Kryos 5, Imperial Year 1542
Thornreach, Northern Boreas – Vlad's Childhood Home
Vladislav Eisenberg was twenty years old, and he had not spoken to his father in three months.
The keep was cold, as it always was. Wind howled through cracks in the stone, and the fires in the hearths could not keep the chill from the corridors. Vlad sat in his chamber, a small room at the top of the east tower, reading a book on alchemy by candlelight.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Vlad said, without looking up.
The door opened. His father, Lord Marius Eisenberg, stepped inside. He was tall for a vampire, broad‑shouldered, with silver‑streaked hair and eyes the color of old blood. He wore a simple tunic and leather boots – not the finery of a noble, but the practical clothes of a man who had long ago stopped caring about appearances.
"You have been hiding," Marius said.
"I have been reading."
"Reading is not living." Marius walked to the window and looked out at the snow. "Your mother worries."
"Mother always worries."
"She worries because you do not speak to us. You eat alone. You train alone. You sit in this tower like a monk in a cell." Marius turned. "You are twenty years old, Vladislav. You have been twenty years old for three years. Vampires age slowly. You will be twenty for a long time. Do you intend to spend those decades alone?"
Vlad closed the book. He looked at his father – a man who had never understood him, who had never asked the right questions, who had never known that his son remembered another world, another life.
"I am not alone," Vlad said. "I have my books."
"Books do not keep you warm at night."
"Neither does company."
Marius was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the room and sat on the edge of Vlad's bed – an informal gesture, almost human.
"When I was young," Marius said, "I thought I could survive on my own. I pushed away my family. I traveled alone for fifty years. I told myself that I did not need anyone." He looked at Vlad. "I was wrong."
Vlad said nothing.
"Your mother found me in a tavern in the Free Cities. I was drunk, lonely, and bitter. She sat down across from me and said, 'You look like a man who has forgotten how to smile.' I told her I had never learned." Marius smiled – a rare, gentle expression. "She taught me."
"That is a lovely story," Vlad said. "But I am not you."
"No. You are worse." Marius stood. "I am not asking you to be happy, Vladislav. I am asking you to be present. Eat with us. Speak with us. Let us know our son."
Vlad looked at his father for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"I will try."
Marius clasped his shoulder. "That is all I ask."
Kryos 10, Imperial Year 1542
The Keep's Great Hall
Vlad ate dinner with his parents that night. The table was long and cold, but his mother, Elara – a different Elara, not the halfling – had prepared a meal of roasted boar and root vegetables. She did not eat, of course – vampires did not need solid food – but she enjoyed the ritual of cooking.
"You look thin," she said, pushing a plate toward Vlad. "Eat."
"I do not need to eat."
"Eat anyway."
Vlad picked up a piece of bread and chewed. It tasted like ash, but he swallowed.
"How is your alchemy?" his father asked.
"Adequate. I have been studying transmutation."
"Transmutation is dangerous. One mistake and you turn your hand to glass."
"I am careful."
"You are reckless," his mother said. "Like your father."
Marius laughed. "She is not wrong."
Vlad looked at them – these two ancient creatures who had taken him in, fed him, clothed him, and never once asked why their infant son had eyes that seemed too old. They did not know about the bombing. They did not know about Japan. They did not know that Vladislav Eisenberg was a mask worn by a dead engineering student.
But they loved him anyway.
He did not understand it. He had done nothing to earn their love. He had been cold, distant, secretive. And still they sat with him, talked to him, tried to draw him out.
They are my parents, he thought. Not the ones I lost. The ones I found.
The bread tasted less like ash.
Kryos 15, Imperial Year 1550
The Workshop
Vlad had built his first workshop at the age of twenty‑eight, in a cave behind the keep. His father had helped him carry the stone, mix the mortar, install the chimney. His mother had brought him meals and complained about the dust.
Now, at thirty‑five, Vlad was working on a new project – a crossbow.
Not the rifle. The rifle was decades away, still a dream of steel and gunpowder. This was something simpler, something he could share with his father.
Marius entered the workshop, stamping snow from his boots. "You asked to see me?"
Vlad gestured to the workbench. On it lay a crossbow – not a crude thing of wood and sinew, but a masterpiece of engineering. The stock was carved from yew, the limbs from layered horn and wood, the string from twisted silk. A steel crank mechanism allowed it to be drawn with minimal effort.
"I made this for you," Vlad said.
Marius picked up the crossbow. He examined the carving, the mechanism, the balance. His eyes widened.
"This is… exceptional."
"The range is three hundred paces. The crank allows for a full draw in five seconds. I have also made twenty bolts with hardened steel tips."
Marius looked at his son. "Why?"
Vlad hesitated. He wanted to say because you are my father or because I love you or because you are the only family I have left. But the words would not come.
"Because you asked," he said finally. "Twenty years ago. You asked me to be present. This is me being present."
Marius set down the crossbow and embraced his son. Vlad stiffened, then slowly relaxed.
"Thank you," Marius said. "It is a fine gift."
"The best I could make."
"I know." Marius pulled back and looked at Vlad. "You have changed, my son. You are less cold than you were."
"I had good teachers."
Marius smiled. "Your mother will weep when she hears this."
"Please do not tell her."
"I will tell her everything."
Vlad sighed. But he was smiling – just a little – as his father left the workshop, the crossbow cradled in his arms.
Anemoi 20, Imperial Year 1582
The Keep – A Family Dinner
Vlad was sixty years old. He looked twenty‑five.
