The Forgotten Blood

Drakon Melanthios — The First Memory

Greece — Long Before the Great Houses

Drakon Melanthios remembered his first death.

It simply wasn’t his own.

The boy knelt beside his mother as the last breath escaped her lips.

He was twelve.

Outside their small stone home, thunder rolled across the mountains, though there had been no rain for weeks. The olive trees bent beneath a wind that seemed to have come from nowhere.

Drakon barely noticed.

His mother’s hand was still in his.

Warm.

For now.

“Mother?”

No answer.

He squeezed her fingers.

“Mother?”

Her eyes stared toward the ceiling.

Drakon knew what death looked like. Every child did. Men died in wars. Women died bringing children into the world. Infants died before they were given names.

Death was simply another god that demanded tribute.

But this was different.

Drakon could still feel her.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly—

he was standing somewhere else.

Drakon opened his eyes.

His mother stood before him.

Not dead.

Not sick.

Young.

She was laughing.

A man stood beside her whom Drakon had never seen before.

His father.

Drakon somehow knew it immediately.

His mother’s voice echoed around him.

Melanthios.

The world shifted.

His mother was holding an infant.

Drakon.

Another shift.

She was crying.

Another.

She was running through the forest.

Another.

Blood covered her hands.

Another.

She stood before an ancient stone altar beneath a moonless sky.

Someone else was there.

A woman.

No.

Not a woman.

Drakon couldn’t see her face.

Every time he tried, his vision blurred.

His mother knelt before the stranger.

“You promised.”

The figure answered.

“I promised that your son would live.”

Drakon felt something cold crawl through him.

His mother looked down at the infant in her arms.

At him.

“What did you do?”

The stranger laughed softly.

“Nothing.”

She stepped closer.

“Yet.”

The memory shattered.

Drakon screamed.

He fell backward across the floor of his home.

His mother’s hand slipped from his.

He stared at her corpse.

For several moments he couldn’t breathe.

He had seen her memories.

Not imagined them.

Not dreamed them.

He had been inside them.

Drakon slowly crawled toward his mother.

“Who was she?”

The dead woman did not answer.

He touched her hand again.

Nothing happened.

Drakon swallowed.

Then he touched the blood beneath her nose.

The world exploded.

Thousands of images struck him at once.

Birth.

Fear.

Love.

Pain.

Faces.

Places.

Secrets.

His mother’s entire existence crashed through the mind of a twelve-year-old boy.

Drakon screamed until his throat tore.

Yet beneath the pain—

he understood.

Blood remembered.

Not everything.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Drakon ripped his hand away.

He stared at the blood covering his fingertips.

Something moved behind him.

Drakon froze.

He wasn’t alone.

A woman stood in the doorway.

Black robes covered her body. Her hair was silver despite a face untouched by age.

Drakon recognized her.

The woman from his mother’s memory.

“You.”

She smiled.

“I wondered when it would awaken.”

Drakon stood.

He was terrified.

But he refused to show it.

“What did you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“That is what you told her.”

Her smile disappeared.

Drakon realized immediately that he had made a mistake.

The woman crossed the room faster than his eyes could follow.

Her hand closed around his throat.

She lifted him from the floor.

Drakon clawed uselessly at her wrist.

“You saw that?”

He couldn’t answer.

Her eyes changed.

Black veins spread beneath them.

Fangs descended behind her lips.

Drakon had heard stories of creatures that drank blood.

Stories told to frighten children away from ruins and forests after sunset.

He had never believed them.

Until now.

“You entered her memories.”

Drakon struggled for air.

The woman’s expression changed again.

Not anger.

Wonder.

She lowered him.

His feet touched the floor.

Drakon stumbled backward.

The creature stared at him.

“What are you?”

Drakon rubbed his throat.

“My name is Drakon Melanthios.”

“I didn’t ask your name.”

He looked toward his mother’s body.

Then toward the blood staining his fingers.

“I don’t know.”

The vampire slowly smiled.

“I think I do.”

Drakon’s fear returned.

She approached his mother’s body and crouched beside it.

“Blood carries more than life, little dragon. It carries what came before. Love. Hatred. Terror. Sometimes even pieces of the soul.”

Drakon stared at her.

“How?”

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

She dipped one finger into his mother’s blood.

Drakon’s anger flared.

“Don’t touch her.”

The vampire looked up.

There was amusement in her eyes.

Then she placed the bloody finger against Drakon’s forehead.

The memories returned.

Drakon collapsed.

This time he saw something his mother had never seen.

Seven figures standing around an altar.

