The decision was made swiftly. When Noctis decreed it, none questioned him. The saints bent their heads, crimson eyes gleaming; the princes bowed and began issuing orders; the court fell into motion as if the kingdom itself had always waited for this moment.
Within days, preparations filled the halls.
The saints gathered at the palace courtyard, their crimson gazes steady, their forms cloaked in robes of light and shadow interwoven. Each bore the mark of unholy sanctity that Noctis himself had carved into their veins. He walked among them, his aura settling over their shoulders like a mantle.
"You will march with me into the desert," he said. "You will see the enemy with your own eyes. You will learn to wield what I have given you against them. This is not only a war—it is your next trial."
The saints answered in one voice: "Yes, my Sovereign."
Beside them stood Veyra, her robes now trimmed in twilight silver, the leader of the reformed Church. At her command, the priests and acolytes bowed, ready to march as spiritual attendants to the campaign. She met Noctis's eyes and inclined her head.
"We will follow. Our faith is your faith."
He gave a short nod.
The day of departure arrived.
The palace gates opened at dawn, light spilling over banners that rippled in the wind. The courtyard filled with soldiers, servants, and commonfolk alike, all gathered to witness their Sovereign's march.
Noctis stood at the threshold of his reign and turned back once. The Queen of the Twilight Kingdom awaited him at the top of the steps, regal in her bearing, her composure unbroken even as her eyes lingered on him with silent longing.
He ascended, kissed her lips with calm possession, and whispered only, "Rule well in my absence." She bowed her head. "Yes, my Sovereign."
At her side stood Iris, Clara, and Tina—women bound to him as much as they were bound to the court. He kissed each in turn, their faces flushing, their eyes downcast but alight with devotion.
"I will return," he told them. "Until then, serve the crown."
They answered as one: "Yes, master."
The saints mounted in two columns. Priests filed in behind them, banners of twilight and flame carried high. Seraphyne, veiled and radiant, joined Noctis's side, her retinue falling into step behind her.
Noctis turned to her briefly, golden eyes sharp. "We go to your sands, Seraphyne. Lead me to where the shadows breed."
She inclined her head, voice quiet but steady. "I will guide you. And you will see what has haunted us."
He said nothing more.
With a sweep of his cloak, wings unfurled briefly in the dawn, casting shadow over the gathered crowd. The people gasped, many falling to their knees.
"Twilight marches," he declared.
The procession moved forward, a tide of crimson eyes, silver robes, and banners rippling like storm winds. The gates shut behind them, and the kingdom watched as their Sovereign rode south toward Ashara, where whispers of vampires awaited in the dunes.
Noctis's smile was thin, his eyes aflame with something darker than duty. Vampires. Finally. The hunt begins.
The desert spread before them like an endless ocean of stone and sand. The air shimmered under the weight of the sun; the dunes rolled like waves, hot enough to blister the unprepared.
For the Asharan envoys, it was a trial. Sweat drenched their faces, lips cracked, and every breath burned. Even Seraphyne's seasoned guards staggered, their throats dry, their steps slow. They were born of the sands, hardened by them, and yet the march pressed heavy upon their bodies.
But for the Twilight host, it was nothing.
Noctis had blessed them before departure, his will knitting strength into their marrow, reinforcing their flesh against heat and hunger. His priests carried water, but few of them drank. Their steps were steady, their eyes calm, their bodies untroubled by the furnace that beat down upon them.
And the saints?
They walked like phantoms. Once human, once fragile, they were now something else entirely—holy vampires, their veins carrying both sanctity and shadow. The sun that would have burned them instead slid harmlessly across their skin. Their crimson eyes glowed faintly in the daylight, unbothered, unblinking, as if the desert itself bent out of respect.
The Asharans noticed.
Seraphyne watched from her litter, astonishment barely concealed. She whispered to her attendants: "Do you see? Not one falters. Not one suffers. They walk as though this land were spring meadows."
Her captain, lips cracked and eyes narrowed against the glare, nodded weakly. "Impossible… no foreigners march like this. None."
Yet it was true.
Noctis rode at the head of the column, cloak trailing, wings folded tight against his back. His expression never changed. He gave no order to rest for himself or his saints. The only pauses came for the horses—creatures of flesh and need who could not match their masters.
Three days passed like this. Noctis's people moved as if the sun and sand had no claim over them. The Asharans stumbled, but the Twilight host never broke formation.