He sat at the table with his parents, eating bread and cheese because his mother had asked him to. The keep was quieter now – fewer servants, colder fires. His parents were aging, even for vampires. Their hair had thinned, their movements slowed.
"I have been thinking," Marius said, "about the old days. Before you were born. Before we settled here."
"What about them?" Vlad asked.
"I was a hunter. Not of animals – of men. I tracked down criminals who had escaped justice. I brought them to account." Marius's eyes were distant. "I was good at it."
Vlad set down his bread. "You never told me that."
"Because I was ashamed. I killed for money. For vengeance. For the thrill." Marius looked at his son. "But I learned something, in those years. I learned that the world is full of monsters who wear human faces. And sometimes, the only justice they will ever face is the kind delivered by a blade in the dark."
Vlad was silent. He understood. He had understood for decades.
"I stopped hunting when your mother became pregnant with you," Marius continued. "I wanted you to have a father who was not a killer. I wanted you to have a childhood."
"I had a childhood."
"You had a cold tower and a stack of books. That is not a childhood." Marius sighed. "But it is what you wanted. And I respected that."
His mother reached across the table and took Vlad's hand. "We love you," she said. "We have always loved you. Even when you pushed us away."
Vlad looked at their hands – wrinkled, spotted, old. They would not live forever. Vampires aged slowly, but they aged. One day, they would be gone.
They are my parents, he thought again. The only ones I have.
"I love you too," he said. The words felt strange in his mouth, like a language he had forgotten.
His mother wept. His father smiled.
And Vlad, for the first time in sixty years, felt something warm in his chest.
Kryos 1, Imperial Year 1643
Thornreach, Northern Boreas – The Present
Vladislav Eisenberg was one hundred and twenty years old. He looked thirty.
He sat in his hidden workshop, cleaning the rifle, when he heard footsteps on the path outside. No one ever came here. The workshop was secret, hidden, protected by traps and illusions.
He stood, reached for a blade, and moved to the door.
A knock.
"Vladislav. It is your father."
Vlad opened the door. Marius stood on the threshold, wrapped in furs, his face lined with age. He was old now – truly old – his hair white, his eyes cloudy. But he still carried himself with the bearing of a hunter.
"Father," Vlad said. "How did you find this place?"
"I am your father. I know you." Marius stepped inside, stamping snow from his boots. He looked around the workshop – the steam engine, the alchemical bulbs, the rifle on the rack. His eyes widened. "You have been busy."
"I have."
"Your mother asks after you. She misses you."
"I will visit soon."
"You said that a year ago."
Vlad gestured to a chair. Marius sat, groaning as his old bones settled.
"I need a favor," Marius said.
"What kind of favor?"
"A crossbow. Not for me – for a friend. A young hunter in the south who has heard of my reputation." Marius smiled. "I told him I no longer make weapons. But I have a son who does."
Vlad considered. A crossbow was simple. He could build one in a day.
"I can do it," he said. "But why come all this way? You could have sent a message."
Marius reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather booklet. It was worn, stained, tied with a leather cord. He placed it on the workbench.
"Because I wanted to give you this in person."
Vlad picked up the booklet. He opened it. Inside were pages of cramped handwriting – names, dates, locations, descriptions. Drawings of a man's face, sketched in charcoal.
"What is this?"
"A target," Marius said. "A man named Gregor Volkov. He is a serial killer – has been for thirty years. He preys on travelers, merchants, pilgrims. He kills them, takes their belongings, and leaves their bodies in the forests."
Vlad flipped through the pages. The crimes were numerous: thirty‑seven confirmed victims, perhaps more. Men, women, children. No pattern, no mercy.
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because you are a hunter now, Vladislav. I have seen the news from Mercia, from Valdria. I know what you have done. I know what you are." Marius looked at his son. "I am not asking you to stop. I am asking you to be careful. And I am giving you a target that deserves your attention."
Vlad closed the booklet. "You knew. All this time."
"I suspected. When you were a child, you were different. Too aware. Too controlled. I thought perhaps you were touched by the gods. But as you grew older, I realized the truth." Marius leaned forward. "You are not from this world, are you?"
Vlad was silent for a long moment. Then he shook his head.
"No. I died in another world, in another life. I was reborn here. I remembered everything."
Marius nodded slowly. "I thought so."
"You are not angry?"
"Angry? Why would I be angry? You are my son. Whatever world you came from, whatever life you lived before, you are still my son." Marius stood, wincing as his knee cracked. "I do not understand what you are building here. I do not understand the weapons you make. But I understand justice. And I understand that you are bringing it to those who deserve it."
Vlad looked at the booklet, then at his father.
"Thank you," he said.
"Do not thank me. Just visit your mother. She makes a terrible roast, but she misses you."
Marius walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch.
"The crossbow. When can you have it?"
"Three days."
"I will send someone to collect it." Marius looked back. "And Vladislav?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. The world is hunting you now. The kings, the mages, the guards – they are looking for the man with the thunder weapon. Do not let them find you."
"They will not."
Marius nodded and stepped out into the snow.
Vlad stood in the doorway, watching his father disappear into the forest. Then he closed the door, returned to his workbench, and opened the booklet.
Gregor Volkov, he read. Last seen in the eastern forests of Valdria. Believed to be heading south.
He set the booklet aside and picked up a piece of paper. He began sketching a crossbow – a gift for his father, a promise to visit his mother, and a new target on the horizon.
The work was all that mattered.
But for the first time in a hundred years, the work did not feel like a burden.
It felt like a purpose.
End of Chapter Nine