The Blood of Vampire: Chapter 1 - The First Sanguine Oath
The air within the Sunken Locus was a constant, grueling testament to spiritual scarcity. It was a cavern hollowed out of the indigo-hued basalt cliffs of the Aethyr-Wound Canyons, the final, desperate stronghold of the Vaelanar Clan, the last vestige of the ancient, shattered kingdom of Syldavia. The perpetual twilight filtering down through the winding canyon mouth was not true darkness, but a deep, mournful gloom that matched the despair of the Vaelanar people, a Clan forced into hiding by the relentless, faith-driven crusades of the human kingdom of Aerthos.
Jatex stood at the epicenter of this sanctuary. He was only thirteen, but the burdens of his dying nation and the cold, unhealed trauma of personal tragedy were visibly etched around his distinctive eyes, which held the Vaelanar's signature silver brilliance, yet often darkened with a restless, haunting amber when his exhausting guard slipped. His body, small and perpetually underfed in the Clan's spiritual rationing, was locked in an arduous physical and spiritual discipline, his posture radiating a rigid tension that was unnatural for a boy his age—a desperate, fragile shell of self-control.
His task was deceptively simple: maintain the Shadow-Weave, the ultimate defensive spiritual armor of his Clan. It was a shimmering, kinetic sphere of deep, pervasive indigo light that enveloped him completely, three feet thick and flawless in its rotational flow. This Weave was powered by the disciplined draw of the environment's vital energy—a technique known as Aethyr-Siphoning—refined to absorb and nullify the raw magics and weaponry of the Aerthos invaders. The First Oath of the Weavers, drilled into Jatex since he was a toddler, was the very core of their existence: We are the Wall, the Shield, the Unmoving Veil. We absorb the blow, we do not return it.
However, Jatex's adherence to this Oath was a painful, theatrical performance. Every hour spent maintaining the shield was an hour of spiritual and emotional hypocrisy. He found no solace in the Veil; he felt only the biting shame of inadequacy, the cold, metallic taste of failure.
His master, Elder Lyra, floated ten feet away, her form seemingly defying gravity, her face a sculpted monument to perfect spiritual equilibrium. She was delivering the final, crucial phase of his test—a controlled, precise psychic assault designed to probe and test the deepest vulnerabilities of his soul.
"Your discipline is the shell, Jatex, but your conviction is rotten at the core," Lyra's voice chimed, bypassing his physical senses entirely and landing squarely within his mind with the force of a tidal wave. "The Shadow-Weave demands acceptance of your fate, acceptance of your losses. Your energy is rigid because you seek to fight the reality, not merely protect against its consequences. The spirit flows, but your soul stagnates in the mud of retribution."
The spiritual pressure intensified, morphing from generalized discomfort into a specific, agonizing psychological invasion. Lyra began to broadcast images directly into his consciousness: the brutal simplicity of Aerthos steel, the casual cruelty of their foot soldiers, and, most potently, the memory of his younger sister, Elara.
Jatex gasped, the sound thin and desperate, his indigo shield rippling violently, threatening to fragment under the emotional assault. He fought the urge to recoil, fighting to hold the line of his Weave against the tide of remembered guilt.
"I cannot accept a world where defense equals death!" Jatex finally screamed, the raw, physical utterance shattering his discipline completely. The delicate balance of the Aethyr-Siphon immediately broke, and the indigo light dimmed, turning smoky and erratic. His eyes, now entirely amber, fixed Lyra with a desperate, pleading defiance that spoke of a child's utter helplessness.
"We are relegated to these caves because the Oath is weak! It protects the idea of Syldavia, but it fails the people! Elara died because I was taught to stand behind a wall when I should have been taught to strike down the attacker!"
Lyra did not relent; she accelerated the assault, recognizing that this was the pivotal moment. She delivered the Sanguine Trigger, the trial designed to break the student and force humility. The Locus evaporated from Jatex's perception, replaced by the suffocating, burning sensory data of the past: the sharp scent of smoke, the thick, hot smell of coppery blood, and the terrifying, final sight of Elara, separated from the protective circle, her small hand reaching out for his before the iron-clad soldier delivered the fatal blow.
"Jatex! Help me! Why are you just standing there?!" The phantom cry was absolute, and Jatex's psychological dam burst.
In that singular, agonizing instant, Jatex rejected everything: the Oath, the Weave, and the passive philosophy of his ancestors. Driven by a child's primal need for vengeance and the absolute weakness of his age, he plunged his consciousness deep, far past the cultivated spiritual centers, into the very core of his essence—the primordial, genetic wellspring that the Vaelanar had spent millennia trying to seal. His need was raw, primal, and incandescent: strength to annihilate, strength to reverse time, strength fueled by absolute vengeance. This catastrophic spiritual short-circuit tapped into the dark, latent magic of his lineage.
The energy that erupted was not light; it was an apocalyptic wave of crimson, volatile essence, so dense it appeared liquid and viscous, swirling like electrified blood. It was the terrifying, uncontrolled release of the Blood-Echo, and it tore through the Locus with the power of a cataclysm.
