Avram sat motionless at the heavy wooden table, the dim flicker of candlelight casting wavering shadows across his pale face. The weight of the words he'd overheard moments ago still echoed in his mind, like the tolling of a distant, mournful bell. Barbat’s deep, loud voice had been unmistakable, dripping with malice as he spoke of the three young men—Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae—boys Avram had grown up with, laughed with, and shared countless memories. The revelation that they had been captured by Barbat’s men in Darva?, of all cursed places, gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

  A cold sweat clung to Avram's skin as his thoughts spiraled. He could still see Vasile’s confident grin, hear Mihai’s nervous chuckles, and recall Nicolae’s relentless teasing. The idea of them in Barbat’s ruthless grasp was unbearable—the monstrous general was known for his cruelty, his methods of torture whispered about in hushed tones throughout the village. The images that flooded Avram’s mind were too horrific to fully grasp, but they clawed at his heart with vicious certainty.

  And then, the crushing blow: his father, Petru, had sent them there. The admission had been casual, almost indifferent, as if the boys’ fate was a mere afterthought. Avram’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the betrayal that tightened around his ribs like an iron vice. Why? Why would his father, the man he admired, sacrifice them so recklessly? The question burned in his mind, unanswered and unforgiving.

  As the silence stretched between the three of them at the table, Avram felt an oppressive doom settle over him, a suffocating premonition of the horrors yet to come. It wasn’t just about Vasile, Mihai, and Nicolae anymore. A dark, unshakable certainty gripped him: this was only the beginning. Whatever cruel game his father and Barbat were playing, it would soon ensnare them all. A terrible ending loomed on the horizon, one that threatened to unravel not just his life, but the very fabric of his family’s existence.

  The heavy candlelight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows across the room. Avram sat frozen at the table, his heart pounding in his chest as the monstrous Barbat leaned forward, his piercing eyes locking onto Petru with a predatory gleam.

  "I know all about why you sent those boys to Darva?," Barbat sneered, his voice low and menacing, like the growl of a beast just before it strikes. "Who do you think was responsible for that book—Skotádi Sophia—being placed in your village church? An agent of mine." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them like a suffocating shroud. "And who caused that boy Mihai to dream of its location? That, too, was my doing."

  Avram's breath hitched in his throat. He turned his gaze to his father, only to see Petru visibly shrink under the force of Barbat's revelation. The strong, stoic man Avram had always admired now seemed to wither before his eyes, his shoulders slumping, his face paling as though Barbat's words had siphoned the very life from him. Petru looked smaller, almost insignificant, dwarfed by the sheer malevolence that radiated from Barbat like a dark aura.

  Avram's mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. Skotádi Sophia... the old church... Mihai dreaming of finding the book... What did it all mean? The pieces twisted and turned in his mind like jagged shards of glass, refusing to fit together. Fear gnawed at his gut, a cold, creeping dread that made his skin crawl.

  Petru's head slumped toward his lap, his eyes downcast, shoulders sagging under the weight of an invisible burden. His voice, when it finally broke the oppressive silence, was little more than a whisper, hollow and defeated. "I understand now... it was you, Lord Dragomir. You were responsible for all of it."

  Barbat's lips curled into a predatory smile, his sharp teeth glinting through the split in his lips. The dim candlelight flickered, casting monstrous shadows that danced along the walls, making his visage even more dreadful. The faint crackle of the flame was the only sound, as if the very air held its breath in fear. He leaned forward, his voice a venomous hiss, "Indeed, Petru. The boys—before my men ensnared them—found that jewel, The Star of Enoch, 'The Gate of Realms,' exactly where the map from the Skotádi Sophia foretold."

  Avram felt his heart pound louder with every word, each syllable a nail driven deeper into his mounting dread. The book, the stone... what? His mind raced, trying to stitch together the horrifying puzzle.

