The darkness was not silence. It was a roar.
Lyra's consciousness dove headfirst into a storm of agonizing, electric-red fire. The stun bolt had been a temporary disruption, but the Crimson Bio-Fluid—Dracula's fragmented essence—was the true anesthetic. It bypassed her central nervous system and seized control of her genetic code, rewriting 22 years of human evolution in the span of milliseconds.
She felt her bones calcifying, growing denser and stronger with a terrible, grinding sound only audible inside her skull. The nanites mixed with the ancient blood, reinforcing her veins with cybernetic mesh and lacing her nerves with hyper-responsive pathways. It felt like being simultaneously dissolved in acid and welded in liquid metal.
Pathetic.
The thought wasn't hers. It was rich, deep, and impossibly articulate, resonating in the core of her mind like the plucked string of a cello.
Lyra tried to scream, but her throat was locked. She was strapped to a sterile metal gurney, positioned directly under the colossal Transfer Unit. Above her, Dr. Seraph Morn's detached face floated in her blurry, pain-filled vision.
"Initial bio-readings are anomalous," Seraph reported into his wrist-mounted terminal, his tone purely academic, devoid of any concern for the human suffering below him. "Subject's heart rate spiked to 320 bpm, now decelerating rapidly. Cellular rejection initiated—wait. Reversal. The foreign markers are not being destroyed; they are integrating at 98.7% efficiency."
He leaned in, his augmented eyes scanning her face with chilling precision. "Look at that resilience, Kain. Your low-caste genome is indeed a marvelous scaffold. The pain you feel is the sound of your evolution. Be grateful."
Grateful for this cage? No. Be furious. The Voice, the Aether Fragment, pushed against the walls of her mind, a powerful presence struggling to take shape. He seeks to bind what was born to reign. You are not a scaffold, little Lyra. You are a vessel. My throne.
Lyra fought the invasion, her teeth gritted against the leather straps. "Get out of my head," she managed, the words a raw, broken rasp.
"Ah, a lucid response," Seraph noted, tapping a control panel. "Initial telepathic resistance confirmed. Dracula's consciousness fragment is attempting neural dominance. We predicted this. Deploying Crest-Wave Dampeners."
A focused beam of low-frequency energy washed over her. It was meant to silence the consciousness of the Ancient One, but it only amplified Lyra's internal conflict. The pain doubled, now both biological and psychological.
Dampeners? Childish devices. The Voice laughed, a dry, melodic sound that seemed to scratch at the inside of her soul. Do they think code can bind a soul born of cosmic collapse? Relax, Lyra. Trust the power. You are drowning in pain because you are resisting the very thing that will make you immortal.
Immortal. The word echoed the Federation's cruel promises. But when the Voice said it, it sounded like a vow.
A sudden, jarring silence fell. The searing biological pain abruptly receded, replaced by a crystalline clarity. Lyra gasped, and the smell of ozone and disinfectant was replaced by something else—the coppery, metallic scent of blood, rich and overwhelming, clinging to the air, pulling at her attention.
Her eyes snapped open. The world was too bright, too sharp. She could see the micro-scratches on Seraph's console, the faint dust motes dancing in the UV light, the minute, anxious tremor in the hand of a distant technician. Her hearing was impossibly acute; she could hear the subtle thrum of blood pressure monitors down the hall.
"Bio-signature stabilizing," Seraph announced, oblivious to the sea change within his subject. "Pulse rate down to 45 bpm. Subject appears compliant."
Lyra felt a strange tug, a hunger in the pit of her stomach that was deeper than any human need. It wasn't food. It was the rich, vital essence of the life around her. It was the Thirst.
She looked down at her chest. The area where the stun bolt had hit was no longer a seared patch of skin. It was gone. Her jumpsuit was charred, but the skin beneath was pristine, flawless, not even a pink scar.
Regeneration. Elementary. Dracula's whisper was closer now, like a lover leaning over her shoulder. But don't rely on just the blood, my dear. The nanites are a useful toy. They are a bridge. Use the link.
