Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 103: The Rose and the Inverted Crescent

Chapter 103: The Rose and the Inverted Crescent

We had barely crossed the invisible border of the central circle when already my steps, as if moved by an ancient will lodged beneath the skin, guided me without needing to think, almost in spite of myself, toward one of the camps erected in this too-vast silence. The camp of the vampires. My camp.

Each stride, though measured, seemed to carry an echo I did not yet understand, as if the earth itself recognized me. Or called me.

And I let it happen. Without haste. Without tension.

Only with that strange sensation that it could not be otherwise.

My current race. The one whose traits Lysara had gradually adopted, without even trying to force them, as if her body had simply recognized what it was meant to become. And in a way — yes — the one I had chosen myself, on an ancient night, at the bend of a pact, a cry, a refusal to die as I was.

Not out of biological necessity. But out of will. Out of affirmation.

As if, in binding myself to vampirism, I had found a mirror that did not betray me, a reflection I could finally look at without shame — not because it was perfect, but because it was mine, entirely.

A shiver ran through me, imperceptible, but real enough to make the calm surface of my thoughts ripple, for an instant. I was once again bound to a clan. Connected to something vaster than myself. Dependent, perhaps, on others. No longer as a mere name in a register, but as a moving entity integrated into a greater, older, more capricious entity.

And that idea troubled me.

Because it contained a truth I had tried hard to ignore: I no longer walked alone.

I knew it — viscerally, coldly. I had not come here to remain in the shadows. I had built too much, torn away too much, lost too much to settle for a secondary role. I had to take a stand, firmly, in this miniature world. Leave my mark before the balances solidified. Find my place. And make it a leading one.

Not out of pride. But because I no longer had the luxury to do otherwise.

I would also, perhaps, have to learn to give my trust. A strange thought, still foreign to my flesh, a word that sounded false in my mouth, like a lie learned too late — but which, here, among my kind, at the heart of this race I had joined not by accident but by choice, resonated with unsettling accuracy. As if this world, by its mere existence, slowly redrew the contours of my certainties.

I felt it, though I didn’t yet have the proof: I could not build alone. Not this time.

I should not, as I had done with Xagros at the beginning, consider everyone as an enemy-in-waiting. The approach could no longer be the same. Not here. Not now.

I would have to, step by step, draw closer. Extend a hand. Identify. Test. And, slowly, surround myself. Choose with precision a few solid, reliable souls, capable of following me beyond this sacred circle, beyond this diplomatic theatre. Beings I could count on when the hour came — the hour when masks would fall, when war would no longer be a possibility, but a necessity.

Not friends. Not even allies. Pillars. Supports. Presences. Faithful shadows, ready to hold the line when everything else faltered.

In this place... where blood drew the boundaries of loyalty, where lineage weighed heavier than deeds, where gazes could cut faster than blades... here, perhaps, I would finally have a place.

Not yet. Not quite. But something was taking shape.

My new lineage, that ancestry forged in fire and honor... and above all, this mastery of blood, slow, deep, alive... all of that would eventually speak for me. Sooner or later.

I felt it. I was no longer a wanderer. No longer an intruder.

Not yet a pillar, no... but a piece anchoring itself on the chessboard. A name being born. And in this world where everything is won by force or fear... it was already more than a promise. It was a beginning.

My eyes slid slowly over the surroundings, caught despite myself by the details. The tents — vast, of black silk, their edges embroidered with discreet silver — vibrated in the breeze as if they were breathing. The banners, heavy with symbols, let their interlaced fangs snap in a dull, almost ceremonial rhythm. The flames, they danced in obsidian braziers, but it wasn’t an ordinary fire — no — it was a cold blue, hypnotic, like a frozen memory of something one didn’t want to forget.

And around, all was silence and posture.

Upright silhouettes, sculpted in that strange material that is vampiric nobility: elegant, sharp, inaccessible. Piercing gazes, almost transparent. No challenge, no direct threat... but a continuous, suspended observation.

They were beautiful. Cold. Frozen in a sort of icy grace that, without saying a word, already posed the question: and you, what do you bring here?

Cassandre.

She was here. Somewhere, in this camp with the appearance of a frozen dream. Maybe just a few strides away. Maybe behind a tent. Right there, behind that breath of wind.

I swallowed, inelegantly. My heart... my heart was pounding so hard that for a moment, I feared it would give out. Or explode in my chest. As if it were trying to flee. To rush to her before I could.

To see her again. After all this time.

I had waited for her with a kind of dull, tenacious fever, that didn’t speak its name. But now that the moment was drawing near... it was something else. A naked fear. An anxiety gnawing at my gut in uneven blows. I had died. She had lived. She had held on. Waited. Maybe suffered. Maybe not. Maybe yes, but differently.