  Barbat continued, his tone darkening, "Petru, the book and that stone are both very real. If you had held that stone in your hands when I crossed your threshold tonight, and uttered those dreadful words—Virtus luminis, vias aperi—I would have been torn apart, my essence dragged back to Hell. The force of my destruction would have ripped open a portal to wherever your heart desired, far from this cursed land." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a shroud over the table. "And Petru," Barbat's voice dropped to a chilling whisper, each word slithering through the thick, oppressive air, "you had that power within you to activate that stone. But we both know... that was never going to be allowed, was it, Petru?"

  Avram watched his father’s face crumble, the last vestiges of hope extinguished in his hollow eyes. Petru's head remained bowed, but his trembling lips moved, barely audible over the crackling of the hearth. "Yes... my Lord," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread on the verge of snapping.

  The room grew colder, as if Barbat's very presence was sucking the warmth from the air. Avram's mind reeled, his thoughts a maelstrom of fear and confusion. The Star of Enoch... the Skotádi Sophia... Father’s betrayal...

  Barbat leaned forward, the candlelight casting jagged shadows across his monstrous face, his grin widening with something between triumph and sadistic pleasure. His voice, slow and deliberate, carried the weight of absolute doom.

  "Now, Petru," he murmured, his tone almost mocking, "I told you—the time of the boyars is over. You are the last. You and your family's time is done."

  He let the words settle, savoring Petru’s growing despair before continuing.

  "I have already told our Master, Dracula, about your betrayal." Barbat's smile faded, his expression darkening into something truly dreadful. "You know, I left you no alternative. Every decision you made, every desperate act, was part of my design. I manipulated your whole existence to lead you to this moment."

  Avram’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched his father sink deeper into his chair, his hands trembling at his sides.

  "Our Lord was furious," Barbat went on, his voice almost reverent. "Even you, Petru? The last of the boyars, the last of the old faith—his most begrudgingly tolerated servant, and yet even you betrayed him. The final betrayal."

  He exhaled slowly, as if relishing the memory.

  "Our Lord, wanted to be the one to destroy you himself. To rip apart your flesh and watch your blood seep into the soil you so desperately tried to protect. But I," Barbat chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made Avram’s skin crawl, "I told him that I would gladly carry out this sentence in his name. That I would see to it personally, with all the devotion of a faithful servant."

  A beat of silence passed.

  "He acquiesced."

  Petru flinched, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his eyes hollow and unfocused. Avram had never seen his father like this—stripped of his strength, his dignity, his very will to resist.

  Barbat sighed as though discussing a matter of casual inevitability. "You may not realize it, but the world has changed drastically, Petru. Mankind has become more powerful than ever—its weapons can level entire cities; its armies march in numbers we have never seen before. They are no longer the helpless cattle our kind has preyed upon for centuries."

  His eyes gleamed with something Avram could only describe as hunger.

  "For so long, our Lord has been content in his own strength, believing that no force could ever challenge him. That his dominion over these lands was eternal. But I see the truth. I have been working tirelessly to make him understand that if we do not evolve, we will be wiped from existence. Even with all our dark powers, even with Satan himself behind us—if we do not modernize, we will fall."

  Barbat’s split smile stretched wider, exposing his vile teeth, his voice thick with satisfaction. He leaned in, his clawed fingers tapping against the wooden table, each tap slow and deliberate, like the counting down of a funeral toll.

  "You are not an ignorant man, Petru," he purred, his voice as smooth as it was venomous. "I am sure you have noticed my workings, deliberate actions that added up to much more as time passed. The strange disappearances, the suffering, the whispers in the dark—each piece falling perfectly into place. My plans have long been in motion, and your village, your people, have been part of something far greater than you ever realized."

  Petru sat motionless, his skin pallid in the flickering candlelight, his fingers digging into the worn wood of the table.

  "You see," Barbat continued, his tone taking on a cruel amusement, "in order to achieve my vision, I have—shall we say—experimented. Not with crude sorcery alone, but with the very essence of your kind. The breeding of humans."