Lyra, caught completely off guard by the sheer, unholy force of the child's despair, was thrown back, slamming into the basalt wall thirty feet away with a breathless thud, her own protective spiritual aura momentarily shattered by the shockwave of pure malice.
Jatex stood transfixed, a grotesque conduit of an ancient, destructive power. The crimson light pulsed with predatory intent. Whip-like threads of the Blood-Echo lashed out, not randomly, but seeking sustenance. They pierced the smooth, enduring basalt of the Locus floor and walls, ignoring the physical rock to siphon the deeply embedded spiritual life force stored within—the centuries of Aethyr-Siphoned energy used for Vaelanar rituals. The rock immediately turned ash-grey, desiccated, and spiritually dead, its vital essence greedily consumed by the terrifying new force. This was the dark magic of the Sanguine Stain—the terrifying realization that his power was not used, but fed.
The influx of consumed life energy was a sublime, agonizing rush. It annihilated the sound of Elara's scream in his head, replacing it with an intoxicating, crystalline confidence that made him feel absolutely invulnerable—a terrifying, primal power-up that seemed to remake the very fabric of his being. This was the moment the Stain, dormant for generations, became fully sentient within him, finally finding a host with a spiritual wound deep enough to breach the Vaelanar's defensive programming. The crimson light receded as quickly as it came, extinguishing, leaving behind only a profound, chilling silence and a deep, agonizing void where his soul had once comfortably rested.
Jatex collapsed, clutching his chest, his skin now deathly pale, the exhilarating rush instantly replaced by a paralyzing weakness and a sudden, visceral Thirst—a metallic, clawing ache that screamed for replacement essence. Lyra pushed herself away from the wall, staggering toward him, her face a mask of terror that confirmed everything the Vaelanar had feared for a thousand years.
"The Sanguine Stain," she whispered, her voice rough with dread. "The prophecy… the corruption. It is the unstable, uncontrolled manifestation of our deepest, most profane truth. You are of the primal bloodline, Jatex. The Clan's shame."
Jatex stared at the lifeless, grey patches of rock, the guilt over his sister's death now eclipsed by the raw horror of his own power. "What have I become, Elder? That wasn't strength—it was a hungry monster! I didn't choose this curse!" he pleaded, his voice hoarse with a child's panic.
"The Vaelanar were born from a terrifying, cold bargain with the primordial energies of Syldavia... that bargain, the Source Blood, created beings who could draw strength not just from the land, but from the very vitality of life. The Shadow-Weave was created to suppress that truth, to turn the parasite into a protector. But the Stain is awake now. It is a hunger, Jatex, and it feeds. If you remain, it will turn you into the thing we fear most—a Blood Lord—and you will drain the spiritual essence of every soul in the Aethyr-Wound to sustain its malignant life." Lyra grabbed his small arm, pulling him fiercely toward the exit. "The Council will execute you, but before they do, the Stain will turn you into a weapon against your own people. You must flee, now! Your exile is your only hope of finding control, the only hope of delaying the inevitable."
The full emotional drama of his expulsion was crushing: his home, his faith, and his very nature were suddenly, violently rejected. As Lyra forced him toward the narrow canyon pass leading out to the eastern frontier of Aerthos, a third figure emerged from the deep shadows of the cypress trees. It was Aeliana, Jatex's secret love and closest confidante, her eyes wide with fear but alight with a fierce, reckless defiance. She ignored Lyra's sharp command to return to the village, rushing forward and closing the distance between them.
"I heard the sound. I felt the air crack," Aeliana whispered, her touch a desperate, electric connection against the crushing coldness of Jatex's new reality. She pressed a small, ancient relic into his palm—the heavy, cold Obsidian Amulet carved with the churning, forbidden sigils of the pre-Vaelanar deities. "Lyra speaks the law, but my Elder sister, Seraphina, who studies the banned texts, says the Stain is the Source Blood, the power that could have saved us all. This amulet belonged to your great-grandmother. She was the only one who sought to master the consumption, not simply starve it." A single, defiant tear rolled down Aeliana's cheek, the last visible expression of their forbidden love. "Take it. Find the Blackened Hearth, where the old magic still breathes. Do not let the Stain define you, Jatex. Control the monster, or come back and let me end your suffering. But please, come back."
Jatex gripped the amulet, its cold, smooth surface the only tangible link to his humanity and the fierce hope she embodied. He met her gaze, his amber eyes burning with a desperate resolve forged in betrayal and terror.
"I swear it, Aeliana. I will master the Stain. I will not be their monster. I will return to protect the remnants of Syldavia, not as a Weaver, but as the master of the Blood of Vampire."
With that silent, profound oath, he broke the final embrace, turned his back on the only life he knew, and stepped into the desolate, hostile frontier. The path of defense was closed. His dark, epic journey toward transformation and ultimate vengeance had begun.