If something goes wrong, there’s always someone to blame.

  — Gerund Kogessky. The Book of Law.

  Each time the sun sank below the horizon, Antzkar felt relief. That strange, itching sensation, spinning like a top in his temples, faded with the crimson coin of daylight. Physical pain couldn’t compare to this torment. It had haunted him since birth, and even the ritual of Consecration by Light—which he’d undergone a year ago—had failed to purge the gnawing void within.

  Antzkar was a ghoul. A Dweller of the Night—the name given to those who lived in Langarei, the Kingdom of Night. To the rest of the world, he and his kind were simply undead leeches. A world that lay beyond the Veil, the magical barrier domed over Langarei like a shield, protecting both ghouls and the mortal humans who served them.

  Antzkar stared pensively at the Veil. A throbbing purple film, as impenetrable as the mythril gates of dwarven fortresses, cleaved the world in two: inside the Dome and outside. The Eye of Day loomed beyond it, but… Antzkar sighed. Even his wide-brimmed helmet and armor did little to ease the Impact. Damned Impact, damned sunlight that triggered it! The young ghoul knew well that the sun’s rays only obliterated Feral ghouls outright. But he also knew it could harm even Midbloods and Highbloods. Only the Supreme—those called Nosferatu—could endure the Impact for long. Hence their title: Those Who Walk Beneath the Sun.

  Despite his Consecration by Light, which had elevated him from a Lowblood to a Midblood, and despite the Veil’s magic shielding Langarei’s borders, the sun still clawed at him with its lethal whispers. In ancient times, it had forced ghouls to cower in caves, dig burrows, and hunt only at night for their most coveted prize: human blood. Ghouls slaughtered humans or turned them. Humans retaliated by slaughtering ghouls… or… No, there was no “or.” Humans only knew how to kill. They couldn’t transform others with a bite. Interesting. What if they could? Imagine humans storming into the homes of ghouls, elves, dwarves, hobbits, orcs, goblins, vaspans, trolls, kenders, and countless others, biting them, turning them into humans! No refuge, day or night! Soon, the world would drown in nothing but humans!

  O Great Night, what a mad world that would be!

  Foolish Thoughts. Unworthy. Entirely beneath a warrior of the Daikar clan, entrusted with the honor of guarding the Veil’s borders.

  The days when humans were mere prey for ghouls, and ghouls humanity’s greatest nightmares, were long gone. Here, in the Kingdom of Night, the Dwellers of Night ruled over humans, even permitting them their own cities. The relationship between the undead and mortals was governed by the Laws of Blood, binding both sides and enforced by ghouls, humans, and other races living within the realm. These mortals either dwelled here since the Eleven Supreme first raised the Veil, walling off Langarei from the world, or had willingly migrated under the Bloodlords’ dominion after the Dome’s creation.

  In those ancient times, kingdoms of Western Ravalon viewed the ghoul nation with deep suspicion. Only those bordering Langarei dared wage war. Yet their campaigns quickly fizzled when they realized the Kingdom of Night was no brittle nut to crack. The final blow to their ambitions came from the Border—a hundred-kilometer steppe forged by magical instability between Langarei and its neighbors, where reality itself unraveled into madness.

  Truce and trade with wary neighbors allowed the Kingdom of Night to thrive, its wealth growing in shadowed silence.

  Of course, there were complications. Rumors of Langarei’s “rivers of milk and mountains of gold” spread like wildfire across the Middle Lands, luring mercenaries eager to hire mages to breach the Veil. Small patrols from every ghoul clan now guarded the Dome’s edges, defending the realm’s peace. By day, humans and other mortals stood watch under Nosferatu command. By night, mixed units of ghouls and living soldiers took shifts—though nighttime duty was simpler. Few in their right mind dared infiltrate Langarei under moonlight, when undead strength surged tenfold. Except once: a band of mages from the School of Magic and warriors from the School of Sword, drunk on arrogance, had torn through the Dome under cover of darkness. Most now served as personal Apostles to the ruling Saphiail clan.