Seven symbols carved into stone.

And behind them—

something older.

Something watching.

Something that seemed to notice Drakon looking through a memory that had happened centuries before his birth.

Its head turned.

Drakon stopped breathing.

The thing looked directly at him.

Impossible.

This was a memory.

It couldn’t see him.

Its lips moved.

Drakon.

He screamed.

The vision vanished.

Drakon opened his eyes.

He was lying beside his mother’s corpse.

The vampire stood above him.

For the first time, she wasn’t smiling.

“What did you see?”

Drakon stared at her.

He understood instinctively that he should lie.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You screamed at nothing?”

Drakon slowly stood.

His legs trembled beneath him.

“I saw my mother.”

The vampire studied him for several seconds.

Then she smiled.

“Good.”

She turned toward the doorway.

Drakon watched her leave.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

“You knew my mother.”

“Yes.”

“You knew this would happen.”

Silence.

Drakon’s hands curled into fists.

“What am I?”

The vampire looked back at him.

“Today?”

Her eyes settled upon the blood covering his fingers.

“A boy who discovered that the dead are not nearly as silent as everyone believes.”

“And tomorrow?”

The vampire smiled.

“That depends upon whether you survive tonight.”

Then she disappeared into the darkness.

Drakon stood alone.

His mother lay behind him.

The wind screamed through the olive trees outside.

He looked again at the blood on his fingers.

He should have washed it away.

Instead, Drakon touched one finger to his tongue.

And remembered.

Centuries later, kings would fear the name Drakon Melanthios.

Vampires would whisper that he had existed before their oldest Houses.

Some would claim he could tear memories from blood.

Others would insist he could place memories where none had ever existed.

A few would claim Drakon had become so ancient that even he no longer knew which of his memories were truly his.

But all of those stories began here.

With a dead mother.

A drop of blood.

And a twelve-year-old boy discovering the question that would haunt him for thousands of years:

How do you know that thought belongs to you?

—-

Drakon had spent thousands of years in the arenas fighting in the vampire games.  The arena was deadly but no one had as many victories as he did. 

With the power of his blood and his training he was ranked as the Protos Niketes.  It literally meant The first Victor.  Drakon was the very first to win the first game.  He actually won multiple games and they calculated the number of kills he has as 1000.

He smiled at the thought of what he had been through and it made him what he was today.  He was the strongest fighter and he had learned that he had a special power.

Mnēmē Skia was the shadow memory which means he could implant false memories into others.  It is what made him able to keep himself alive as a slave in the arenas.

He looked at Atreio who was someone he had blood bound to get him away from the games.  The man was also a crazy fighter but he was more capable with weapons of distance.  He also had a special gift and that was he was a battle seer.  There hasn’t been many of those and this was the first vampire who had been turned with the gift.

—

Astucia entered the monolithic mansion that belonged to the Greek vampire known as Drakon. It had so many images of the creatures of legend from Greek Mythology.

“Enter the house of Drakon and be welcome.  I am Atreio the servant of our Lord.  He has bid me to take you to his audience chamber”

She nodded “Thank you Atreio.”.  She followed him and watched his easy gait and his quick side scanning motions.  She knew this man was dangerous even without the blood power emanating off of himself.  She knew she didn’t want to fight against this man ever.  He was dangerous and he has movements like that of a gladiator.

“Astucia, welcome to my home.  I am glad you were able to get away from the others and come and see me by yourself.  Zahir has been in my dreams talking about your power and that the blade chose you”

She quietly shook her head “Names have power.  Please don’t speak his name aloud”

He laughed “I have nothing to fear from Zahir.  He was the first of the Primordials to ever protect me.  He saved me from an overzealous master who was cruel.  See now the memory”

——-

Drakon Melanthios had survived the arena.

He had survived swords through his flesh, claws across his chest, and opponents who had entered the sands believing themselves immortal.

He had even survived becoming a vampire.

But this was different.

This wasn’t battle.

This was punishment.

Drakon hung from two iron chains in the center of the underground chamber, his wrists locked above his head. The shackles had been forged specifically for vampires. Ancient symbols had been hammered into the metal, and every time he pulled against them, they burned deeper into his flesh.

His feet barely touched the stone floor.

Blood ran down his arms.

His back was already ruined.

The whip struck again.

Drakon’s body jerked forward.

He refused to scream.

The vampire holding the whip walked slowly around him.

“You were ordered to kneel.”

Drakon raised his head.

His dark hair hung across his face, wet with sweat and blood.

“I don’t kneel.”

The whip struck again.

This time Drakon grunted.

