Almost four weeks had passed since Cthulhu's awakening. Four weeks of tense coexistence in the makeshift base in Cancún, under the constant psychic pressure of the sleeping god now active in the Caribbean and the latent threat of the energy vortex beneath their feet. The "Anchor of Coherence" was barely holding, an exhausting effort that consumed the magical and mental resources of Umbria and scientists alike. Conflicts between alien factions and Cthulhu's hosts continued on a global scale, a shadow war reported only in confused fragments. The Netlin were still nowhere to be seen, their presence a looming fear rather than a tangible reality.
In secret, Dracula and the three Red Wizards had worked on the ancient rites of solar resistance. Progress was slow and frustrating. The ingredients were scarce, the ambient magic unstable, and the rituals themselves, as Sorcha had warned, were demanding and dangerous, based on principles of blood and elemental resonance that bordered on control.
It was Malakor the Withered who broke the discipline. Impatient with the slowness, resentful of the dependence on Dracula and Umbra, and always prone to direct and violent solutions, he decided to force the process. In a secluded corner of the outer ruins they used for discreet rituals, he attempted a shortcut: combining the essence of the solar resistance ritual with a massive infusion of his own chaotic elemental power, hoping to "burn" the protection into his own blood.
The result was catastrophic.
An inhuman scream rent the evening air, followed by an explosion of chaotic energy and the unmistakable smell of uncontrolled magic and scorched flesh—not by the sun, but by his own power turned against itself.
Sorcha and Silas were the first to arrive, finding Malakor writhing on the ground, his body convulsing, his skin covered in black burns oozing chaotic energy. Makeshift runes etched around him glowed with a sickening light before going out. He was alive, but barely. His life force was fading rapidly, consumed by the chaotic fire he himself had unleashed, which now devoured him from within.
"Imbecile!" Sorcha hissed, desperately trying to weave containment and healing spells from her own blood, but Malakor's residual chaotic energy rejected her efforts. Silas simply watched, a silent and indecipherable presence in the midst of the mess.
It was then that Dracula arrived, drawn to the disturbance. His ancient eyes assessed the situation in an instant: the rampant chaotic energy, Malakor's life force draining irreversibly. No magical healing, not even Merlin's, could repair this kind of internal self-destruction in time.
He knelt beside the dying mage, ignoring the chaotic sparks still leaping from his body. He looked at Sorcha, whose attempts at healing were useless.
"His life essence is almost extinguished, Red Mage," Dracula said, his voice low and gravelly. "The Chaos magic he tried to harness is consuming him. He will not survive more than a few minutes."
Sorcha looked at him desperately. "Is there nothing...?"
Dracula paused, his red eyes fixed on Malakor's agonized face. "There is... a way to save him," he said slowly, each word falling like a stone. "To preserve his power, his consciousness... though not his mortal life or his soul as you know it. I can offer her the Embrace."
Sorcha recoiled as if struck. The thought was monstrous. To turn Malakor, her brutal but loyal second-in-command, into one of the creatures of the night... into a potential servant of Dracula... But the alternative was to watch him waste away before her eyes. She looked at Malakor, who opened his glassy eyes, a wail of pain escaping his burned lips.
"Malakor!" Sorcha cried, bending over him. "Do you hear me? It's... it's the only way you won't... disappear. Do you... want it? Do you accept?"
Malakor stared at her blankly at first, then seemed to understand bits and pieces. Pure terror warred with the pain in his expression. He let out a strangled sound, a rattle that might have been a "yes" or simply a convulsion of agony. Perhaps a slight, spasmodic shake of his head. It was impossible to know for sure.
But for Dracula, it was enough. Or he chose for it to be.
Before Sorcha could reconsider, Dracula leaned over Malakor. There was a flash of fangs, a swift, predatory movement. Sorcha stifled a scream.
The transformation was instantaneous and violent. Malakor arched his back with a shriek that mingled the agony of death with the unnatural ecstasy of dark rebirth. The chaotic burns on his skin seemed to be sucked inward as a deathly pallor swept over him. His body convulsed, and the chaotic energy that was killing him now
merged with the vampiric vitae, creating something new, unstable, and terrifying.
His eyes snapped open, no longer clouded with pain, but burning with a deep, hungry red, flecked with the crackling sparks of the elemental Chaos that still resided within him. An animal growl escaped his throat as he sat clumsily up, staring at his own hands with a mixture of wonder and horror. The wounds were gone, replaced by cold, pale skin, but beneath the surface, Chaotic power seethed, now laced with an unquenchable thirst.
The energetic disturbance and the scream had attracted others. Merlin, Aria, and Kaelen came running, stopping in their tracks at the scene. They saw Malakor, unmistakably changed, his red eyes fixed on Sorcha with a new, predatory intensity. They saw Dracula, standing over him, his calm imperturbability unwavering. They saw the look of horror and defeat on Sorcha's face.
"Dracula!" Merlin's voice echoed, filled with icy fury as he realized what had happened. "What have you done?!"
Malakor, the Withered Red Wizard, was now Malakor the Chaos Vampire. A new abomination, born of desperation, ambition, and perhaps, opportunity. The already fragile alliance in Cancún had just suffered a deep and possibly fatal wound, as the new vampire looked around, confused, furious, and overwhelmingly thirsty.