  Avram’s breath caught in his throat.

  "Like cattle, like beasts of burden, humans—just as with any livestock—can be bred for specific traits, molded to serve a purpose. Strength, obedience, endurance... It has been an arduous task, but one well worth the effort. The strongest are carefully preserved, the weakest culled through plague and hardship. The aggressive and the defiant? Rooted out and discarded like diseased meat. Those with too much intelligence—" Barbat scoffed, "—oh, they are the worst of all. You see, we demons have no need for your human cunning. We have no use for schemers, no patience for dreamers. Thought leads to questions, and questions lead to rebellion. We require something far simpler: creatures of pure obedience. Flesh and blood to serve without question, to die without hesitation."

  His eyes gleamed with a sick delight as he gauged their reactions.

  "That is what humanity is destined to become under our reign. A war machine, stripped of useless individuality. A force that will march at our command, manning our armies, wielding our weapons, enforcing our will. With our dark power, we will sweep across this Earth like a black tide, conquering nations, reshaping the very fabric of civilization. And those who are weak, undesirable, unworthy?" He grinned; his voice thick with malice. "We will erase them in numbers so vast that history itself will tremble beneath our slaughter."

  Avram’s stomach churned, his blood running ice-cold. This was beyond mere conquest—this was annihilation. A future where the entire world would kneel beneath Dracula’s rule, where men would be nothing more than expendable tools in the hands of monsters.

  Barbat’s gaze flickered to Petru; his tone almost pitying. "The wars to come will be simple: destroy or be destroyed. The time for hesitation is over. And at long last, I have made our Master see the truth. It is time to cast aside the old ways, to abandon the fragile masquerade of nobility and tradition. The world itself will become our hunting ground, our battlefield, our kingdom. And at its center, ruling overall, will be Dracula—immortal, unchallenged, and unquestioned—at the head of an army that will never betray Him."

  He exhaled, satisfied, his monstrous frame casting a long, terrible shadow over the candlelit room.

  "With any good experiment," he continued, "one must always account for variables. A test is meaningless without comparison. And so, just as I bred the masses into what I needed, I left a small sample untouched—a control group, if you will. That was you, Petru. Your family. A few of the villagers. And those three boys you sent to Darva?."

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Avram felt his breath hitch as Barbat uttered the names of his friends so casually, as if they were nothing more than specimens in a laboratory.

  "Even though I manipulated every step of your existence, Petru, you still had a choice. Two choices, in fact. You could do exactly what you did—seek out the Star of Enoch, thinking it would be your salvation. Or you could have done nothing at all, paralyzed by fear, like a rabbit that freezes when the wolf bares its fangs. But understand this—" Barbat's smile darkened, his words turning into a twisted mockery of admiration, "your absolute destruction was assured if you did nothing. There was never an option where you simply survived, Petru. And yet, you acted. You chose to fight. That is why I actually admire you. You proved yourself to be the man I believed you were—one who, when driven to the precipice, will leap rather than kneel."

  Avram could see his father trembling, his broad shoulders slumped under the crushing realization of Barbat’s words. There had never been any hope. No matter what choice he had made, he had been doomed from the beginning.

  Barbat straightened, his tone shifting, now dripping with mock generosity.

  "And so, Petru, I offer you yet another choice. Two paths. Two futures. One, you and your family suffer a terrible, agonizing destruction. Not a swift death, no. That would be a kindness. I will flay your flesh, break your bones, and ensure that you all scream for mercy long after your throats have been torn to ribbons. You will watch your son, your wife, and your daughters suffer unspeakable fates before I grant them the release of death."

  Avram’s stomach churned violently, the room spinning around him. His mother. His sisters. Their lives hung by a thread, suspended in the claws of this monster.