At nightfall on the third day, the horizon shifted. Stone towers rose from the dunes, firelight flickering from distant watch-beacons. The walls of Ashara's capital—etched with glyphs of sun and serpent—emerged from the sands like a mirage brought to life.
The caravan halted before its gates, the torches of the city guards glowing in the dark.
Noctis sat tall in his saddle, his golden eyes gleaming as he studied the city. His army behind him stood straight, unbowed, crimson eyes burning against the desert night.
"Three days," Seraphyne whispered, almost to herself. "Three days through the sands… and not one of them faltered."
Her words carried both awe and unease.
Noctis smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the city. This land will see the strength of twilight. And the vampires who dared to rise here will learn despair.
The gates of Ashara opened. The capital awaited.
The gates of Ashara opened wide, firelight spilling across the sand. Horns sounded from the battlements, a chorus both ceremonial and strained. The queen's retinue entered first, banners snapping in the desert wind, followed by the endless line of Noctis's host.
The people crowded the streets, their faces etched with both wonder and unease. They had never seen saints whose eyes glowed crimson, nor soldiers who marched as if the desert had left them untouched. Priests in twilight robes carried banners marked with sigils of dusk and dawn entwined, and the crowd whispered the name that was already taking root across kingdoms: Twilight King.
At the palace, Seraphyne led Noctis through marble gates and into the throne hall. Courtiers and generals gathered there, their voices lowered, their eyes heavy with fear. The queen's throne awaited her, but she paused, turning toward Noctis as though to acknowledge openly what the court already suspected—that his presence outweighed her own.
"This is Noctis," she said, her voice firm. "He marches with us into the dunes. He will see with his own eyes what we face."
The hall stirred uneasily. A priest in white rose, bowing low. "My Queen," he said, "another village fell just two nights past. The garrison fought, but the dead rose against them. There were no survivors."
A general spoke next, voice low but hard: "Our scouts whisper of camps where the ground itself is tainted. Not just vampires—things like wraiths, shadows given flesh. We hold the walls, but only barely."
The words rippled through the chamber. Noctis listened in silence, his face unreadable. When the murmurs died, he said only:
"Enough. I will see them myself."
The force of it silenced the hall. Even Seraphyne's ministers bowed their heads, as if instinctively cowed by his voice.
That night, the city celebrated the queen's return. Torchlight paraded through the streets, dancers filled the plazas, and merchants spilled wine into goblets until the sands themselves seemed drunk. But beneath the revelry there was tension, like an unstruck chord.
Noctis remained at the palace. He stood at the balcony overlooking the city, the night wind carrying incense and dust. Behind him, the saints kept silent vigil; Seraphyne sat at his side, her expression unreadable in the lamplight.
Then he felt it.
A disturbance beneath the noise of the city—faint, but sharp. Like a breath caught where no lungs belonged. A shadow that did not move with the torchlight.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Vampires," he whispered.
The saints stirred as one, crimson eyes flaring.
They were not in the dunes. Not beyond the border. They were here, within Ashara's very walls, watching, listening, waiting.
Noctis's smile was thin, almost pleased.
"Good," he said softly. "Let them come. The hunt begins tonight."
The city sang and danced below, ignorant. But in the high halls of the palace, the Twilight Sovereign stood ready, saints at his side, eyes burning against the darkness already moving within.
The night deepened. The air inside the palace thickened with incense, but beneath it was another scent: iron and ash, faint but unmistakable. The saints shifted where they stood, crimson eyes flaring as if drawn by an invisible thread.
"Infiltrators," Noctis said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "They are already within the palace walls."
The saints bowed as one. "What are your orders, Sovereign?"
"You fourteen will deal with them," he said. His tone was calm, absolute. "Do not allow them to reach the queen's hall. Keep them alive where possible—I want their memories."
The saints pressed fists to their hearts. "As you will it."
Noctis turned then, his gaze finding Veyra. She stood among her clergy, the silver trim of her robes shimmering faintly in the lamplight.
"Prepare for battle tonight," he told her.
She blinked, startled. "Tonight—?"
His eyes narrowed. "Yes. Gather the Twilight Army. Have them ready to move when I call."
Veyra's hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. She bowed low, her voice steady. "It shall be done." Then she departed swiftly, her priests flowing after her like shadows of prayer.
In the queen's chamber, Seraphyne looked up as Noctis entered. She had shed her courtly veil, her hair falling loose against her shoulders, her eyes still lit by firelight.
"You look uneasy," she said carefully.
"The unease is real," Noctis replied. He stepped closer, his presence filling the chamber. "Your palace is already infiltrated. Vampires move inside these walls. My saints will purge them."
