The twin suns of the Aurelian Empire beat down on the terrace with the aggressive enthusiasm of a middle manager trying to meet a quarterly target.
Julian von Astrea lay motionless on his velvet chaise lounge, a silk robe draped over him like a shroud. To the outside world, he was sixteen years old, the fourth son of the terrifying Duke Valerius Astrea, and a young man blessed with immense wealth and zero responsibilities.
Inside his head, however, Julian was a thirty-two-year-old man from Earth named James, and he was currently suffering from professional withdrawal.
In his previous life, he had been a Senior Fiction Editor in New York. He had spent ten years inhaling lukewarm coffee, fixing plot holes in vampire romances, and screaming internally at authors who didn't know the difference between "their," "there," and "they're." He had died at his desk, clutching a red pen, his heart finally giving out after reading a manuscript where the hero's eyes were described as "orbs of cerulean desire."
When he woke up in this world—a world of magic, knights, and endless gold—he thought he had made it to paradise. No deadlines. No rent. No slush pile.
But he had forgotten one crucial thing: Paradise is boring.
"It is a cure for insomnia bound in calfskin," Julian whispered, staring at the ceiling.
He held up the heavy, gold-embossed book resting on his chest: The Divine Lineage of the Solar Saints: Volume XII.
"Four hundred pages," he muttered. "And three hundred of them are just a list of who begat whom. Saint Lucius didn't even fight the dragon. He debated it until it left out of sheer exhaustion."
Julian let the book slide from his fingers. It hit the marble floor with a heavy, final thud.
He reached out and picked up a small, crystal bell from the side table. He didn't ring it frantically. He gave it one single, crisp ding.
A maid appeared from the shadows instantly.
"Fetch the High Steward," Julian said, closing his eyes. "Tell him it is a matter of life and death. Specifically, mine. I am dying of boredom."
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors to the terrace creaked open.
Marcus, the High Steward of the Astrea Estate, stepped out. He was a man of sixty, with silver hair combed back in a style that defied the wind and a monocle that seemed to judge the sins of anyone it looked upon. He was the engine that kept the Astrea Duchy running—a man who managed three armies, a trade fleet, and the Duke's temper.
He stopped at the foot of the chaise lounge, breathing slightly heavier than usual, a stack of ledgers tucked under his arm.
"My Lord," Marcus said, his voice smooth but tight. "I was in the Council Chamber with the Minister of Trade and three very angry Bishops. We were discussing the tax implications of the new temple candles. I assume your emergency outweighs the fiscal stability of the Western Reach?"
Julian opened one eye. "You look terrible, Marcus. Your tie is crooked."
"The Minister of Faith is a shouter, My Lord," Marcus said, stiffly adjusting his cravat. "However, I am the Steward of this House. I serve at the pleasure of the Astrea bloodline. If you summoned me, surely it is for something more pressing than my attire? Has the estate caught fire? Has the heir declared war?"
"Worse," Julian said. "The library is terrible."
Marcus stared at him. The silence on the terrace stretched thin.
"My Lord," Marcus said slowly, employing the kind of patience one usually reserves for a slow child or a very large explosive. "You summoned me... away from a negotiation that involves millions of gold coins... because you do not like your book?"
"I summoned you, Marcus, because you need saving just as much as I do."
Julian sat up. The movement was fluid, but lazy. He looked at the old butler with the sharp, assessing gaze of a man who had negotiated million-dollar book deals.
"Admit it," Julian said. "You hate those meetings. You hate listening to old men argue about candle wax. You're bored, Marcus. You've been managing this estate for thirty years, and nothing surprises you anymore."
Marcus's expression didn't change, but his shoulders dropped—just a fraction of an inch. "My boredom is irrelevant, My Lord. My duty is to the Duke. And my duty right now requires me to return to—"
"I have a project."
Julian reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a silver cylinder. To Marcus, it looked like a strange, polished wand. To Julian, it was his Fisher Space Pen—the "Anti-Gravity Scribe."
"I am going to start a business," Julian announced, clicking the pen. Click-click. "A shadow operation. And I need a manager who knows how to handle dangerous assets without alerting my father."
Marcus sighed, the sound like old parchment crinkling. "Lord Julian, if this is another one of your phases—like the time you tried to invent 'pizza' and nearly burned down the kitchen—I simply do not have the time. The Bishops are waiting."
"This isn't pizza. It's power."
Julian grabbed a fresh notebook. "This Empire worships the Sun, Marcus. We are obsessed with Light, Gold, and Perfection. Our stories are just propaganda about how great we are. That's why everyone is so bored. That's why the Bishops are shouting. They have nothing else to feel."
"And you intend to give them... what? A new hymn?"
"No," Julian smiled, and for a second, the lazy sixteen-year-old vanished. In his place was the Editor—predatory, intelligent, and ready to disrupt the market. "I'm going to give them a monster."
He pressed the pen to the paper, writing upside down as he leaned back into the pillows.
3 May. Bistritz. The shadows are longer here...
"I'm writing a story about a Count," Julian murmured. "A nobleman. Cultured. Wealthy. He lives in a castle just like this one. But he doesn't worship the sun, Marcus. The sun burns him. He drinks the blood of the living to stay young."
Marcus blinked. His hand, which had been reaching for the door handle, stopped. "A vampire? The Church considers such myths to be heresy, My Lord."
"Not a myth. A metaphor," Julian corrected. "He's a gentleman. He invites you to dinner. He seduces you. He represents the forbidden. The dark. The things the Bishops don't talk about."
Julian ripped the page out and held it up. The handwriting was stark and jagged, utterly unlike the flowery script of the court scribes.
"I'm calling it Dracula. But we'll publish it under a pseudonym. Truck-kun."
Marcus took the page. He adjusted his monocle, intending to glance at it and dismiss it. But his eyes snagged on the first line.
Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!
It was... different. It wasn't a dry history of saints. It felt cold. It felt dangerous.
"You want to publish this?" Marcus asked, looking up. "The nobility will be scandalized."
"The nobility will be addicted," Julian corrected. "They are starving for entertainment, Marcus. I'm just providing the meal."
"And you need me... why?"
"Because I'm lazy," Julian said, sinking back into the velvet. "And because you need an excuse to not go back to that meeting. If you manage my transcription team, you can tell the Bishops you are handling a 'Sensitive Family Matter' for the Duke's son. They can't argue with that."
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth. It was the wisdom of the old man recognizing a loophole when he saw one.
"You are weaponizing your own indolence to get me out of a tariff debate," Marcus mused. "That is... surprisingly Machiavellian of you, My Lord."
"I try. Do we have a deal?"
Marcus looked at the manuscript page. Then he looked at the door leading back to the screaming Bishops.
"It is... a distraction," Marcus admitted, tucking the page into his vest pocket. "But I cannot transcribe this myself. The volume of correspondence I handle is already—"
"I know," Julian cut in, his voice crisp. "That's why you're getting me scribes. Three of them. Seniors. Men who know how to keep their mouths shut. Put them in the East Wing and set up a rotation. I want the first chapter ready for the printers by tonight."
Marcus straightened his tie, the perfect butler once more. He turned to the door, his hand resting on the brass handle.
"I shall summon the scribes, My Lord. But if this Count eats the butler, I am resigning."
"No promises," Julian mumbled.