His knees almost buckled.

Almost.

The vampire leaned close to his ear.

“Everyone kneels eventually.”

Drakon laughed.

It was weak.

Broken.

But it was still laughter.

“You should have watched me in the arena.”

Another strike.

Drakon’s vision flashed white.

He could no longer feel parts of his back.

“You aren’t in the arena anymore.”

“No.”

Drakon slowly raised his head.

His eyes burned crimson.

“In the arena, my opponents had courage enough to face me.”

The chamber went silent.

Then the punishment became worse.

Two guards seized him.

One forced his head backward while another drove a narrow iron spike through his shoulder.

Drakon screamed.

The sound echoed through the chamber.

His body convulsed against the chains.

Blood poured across his chest.

Someone laughed.

Drakon’s breathing became ragged.

He could feel his body trying to heal, but the metal prevented it. Every wound remained open. Every torn muscle continued screaming.

The torturer stepped in front of him.

“Say it.”

Drakon stared at him.

“Say what?”

“That you submit.”

Drakon smiled through bloody teeth.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The torturer struck him across the face.

Drakon’s head snapped sideways.

For several moments, everything disappeared.

Then he heard something.

Clapping.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Everyone in the chamber turned.

A man stood in the doorway.

Very tall.

Dark skin.

Long black hair fell midway down his back, sections of it woven into braids.

He wore no armor.

He carried no visible weapon.

He didn’t need one.

Drakon lifted his head enough to see the stranger smile.

His teeth were blood red.

“Impressive.”

One of the guards reached for his sword.

“Who are you?”

The stranger’s smile widened.

“That is rarely the question people should ask when they see me.”

The guard drew his blade.

“Leave.”

The stranger looked around the chamber.

Then his eyes settled upon Drakon.

“How long?”

The torturer frowned.

“What?”

“How long have you been doing this to him?”

“Three nights.”

The stranger looked genuinely surprised.

“Three?”

Drakon managed another bloody grin.

“Four.”

The stranger laughed.

“I like him.”

The torturer stepped forward.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

The stranger’s expression changed.

The amusement disappeared.

“Unfortunately for you, I have decided that it does.”

The torches went out.

Darkness swallowed the chamber.

Drakon heard screaming.

Not battle.

Screaming.

Something struck the wall hard enough to crack stone.

Another man begged.

Then came silence.

Absolute silence.

The torches ignited again.

Drakon blinked.

Bodies covered the floor.

The stranger stood exactly where he had been before.

Not a drop of blood stained his clothing.

The torturer remained alive.

Barely.

Zahir held him by the throat with one hand.

“You enjoy breaking things,” the stranger said.

The vampire clawed desperately at his wrist.

Zahir looked toward Drakon.

“Should I kill him?”

Drakon coughed.

Blood ran from his mouth.

“No.”

Zahir raised an eyebrow.

The torturer’s expression filled with hope.

Drakon continued.

“Give him the whip.”

Zahir’s blood-red smile returned.

“Oh, I definitely like you.”

He threw the vampire across the chamber.

Then he approached Drakon.

For the first time, Drakon felt something he had not felt throughout his punishment.

Fear.

There was something wrong about this vampire.

Drakon had encountered ancient vampires before. He knew what their presence felt like.

This wasn’t that.

This creature felt older.

Not merely ancient.

Older than the rules that governed their kind.

Zahir stopped before him.

Drakon stared into his eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Zahir.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Good.”

Zahir reached for the chains.

Drakon immediately pulled away.

“Don’t.”

Zahir paused.

“Those symbols burn anyone who touches them.”

Zahir looked at the shackles.

Then back at Drakon.

“Do they?”

He wrapped his hand around the iron.

The symbols erupted with crimson light.

Nothing happened to him.

Zahir smiled.

Then he squeezed.

The ancient iron shattered.

Drakon dropped.

Zahir caught him before he struck the floor.

For a moment Drakon simply stared at the broken shackles.

No vampire should have been able to do that.

“What are you?”

Zahir helped him stand.

“That’s a considerably better question.”

Drakon could barely support his own weight.

“Are you going to answer it?”

“No.”

Drakon laughed despite the agony tearing through him.

“Then why save me?”

Zahir looked toward the bodies scattered across the chamber.

“I have watched kings beg for their lives.”

He stepped closer.

“Emperors surrender their kingdoms.”

Closer still.

“Vampires thousands of years old promise loyalty after only hours of pain.”

Zahir’s eyes settled upon Drakon.

“But you endured four nights.”

Drakon’s expression hardened.

“I’ve endured worse.”