  Antzkar yawned. His unit included seven ghouls, four humans, and a goblin. The mortals and the goblin slept now, while five Dwellers kept watch. Two others performed the Scrying Ritual, sweeping the Dome’s perimeter for two kilometers. Klairis muttered incantations, sustaining a shimmering field around Vidan—a weave of ennearin threaded with flecks of octarine.

  Vidan, immersed in the Inner Gaze, methodically scanned the plains beyond the Dome. His jaw sharpened, fangs lengthening slightly, while his closed eyelids flickered with faint sparks—ghoulic magic always warped their appearance, reverting the undead to the primal visages of their ancestors, before centuries of refinement through… Yes, through fresh infusions of human blood.

  The sun had finally plunged into the horizon’s abyss, and stars crept forth to fulfill their eternal duty: to glimmer in the night, cloaking the universe in an illusion of harmony and purpose.

  Antzkar stifled the urge to glance at the humans. Only Ferals and Lowbloods struggled to suppress their instincts. He, now a Midblood, had earned the right to interact with warmbloods. Besides, his thirst lay dormant tonight. He felt nothing toward them. They were merely comrades-in-arms—weaker, yes, but comrades nonetheless…

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The young ghoul smirked.

  Humans are weak. Always weak. That’s why, even though they outnumbered the Dwellers beneath the Dome, it was the Night’s Children who ruled Langarei. And they would rule for ages yet.

  Antzkar found it baffling how some border veterans behaved almost familiarly with humans and other living. Helping them during drills, ensuring they didn’t collapse—after all, training for Dwellers bore little resemblance to mortal regimens.

  “Well, Vidan? Anything?” asked Zatankhar, the squad’s commander—a Highblood, marked by his lavish purple cloak edged in silver fringe. Such garments were permitted only to Highblood Counts and Nosferatu; all others faced severe penalties.

  Noble-born Highbloods rarely commanded border patrols, but Zatankhar had fallen from his Sovereign’s favor. Caught trafficking blood, he’d lost his privileges—yet kept his cloak. It was his Birthright, inherited as the purebred son of noble ghoulic lineage. To strip it from him, they’d need to rip out his fangs. Had he been a Turned—made undead by bite—even a princely title wouldn’t have spared him execution. The Laws of Blood were ruthless, and only their ruthlessness preserved Langarei’s order.

  Vidan drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, and cast a glance at the star-strewn sky before answering:

  “Nothing and no one, High One. Only plant auras and a few earth and wind elementals. No unnatural magical fields or currents.”

  No one doubted Vidan’s words. This was the Blood Power of Daikar clan—the Inner Sight that revealed all within a defined space. Every Daikar heir possessed this ability to some degree. Vidan’s limit was two kilometers, even with Klairis’s support. Antzkar, by contrast, could only pierce twenty meters. Mortal mages might mimic the Sight with Spells to scout distant objects, but it was a pale shadow. The Inner Sight stretched in all ten directions, engulfing every entity within its radius.

  “Good,” Zatankhar grunted, satisfied. “No fools bold enough to trouble us tonight. Excellent. I’d rather avoid… complications. A quiet night, a swift return to my chambers once the Sovereign tires of disciplining me. No need for heroics. Agreed?”

  Antzkar, who’d envisioned carving through a hundred arrogant humans—or fifty orcs—to prove his prowess, bit back a scowl. If I commanded, he thought, we’d push two kilometers deeper. We’d flush out trespassers and crush them by the codes of the Night Dwellers!

  But Antzkar was not the commander.

  Perhaps that was why Count Zatankhar’s border patrol met such ill fortune that night.

  The wind elemental shivered in fear.

  Or so mortals might have phrased it. Spiritual manifestations of the Air Element rarely experienced emotions, yet this particular elemental felt… unease. For wind elementals—creatures of near-zero self-awareness—this malfunction signaled a defect. To mortals, it meant the spirit was spiraling into primal panic.