  "Or—" Barbat’s voice softened into something almost tender, like a serpent whispering its poison into the ear of the damned, "you can take my hand and embrace the future I have envisioned. You can stand beside me, Petru, as my right hand. You will be my general, my most trusted servant. Your family—your son—will rise alongside you, elevated to high ranks in our glorious new domain. Your bloodline will flourish under my banner, not wither in disgrace. And I—" he placed a clawed hand over his chest in mock solemnity, "I will take upon myself the burden of your supposed betrayal. I will go before Dracula and tell him that I was mistaken, that I misjudged you. That in my eagerness to test you, I drove you to desperate measures, and that in truth, you are and always have been a faithful servant. I will take his wrath, endure his scorn, all to save you from ruin."

  Barbat's golden eyes gleamed with triumph.

  "Dracula will be relieved. He will be delighted. I will be chastised for my cruelty, but it will be worth it. So, I ask you, Petru..."

  Barbat leaned in so close that the cold, fetid scent of his breath filled Petru’s nostrils.

  "What say you?"

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Avram watched as his father sat in frozen horror, his hands clenched into trembling fists, his face ashen, his very soul crushed under the weight of the decision before him.

  Petru slowly lifted his head, his movements sluggish, his body failing under the weight of despair. His breath came in ragged gasps, his strength nearly gone. His limbs felt like lead, his soul like ash. Yet somehow, he managed to meet Barbat’s gaze, his own eyes hollow, emptied of everything but the last, desperate remnants of his will.

  His lips cracked as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "What... do you mean by eternal?"

  Barbat’s smile deepened, his fangs gleaming in the dim candlelight. He leaned in ever so slightly, like a spider drawing closer to a struggling fly, his voice a velvet caress laced with cruelty.

  "Ah, Petru, that is the right question, isn't it?" he purred. "Eternity is a gift that only the strong may claim. A gift that I now extend to you. All I ask—" he placed a clawed hand over his chest, mock solemnity dripping from his every word, "is your loyalty. True loyalty. And to prove that loyalty, you must denounce your so-called God, your weak and dying Christ—our eternal enemy."

  The words struck like a hammer against Avram’s skull. His breath caught in his throat. Denounce Christ?

  "And if I do?" Petru forced out, though his voice trembled.

  Barbat’s golden eyes glowed with unholy delight. He straightened, stretching his arms as if offering a divine revelation.

  "Then, my dear Petru, I will make you my own. With but a single bite, I will grant you rebirth. You will cast off this frail, pathetic existence and awaken to a new, exalted form—a vassal vampire, bound to me, stronger than any mere human, superior even to most demons. You will walk this earth with power beyond your wildest imaginings, ruling over those who once looked down upon you. You will stand beside me at the head of our legions, above the filth of mortal men, far beyond the reach of suffering or fear."

  Barbat’s voice became almost reverent, his eyes half-lidded with a twisted kind of pleasure.

  "And why halt there, Petru? Once you are reborn, you will have the power to grant this gift to your beloved wife yourself. No longer will she be doomed to wither and decay in the cold, unfeeling earth. Instead, she will stand eternally at your side—ageless, undying, her beauty transcending mortal frailty. She will reign as your dark queen, a sovereign among the damned."

  Avram’s blood turned to ice. His mother?

  "And your son—" Barbat continued, his gaze flicking to Avram, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Ah, Avram... the future of your line. I would be honored to bestow this blessing upon him myself. Imagine it, Petru. Your son, no longer a fragile boy but a prince of darkness, standing by your side, feared by men, obeyed by monsters. The blood of eternity coursing through his veins. No more suffering. No more weakness. Only strength. Power. Dominion."

  Avram trembled, bile rising in his throat. The idea of such a fate, of that foul infection consuming his body, twisting him into one of them—

  He saw his father’s knuckles go white as his fingers curled into fists.

  But Barbat wasn’t finished. His expression darkened; his tone thick with something even worse than malice—amusement.