“I know.”

Something about those words disturbed him.

Zahir knew him.

Or knew of him.

“You were watching me?”

“I’ve been watching you for considerably longer than four nights, Drakon Melanthios.”

Drakon went still.

He had never given the stranger his name.

Zahir continued.

“I watched you in the arena.”

“That was centuries ago.”

“I know.”

Drakon stared at him.

Zahir’s smile returned.

“You were magnificent.”

Drakon glanced at the shattered shackles.

“You could have rescued me on the first night.”

“Yes.”

“Second?”

“Of course.”

“Third?”

“Easily.”

Drakon’s anger rose.

“Then why wait?”

Zahir moved closer until only inches separated them.

“Because I needed to know.”

“Know what?”

“If they could break you.”

Drakon stared at him.

“And?”

Zahir glanced toward the torturer trembling against the far wall.

Then back toward Drakon.

“No.”

For some reason that answer frightened Drakon more than anything else.

Zahir offered him his hand.

“Come.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere you can heal.”

Drakon didn’t take his hand.

“What do you want from me?”

Zahir’s expression became serious.

“There will come a night when I ask something of you.”

Drakon shook his head.

“I won’t become your servant because you rescued me.”

“I don’t want a servant.”

“Then what?”

Zahir’s blood-red teeth appeared again.

“A champion.”

Drakon studied him.

“And what exactly would I be championing?”

Zahir looked toward the doorway.

“Something the vampire world has spent thousands of years pretending doesn’t exist.”

He began walking away.

Drakon remained where he was.

Zahir stopped.

He didn’t turn around.

“You can remain here if you prefer.”

Drakon looked toward the surviving torturer.

Then at the broken chains lying at his feet.

Finally, he followed.

As they reached the doorway, Drakon asked the question that had been troubling him.

“Zahir.”

The ancient vampire stopped.

“If you’ve been watching me for centuries, why choose me now?”

Zahir slowly turned.

For once, there was no amusement in his face.

“Because something is waking.”

Drakon waited.

“And when it does?”

Zahir’s eyes darkened.

“Even the Primordials will remember what fear feels like.”

Drakon stared at him.

Zahir turned and disappeared into the corridor.

After a moment, Drakon followed.

Neither of them noticed the blood from Drakon’s wounds slowly moving across the stone floor behind them.

Not flowing.

Moving.

Thin crimson streams crawled toward the shattered pieces of his shackles.

And somewhere far beneath the chamber, something ancient felt Drakon’s blood.

And recognized it.


——-

He smiled “I am not cruel, these memories are hard on you and will never be easy.  You are too strong and with the BloodBearers burden it will only get worse until you can learn the proper control”

She nodded exhausted.  “Come you need rest”

He showed her around the property and the wing in which she would be staying.  He left her and turned to Atreio “I am wondering if we should have told her about what and who we are.”

He laughed “I think she will know after tonight.  You know how vivid the dreams are in this house as well as what that old vampire Zahir will push through.”

He laughed “She must soon know who I am, which is Bound to War.  The Crimson Aegis will help me as well.  War is part of the seven but they don’t know what the Primordials wanted”


——

The Crimson Aegis

Drakon Melanthios had survived arenas.

He had survived kings.

He had survived vampires who considered themselves gods.

He had even survived Marcus.

Yet standing before the Crimson Aegis, Drakon felt something he had not experienced in centuries.

Fear.

The shield rested upright upon a pedestal of cracked black marble.

It was unmistakably Greek in design—a great round shield large enough to cover most of a warrior’s torso. Its outer rim was made from bronze so dark that it appeared almost black. Ancient scratches covered its surface, remnants of battles fought so long ago that even Drakon could not guess their age.

But the center remained untouched.

A blood-red circle of metal gleamed there.

Within it was a symbol Drakon recognized.

One of the Seven.

Drakon stared at it.

“So this is what you brought me here for.”

Marcus stood several paces behind him.

“For this?”

“For him,” Marcus corrected.

Drakon slowly looked over his shoulder.

“Him?”

Marcus smiled, revealing those unnatural blood-red teeth.

“You didn’t believe I was the only one, did you?”

Drakon’s attention returned to the shield.

Something moved across its surface.

Not physically.

A shadow.

Drakon narrowed his eyes.

“Who is inside it?”

Marcus didn’t answer.

That irritated him.

“Marcus.”

Still nothing.

Drakon turned.

“Who is inside the damned shield?”

Marcus’s smile disappeared.

“You’ll learn his name when he decides you’re worthy of hearing it.”

Drakon laugh