They say the world began to die the night the heavens turned black.
It was not an eclipse, nor divine wrath, but the unveiling of truth — a revelation written in blood and silence.
For centuries, the vampires had watched from the edges of human kingdoms, wearing shadows like cloaks, feeding in whispers and superstition.
But hunger is a god that cannot be appeased forever.
And when the first of them — Lord Veyren Vale, the Father of Vampires — declared the age of hiding over, the night itself seemed to bow.
The revelation ignited the War of Blood and Bone.
Cities burned. Cathedrals collapsed beneath the screams of prayers unanswered.
Men raised torches; vampires raised legions.
The rivers ran red, and the sky turned to ash. Humanity, once proud beneath its sun, found itself drowning in its own arrogance.
And when dawn finally broke, it did not rise for mankind.
The vampires had won.
From the ruins, they carved a new order — The Dominion of Noctis — ruled by a single throne of onyx and flame.
At its summit sat the blood-born heir, Severin Vale, son of the First.
Where his father was fire, Severin was storm — quiet, merciless, unrelenting. He took his crown not with celebration, but with the precision of a blade sliding into flesh.
Under his rule, the world was divided.
The vampires became the new nobility, their courts draped in gold and decadence. The humans were bound to servitude — some merchants, some workers, many slaves.
The hierarchy was law. The blood tithe was worship.
They called it peace.
But peace is only the pause between screams.
And in that stillness — beneath the marble halls and crimson banners — prophecy whispered of something the vampires feared most.
Not rebellion.
Not death.
But a human girl, born with eyes the color of twilight, whose blood would awaken something in the cold, immortal heart of their lord.
A hunger no crown could silence.
A thirst not for blood —
but for the divine.