Relief flooded her face, but only briefly. She exhaled, then froze, her gaze sharpening. "And what of you? If they are within the palace, what will you be doing?"
Noctis smiled faintly. Shadows bent around him as he answered. His golden eyes bled into red, fangs glinting in the lamplight.
Her breath caught. "Y-you… you are—"
"Yes," he said. "I am a vampire." His aura surged, crashing over her like a wave. Darkness entwined with radiance, heavy enough to make the chamber groan. "But not just any vampire."
The weight deepened. Chains of sovereignty unfurled from him, filling every corner of the room. The mark of bloodline ancient and absolute revealed itself—the unbroken thread of the Progenitor.
"I am Noctis, the Crimson Inheritor," he said, his voice low, carrying the echo of centuries. "Bound to the progenitor line. Betrayed by my kind. And now their end."
Seraphyne stumbled back, eyes wide, hand clutching her chest. Fear flickered in her gaze—but so did awe.
He stepped forward and raised a hand, cupping her face with a gentleness that contrasted the storm of power around him. "Do not fear. I have taken a liking to you. I will protect you. You will not fall to them."
Her eyes blurred with tears. Words failed her, but her body leaned into his touch, trust forming where fear had been.
Noctis released her and turned, the storm of his aura folding back into silence. He strode to the door. Two saints already waited, crimson eyes aglow.
"Guard her," he commanded. "Let none pass this chamber."
They bowed. "It shall be done."
He paused, gaze sharp. "Remember this: vampires can sense bloodlines. Yours is not only strong, but carries my mark—the progenitor's line. Lesser bloodlines will falter before you. They will fear you. Use that fear."
The saints' eyes widened faintly, recognition sparking. "Yes, Sovereign."
"Keep as many alive as you can," he added. "I want to know what they plot."
The saints struck their fists to their hearts in solemn vow.
Noctis looked once more at Seraphyne. She reached out as if to call him back, but no sound escaped her lips. He shook his head lightly, a smile that was more promise than comfort crossing his face.
"Wait for my return," he said.
Then he stepped into the hall, the door shutting behind him. The palace trembled as if sensing the hunt about to begin.
"The hunt," he whispered to himself, eyes glowing scarlet. "It begins now."
The palace receded behind him, its torchlit walls glimmering like a mirage in the night. Noctis moved silently through the desert gates, his cloak drawing the shadows close, his wings folding the starlight into silence. Beyond the city's perimeter, the dunes stretched endless, wind singing low across the sand like a hymn of the dead.
He paused only once, closing his eyes. The Grid pulsed within him. Bloodlines and essences tangled like constellations, a living map. When he focused, he felt the disturbance—the faint drag of corrupted vitae, the hunger of lesser bloodlines pulsing like distant drums.
"There," he murmured.
His eyes opened, scarlet bleeding into gold. He strode forward.
The desert tested no part of him. Where men stumbled, he walked; where beasts flagged, he moved unhindered. The sand yielded beneath his boots, and each step carried him deeper into silence. Stars wheeled overhead. The night grew colder, sharper, as if warning him away.
Noctis smiled faintly.
The first sign of the lair was a change in the wind. It carried rot and iron—blood dried too long under the sun. He descended into a low hollow between dunes, and there the sand was disturbed, caved inward as though something had burrowed beneath. Strange glyphs, half-erased by shifting winds, pulsed faintly along the edge.
He crouched, placing one hand to the sand. The ground throbbed faintly, like a heart beating below.
"Old wards," he said quietly. "Broken, but still weeping power."
He pressed. The sand gave way, collapsing into a tunnel that spiraled downward.
The air inside was stale and cold, thick with the musk of decay. The tunnel walls had been carved by claws, smoothed by unholy labor. Faint whispers slid across his hearing, the sound of tongues too ancient to be spoken by mortals.
As he descended, Noctis allowed his aura to bleed outward. Twilight Sovereignty, tinged with the progenitor's weight, spread like a tide.
And they felt him.
The whispers broke. The shadows stirred. Shapes moved in the deeper dark, not yet close enough to strike, but restless, trembling.
"Good," he said softly, his voice carrying like a blade through the air. "You remember what true blood feels like."
The lair widened into a cavern. Pillars of bone jutted upward, lashed together with sinew. In the center, a pit glowed faintly red, as though the desert itself bled. Around it clustered figures—pale, starved, their eyes burning like coals. Vampires. Dozens of them.
They froze when he entered.