  The elemental couldn’t recall what existed before being yanked into the physical world and forced into tasks it wasn’t meant to perform. It sensed something was wrong. But nothing more. The existence of Elementals was so devoid of self-reflection that Buddhist philosophers from Mahapopa would’ve envied it—no suffering, no doubt. Yet now, this one began questioning why it was being manipulated. Unwittingly, it had stumbled into the realm of anguish, much like its predecessors torn from the elemental planes by magical force. It pondered why this torment displeased it, why its prior oblivion had felt preferable, whether that preference was valid, and then—

  Just as it teetered on an epiphany that could’ve revolutionized elemental existence, it was dispelled.

  Amidst the swaying grass, the air hardened into a glass-like sphere. Four cloaked figures stood motionless inside, faces shrouded by deep hoods. Only when the sphere flashed with decaryn light and shattered, scattering shards like frozen rain, did they speak.

  “Well, Zaton?” rasped the tallest, warped in a black cloak.

  “Easy, Tavil,” replied the shortest figure—chest-high to the others, cloaked in brown. “His Gaze grazed us but noticed nothing. My shadows performed flawlessly, as always.”

  “Or the ghouls grew complacent, Zaton,” rumbled the broad-shouldered figure in gray. “Your creations are impressive, but don’t underestimate the Daikar clan’s Blood Power.”

  “Blood Power?” snorted the fourth, nondescript save for his emerald cloak. “Ahes, the Blood Power is only as good as the hand that wields it. A warrior’s true strength lies in spirit.”

  “Oh, really, Olex?” the broad-shouldered sneered. “Evana cut you down without a shred of ‘spirit.’”

  “You’d do well to forget that, Ahes,” Olex shot back, bristling. “You didn’t exactly shine that day either. Or shall we settle this here and now?”

  “You dare challenge me, Olex?” Ahes spun sharply. “You think you can stand against me?”

  “I’ve grown stronger.” Olex stepped back, hands rising. “Care to test me?”

  “Enough, both of you!” Tavil snapped sharply. “You’ll alert the entire border patrol! Do you think Zaton wasted his strength weaving that wind elemental into a veil even the Daikar’s Sight can’t pierce—just for you two to squabble? Should I inform the Master of your petty feud before the mission begins?”

  “His reach doesn’t stretch this far,” Olex muttered sullenly. “How would he even know?”

  “Simple. I’ll tell him myself.”

  “O-o-o-oh…” Olex drawled, though his defiance withered.

  “Good.” Tavil’s gaze locked on the towering Dome, its surface shimmering with ennearin like a celestial scar. “We’re near the Daikar Vault. Thank the heavens the Sovereigns guard it no tighter than any other border post. More patrols would’ve meant noise and mess.”

  “Rulers are all the same,” Zaton said. “If they have secrets, they bury them so deep even they forget why.”

  “Who takes the Keeper, Tavil?”

  “Eager for blood, Olex?”

  “That’s my business, Ahes. I want to know how strong that ghoul they entrusted to guard…” Olex hesitated, then carefully uttered: “It.”

  “He’s right, Ahes. We need a plan inside the Dome. The Vault’s near the Blood Temple. Some of us stir chaos in the clan’s village—the rest handle the Keeper and retrieve it.”

  “I think I can deal with the Keeper.”

  “No, Ahes.”

  “Why?”

  “Your and my abilities are better suited to distracting the Dwellers. Zaton and Olex will handle the Keeper.”

  “Perfect! I’ll crush him in the blink of an eye!”

  “Do not underestimate your opponent too soon.”

  “I’m not underestimating, Zaton,— I just know exactly what I'm capable of!”

  “Enough.” Tavil slashed his hand through the air, as if cleaving the Dome itself. “ Let's move out. Get ready to use morphae."