And what if she resented me? Truly.

What if my return wasn’t a relief... but a step backward? A blade into a wound she had fought so hard to stitch back alone?

I laughed. A short laugh. A bit dry. Nervous.

No. No, not her. Not Cassandre.

She would strike me, surely. With a backhand. Without warning. A slap, maybe. Or a punch, straight to the solar plexus. Just to remind me I wasn’t a dream. That I had come back.

And then... then, she would kiss me.

I was sure of it... or at least... I needed to believe it.

I resumed my walk, slowly, through the camp.

Each step sank me a little deeper into this dense, silent atmosphere, as if covered by an invisible veil one doesn’t dare to lift. An air laden with ancient pacts, customs one understands only by having lived them, unspoken rules etched into flesh.

The gazes lifted. Not abruptly. Not with hostility.

Just... with that cold precision unique to vampires. That glacial calm that, without saying a word, judges. Assesses. Sorts.

Some froze. A few inclined their heads with barely a gesture, by reflex. Not out of submission, no. But by heritage. By conditioning.

And I... walked forward. Straight. Not too slow. Not too fast.

My outfit, of sober but refined black, carried an elegance that was not just textile. The mystical ring on my finger, light but burning beneath my skin, spoke for me with every glint. And deep down, I knew it was mostly something else... that scent in the air, that presence.

Lust.

It was there, lurking in each of my movements, in the simple way Lysara and I had set foot on this land, in our aura — vibrant, sharp, enveloping.

They had to feel it. Admit it. Even without a word. And if some had read the journal... then they knew. They knew I was him.

The Vaarkhyr.

The first noble vampire to emerge on this demonic continent in centuries. The first Grand Varkh since the era of the Sovereign Flames. An anomaly. A living legend in the making.

And I... I carried the weight. Not as a burden. But as a promise.

Then a guard approached.

He didn’t have the cold, frozen demeanor of the others. His step wasn’t as sure. He seemed... shaken. By something he couldn’t quite hide.

His face was pale. Drawn features. There was a hesitation in his gaze rarely seen in vampires. Something between surprise... and a too-quickly contained relief. As if seeing me there, in flesh and blood, lifted a weight he had never dared speak of.

He wore a long coat of dark red leather, stiff, worn at the shoulders. An old scar crossed his left eye — clean, well healed, but still vivid. And when he opened his mouth... his voice trembled.

Barely. But I heard it.

— Grand Varkh...? Is it... is it really you?

I stopped. Calmly. Eyes anchored in his.

I stared at him for a moment, saying nothing, just to measure what he carried within — and what he dared to show.

Then I gave a smile. Light. Sincere. Sufficient.

— Yes. It’s me.

His eyes widened. His breath seemed to catch for a moment, as if he realized that the name he had carried in his thoughts... was finally standing before him.

He went down on one knee. Not with fanfare. Not for show. But with that mix of restraint and authenticity that betrays true respect.

— The Lords are waiting for you, he murmured. Your arrival... has been long hoped for.

At my side, Lysara tensed. Not a word. Not a sound. Just that slight tightening of her shoulders, barely perceptible, but one I knew by heart. Her gaze slid all around us, precise, fluid, like a blade drawn without a click. She scanned the shadows, the angles, the faces. Ready. Instinctively.

She asked nothing. She waited.

I nodded slowly, almost to myself.

The air had changed.

It now vibrated with a strange breath, like a heat held back too long. A dull, suspended tension, like a storm about to break but which, for some obscure reason, still chose to wait.

They were waiting for me and I was here.

We followed the guard without a word.

Lysara walked one step behind me, silent, but I could feel her presence vibrating through each gesture — precise, on edge. As if she were ready for anything, even the unexpected.

Before us, the tent appeared.

Monumental.

Larger, darker, heavier than all those we had passed. It didn’t just occupy space — it devoured it. The fabric, black with a deep, almost liquid blackness, seemed to drink the light. Nothing shone on it. Nothing reflected. Like an absence of world, stretched over pillars of shadow.

Yet crimson filigree ran over it, alive, precise. They wound in slow loops across the fabric, forming a crest I didn’t know, but would never forget: a rose with long thorns, coiled around an inverted crescent.

The kind of symbol one does not choose lightly.

Two banners flanked the entrance.

They hung, swaying faintly in a warm wind, laden with dry dust, as if the earth itself whispered. The shadow spilling from the opening... was not quite a shadow. It was something else.

A veiled call. A silent warning.

It looked like the mouth of a monster. Not a roaring monster. A sleeping monster. And I was about to step into its jaws.

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