For a moment, silence ruled.
Then one snarled, a wet sound, and bared its fangs. Others hissed, spreading, their claws rasping against the stone. But even in their hunger, hesitation clung to them. Their eyes locked to his, and in the marrow of their corrupted bloodlines, recognition bloomed.
Progenitor.
Noctis stepped forward. The cavern shuddered. His aura filled every crack, every stone, every starved vein.
"You dared crawl from the sand," he said, voice ringing with sovereign command. "You who betrayed your line. You who shattered covenant. You are mine to erase."
The first of them broke, shrieking as it lunged. Noctis did not draw a weapon. His hand snapped outward, crimson light bursting. The vampire disintegrated mid-leap, ash scattering like smoke in the cold air.
The rest screamed. Some charged. Some fled deeper into the tunnels.
Noctis's eyes flared brighter, his fangs catching the cavern's glow.
"The hunt begins."
And he strode into them, a sovereign storm among shadows.
The lair shook with screams. Shadows recoiled from the cavern walls as Noctis advanced, his aura stretching wider with every step. Vampires scuttled across the bone pillars, their eyes wild, their claws dripping venom.
Some turned to flee.
"Kneel."
The single word cracked like thunder. It was not a plea but a law. Bloodlines deep within the cowed vampires buckled; their spines bent, their bodies froze mid-stride. They collapsed to the stone, trembling, forced into obedience by the echo of progenitor command.
But not all obeyed.
Three stepped forward, their eyes blazing with strange crimson sigils. Their bodies twitched unnaturally, skin stretched taut, veins burning with defiance. They had torn free from the ancient chains, their corrupted blood refusing the yoke.
Noctis raised a brow. "So. You escaped the bindings. Interesting." His voice remained calm, though power churned behind it like a sea before storm.
"Then kneel by force."
He spread his hands. Twilight flared.
[Skill: Dawnsunder Fang — Area Devastation][Doctrine: Twilight Sovereignty — Wave Release]
Light and shadow detonated in the cavern, a wave of crimson-gold arcs shredding stone and bone alike. Screams echoed as bodies were flung back, some collapsing into dust mid-cry. The defiant three staggered, hissing, still standing but shaken.
Noctis's smile was thin. He stepped through the ashes, seized one with clawed hand, and drank deep.
[Blood Memory — Activated]
Visions flooded him: a ritual circle in the dunes, names whispered in ancient tongue, a figure cloaked in bone and iron giving orders. So. Not rabble. A hand moves you still.
Noctis dropped the husk. His aura sharpened, pressing the others to the floor. "You serve a master. Then I will unmake him."
He moved again, cutting through them like a scythe, devouring blood, bodies, and memories alike.
Far above, in the palace halls, the saints met their own hunt.
Shadows rippled against marble. Windows burst inward as pale figures crawled through, eyes feral. The air thickened with unholy stench.
The first vampire lunged. A saint raised a hand, voice steady: "By the Sovereign's light."
[Skill: Hollow Prayer — Inverted Benediction]
Holy radiance spilled from his palm, but threaded with shadow. The vampire shrieked as the light scorched it, branding its flesh with sigils of obedience. Another saint struck with blade wreathed in twilight flame, severing a lunging foe before it could reach the inner hall.
The infiltrators faltered. Their instincts screamed of danger—not only from the saints' power, but from the bloodline resonance that rang through the chamber. These were not mortals anymore. These were vampire-saints, bound to the progenitor line. Their very presence forced hesitation.
"Advance," a saint commanded.
The formation moved in unison. Cries echoed, claws scraped, but one by one the infiltrators were crushed beneath twilight light. A few were bound in chains of holy shadow, forced into stillness rather than death, just as Noctis had ordered.
The palace shook with battle, yet the inner chamber remained untouched. Seraphyne knelt at her altar, guarded by two saints whose eyes blazed crimson. Her hands trembled, but her faith held. He will return, she whispered silently. He promised.
Beneath the dunes, Noctis stood in silence, the cavern littered with ash. Only three remained alive, shackled by invisible chains of his aura. Their eyes glowed faint, defiance broken, their voices whispering secrets he had already stolen through blood memory.
He turned toward the deeper tunnels, where a colder hunger called.
"The master hides below," he said softly. "Good. Let the hunt go deeper."
The saints above pressed their blades to the last infiltrator's throat. The palace walls still rang with the echo of twilight hymns.
And in the desert's heart, the Twilight King moved further into shadow, devouring every trace of the betrayal that had once cast him out.