  "And your daughters... ah, Petru, such delicate, lovely creatures. What better fate for them than to be elevated beyond their station? You, of course, would be too exalted to concern yourself with their fates, but I? I would be honored to take them as my brides. Perhaps even our Lord Dracula himself might take an interest. Imagine the glory, the privilege, to have your daughters chosen by the Lord of the Night himself."

  Avram's stomach lurched. His sisters—his sisters!

  Petru’s breathing grew ragged, his body shaking with rage and horror.

  "To start," Barbat murmured, his voice gentle, coaxing, as if speaking to a child, "all you must do is speak the words. Denounce Him. Speak His name and spit upon it. Christ has abandoned you, Petru. Abandoned your family. Why else would He allow this? Why else would He leave you to me?"

  A cruel chuckle escaped his lips.

  "Do you truly still believe He listens? That He cares?"

  The candlelight flickered, shadows dancing like mocking specters on the walls. The weight of the abyss pressed down on them all, suffocating, inescapable.

  Avram stared at his father, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to crack his ribs.

  The moment of decision had come.

  Petru was horrified. His body trembled, not from fear of pain or death, but from the weight of the ultimate choice placed before him. One thing had always been certain—his faith, unshaken and resolute, burned within him like an unquenchable fire. His Lord, the one true God, was his rock, his salvation. These creatures, as powerful as they seemed, existed in perpetual torment, a suffering that not even their dark gifts could mask. Their strength was a cruel illusion; they were cursed things, trapped between the worlds of the living and the damned, clinging to the flesh only to delay the inevitable. No matter how long they walked this earth, their true eternity lay elsewhere—an eternity of howling torment in the depths of Hell.

  If he agreed, he would die—not merely in the body, but in the soul. He would pass beyond the veil, his essence dragged screaming into the pit, torn from the grace of Heaven and bound in chains of eternal agony. The transformation Barbat promised was not salvation, nor was it life—it was only an extension of damnation, a desperate delaying of the horror that awaited all their kind.

  The vampires, for all their unnatural might, were not invincible. They had weaknesses. They could be slain. And should he fall, then his suffering would truly begin, a torment unending, locked forever in the very Hell these damned creatures feared to return to. He knew, with unwavering certainty, that his decision would seal the fate of his family. To refuse would mean earthly destruction, a terrible, excruciating end. But to accept… to surrender… would mean something far worse. It would mean the damnation of not only himself, but of his beloved wife, his son, his daughters—all of them condemned to an eternity of darkness, ripped from God’s light forever.

  Then, as if a great weight had been lifted from him, a sudden and absolute clarity filled Petru’s mind. It was the clarity of a man who had cast aside doubt, the steel resolve of a saint walking to his martyrdom. His hands, once trembling, now stilled. His breath, once ragged with fear, became steady. Slowly, he raised his head and met Barbat’s gaze, unflinching. His voice, though calm, carried a force like thunder, a defiance that rang through the chamber like a church bell cutting through the blackest night.

  "Under no circumstance," Petru declared, his eyes burning with righteous fury, "will I ever denounce my Lord and Savior. I will not trade eternity in His kingdom for a cursed existence among the damned. And I will not—I will never—condemn my family to Hell."

  The horrible, broken smile slid from Barbat’s face like a mask discarded after a grim performance. A breath of unnatural cold filled the room, seeping into Petru’s and Avram’s bones with a suffocating weight. The candles flickered wildly, their flames struggling against the encroaching darkness, as though the room itself recoiled from the abyssal presence that had now fully revealed itself. Barbat let out a slow, almost mournful sigh, his voice thick with cruel amusement.

  “This is the outcome I expected of you, Petru," he said, his tone carrying the weight of inevitability. "It is also why I made you the offer I did. You truly are a good man… and I truly am a demon most foul. Now, Barbat paused, the fun begins.”

  Barbat’s massive hands clapped together, the sound exploding like a cannon blast. The force of it sent vibrations through the air, rattling the windows, shaking the very foundations of the house. The heavy wooden front door, sturdy and thick, suddenly blasted inward as if struck by an unseen battering ram, crashing onto the floor in a storm of splintered wood and shattered iron fittings.