The Bloodlink. She focused on the whisper—not fighting it, but channeling the power it promised. She focused on the leather restraint on her left wrist. She didn't strain or pull. She just willed it to yield.
A network of tiny, crimson veins on her forearm pulsed, and the leather strap, despite its industrial strength, shrieked as it spontaneously split, tearing along its fibers as if severed by an invisible, impossibly sharp blade.
Seraph finally looked up. "What in the—"
Lyra's mind was a sudden, roaring torrent of power. The confusion, the fear, the technician's passivity—it all dissolved into a cold, terrifying instinct. Escape. Feed. Reign.
She ripped her other hand free, the metal clips tearing out of the gurney with a spray of sparks. She was off the table in a blur, moving faster than the eye could track, faster than any human body should.
The nearby technician, a young woman named Kael, was the closest. Kael was fumbling for a sidearm, terror etched across her face.
She is a threat. Neutralize the threat. The Voice was a pure command now, stripping away Lyra's remaining humanity.
Lyra didn't need the gun. She didn't need to fight. She only needed the Bloodlink. She fixed her terrifying, newly-enhanced crimson vision on the technician.
Kael's heart. Lyra felt it, a strong, rhythmic thumping, a beautiful source of life-blood. She didn't touch her. She just pushed her raw, telepathic will—the fragment of Dracula's power—into Kael's neural pathways.
The effect was instantaneous and horrific. Kael's eyes went wide, not with terror, but with a sudden, worshipful adoration. The sidearm clattered to the floor.
"My… Queen," Kael whispered, dropping to her knees, her voice thick with sudden, unreasoning fealty. "How may I serve the Crimson Mother?"
Lyra stared, horrified by the ease of the act, by the monstrous power that flowed through her. Kael's free will was gone, replaced by absolute, devoted servitude. This wasn't her power; this was the Monarch's.
Seraph Morn, his composure finally shattered, scrambled backward, his face a mask of shock and awe. "The Bloodlink… it's a total psychic dominance! It wasn't supposed to be immediate! She's usurped the dampeners!"
Lyra took a step toward him, a chilling silence descending. The metallic scent of blood was now a deafening symphony. She raised her hand, and the heavy gurney she had just been strapped to ripped itself from the floor, hovering for a moment before she slammed it down, blocking Seraph's path to the main door.
She walked past the kneeling Kael, her gait now fluid and predatory. She stopped at a reflective panel, gazing at her own image.
The eyes staring back were not the dull brown of Lyra Kain. They were a brilliant, terrifying crimson, pupils dilated and filled with an unsettling luminescence. The light caught the stray liquid from the shattered vial still clinging to her cheek, making it look like a tear of blood.
Magnificent, purred the Voice, resonating through her blood, not her ears. Look at yourself. No longer a technician, Lyra. You are a predator. A monarch.
Seraph was struggling against the gurney, shrieking into his comms. "Containment breach! Subject is fully assimilated! I repeat, the Nosferis is active! Send Commander Vale!"
Lyra ignored the frantic scientist. She gazed into her crimson eyes, feeling the cold, ancient confidence of the Aether Fragment solidify within her.
You wanted to escape this pathetic cage, Lyra. Now you shall. But you will not flee into the shadows. You will walk through them.
The Voice was no longer an echo. It was a covenant, a dark, seductive promise of power that overwhelmed all her fear. Lyra smiled—a slow, blood-chilling curve of the lips she had never made before.
The Crimson Mother rose.
She turned to face the main door, where she could hear the pounding of armored footsteps and the distant alarm blare of CODE: VAMPIRE-PRIME.
Do not kill the small ones, Lyra. The Voice corrected her, its tone now authoritative. You must teach them the true meaning of devotion. And you must not harm the soldier they send. He is handsome. And he will be ours.
Lyra nodded, the scent of fresh blood beckoning. The door seals hissed open, revealing a squad of Federation enforcers, their assault rifles raised.
The hunt had begun.