"Mother will find you…" -A voice in the dark. Inside the Castle of Yalnor, Astrael sauntered the halls of nobility like a ghost feigning life. His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to whisper secrets, while his velveteen voice unfurled his audience with quiet precision. Commoners would talk of his generosity, his patronage of the arts, and his intoxicating allure of mystery, but the nobility, their minds fixated on court affairs, watched him closely and with deep suspicion. After all, the Duskborn Marquis had been born a bastard. His father a human and mother a vampire, Astrael straddled two worlds, yet belonged to neither. His lineage was a wound left to fester, an inheritance he neither embraced nor denied, but one always kept hidden. He knew who she was—the mother who had left her mark in his blood—but he had spent a lifetime avoiding her, carving his place among mortals. Yet that didn't satiate the hunger clawing within. For Astrael, feeding was a secret affair, a vice stemming from his basest desire. Though he vowed not to spread the curse, he could not resist the sweet satisfaction of the embrace. Reluctantly, he preyed on the blood of the dying, each feast as silent and invisible as the night sky. Then, war broke out. The Mosune Empire launched their invasion of the Yalnor Kingdom, and though it was ultimately a fruitless endeavor, losses were felt on both sides. Indeed, the war bereaved Astrael of his father, his only connection to the kingdom. His war steed, once mighty and powerful, now stood broken and abandoned, gasping its last breaths in the Yalnor stables after the fatal skirmish. In laying his eyes upon the beast, something stirred inside Astrael. Then, instinct took over. The moment his fangs sank flesh, he felt it—an unnatural pull, something deeper than mere feeding. The horse shuddered violently, its wounds closing, its once-dark coat paling to an unnatural shade. When its eyes opened, they gleamed abnormally, no longer of this world. Nearby, a stable boy stood frozen in the doorway. His breath hitched, and then he raced. Rumors spread like wildfire, setting the castle ablaze, but the true horror came even quicker. Not in the form of frightened nobles or frenzied witch hunters– instead, the vampires visited first. They found Astrael in his own estate. Draped in black silk, their eyes filled with knowing amusement. "You've drawn attention," their gazes murmured. "She would see you now." With his father gone and castle swirling with rumors, there was no one left to defend him, and when the guards arrived, blades drawn, it soon became clear: There was no longer any place for him in Yalnor. Astrael fled northward to his father's castle in a self-inflicted exile. Here, on the edge of the world, where the sea howled against the cliffs and the stars burned cold, he could disappear. The night was still when it came, the air thick with something more than mere silence. He felt it before he heard it—that familiar presence, ancient and inescapable, sliding into the room like a silk-draped specter. A chill curled down his spine. He did not turn. He did not react. He simply exhaled, slow and steady. "Hello, mother."