  Dark figures poured into the house, clad in black, their boots heavy upon the wooden floorboards. Their eyes gleamed with cruel intent; their lips curled into hungry sneers. But they were not alone. Towering behind them, emerging like living shadows, were creatures that bore only a passing resemblance to men. Their grotesque forms were twisted mockeries of human flesh, their limbs too long, their fingers curled into gnarled talons. Leathery wings stretched from their backs, their membranous skin trembling with anticipation. Their faces were nightmares made flesh—long and angular like bats, their noses hooked, their mouths filled with fangs that dripped saliva onto the floor. Their red eyes glowed with the promise of torment.

  Avram barely had time to react before three of the black-clad men seized him. Rough hands yanked him from his chair, their iron grips digging into his arms. He thrashed, but their strength was inhuman—his struggles meaningless. He was dragged, his feet barely touching the ground, toward the door.

  His father was not so lucky.

  Like a pack of rabid wolves, the intruders descended upon Petru. Fists and boots hammered into him, blow after merciless blow. The crack of bone rang out as they battered him, his body jerking violently with each brutal strike. When at last he sagged in their grasp, too weak to stand, they hoisted him up like a broken puppet.

  And then came the true horror.

  The bat-like creatures screeched, their shrill voices cutting through the air like the wails of the damned. They moved with unnatural speed, slithering and leaping down the hallway, their claws scraping along the walls as they went. They were hunting.

  Avram’s mother. His sisters.

  The men holding Petru followed, dragging him mercilessly behind them, more of their number flooding the house, all descending upon the helpless women.

  Avram caught one last glimpse of Barbat, his massive form still seated in the chair, utterly still, like a gargoyle watching over its domain, as Avram was wrenched outside, the night air doing nothing to quell the fire of terror burning through his veins. He was hauled toward a large wooden X, its beams rough and splintered, hastily erected into the ground directly across from the manor. His heart pounded like a drum of war, his vision blurred with tears and panic.

  And then the screams began.

  Liliana’s voice was the first. It was a wail of agony so raw, so utterly filled with despair that it ripped through Avram’s soul like a dagger. “Please! Stop! Don’t! Just stop!” she shrieked, her voice breaking into ragged sobs.

  Then his mother’s voice—pained, choked with suffering. Maria’s cries followed, high-pitched and desperate, an animal sound of terror.

  And beneath it all, his father’s voice, hoarse but unwavering. "Remember the Lord!" he bellowed, even as the sound of fists, of lashes, of cruel laughter drowned him out.

  Avram lost control of his bladder. Warmth spread down his legs, but the shame of it was nothing compared to the terror suffocating him.

  They bound him to the X, like Saint Andrew, stretching his limbs wide, the ropes pulling his joints painfully into place. The coarse fibers bit into his skin, tightening against the notches carved into the beams, ensuring he could not move, could not even writhe to escape what was coming.

  A man stepped before him, tall and broad, his face hidden by the flickering torchlight. Slowly, deliberately, he reached to his belt and withdrew a whip—long and cruel.

  The first lash came before Avram could brace himself.

  The pain was immediate, white-hot agony exploding across his chest. He screamed, his back arching, but the ropes held him firm. Tears streamed down his face, his cries swallowed by the howling wind and the laughter of his tormentors.

  Another strike.

  Then another.

  The whip cut deep, carving fire into his flesh, each stroke sending fresh waves of blinding pain through his body. His screams grew hoarse, but the torture did not stop.

  And still, from the house, Liliana's voice rose in piercing shrieks, her words desperate, cracking with anguish.

  "Please! Stop! Stop!"

  Avram’s vision blurred. Blood dripped from his torn skin, warm against the cold night air. His head slumped forward; his body wracked with pain. His mind began to slip, drowning in the relentless agony.

  The last thing he remembered was Liliana’s horrible screams, echoing into the darkness.