Chapter 198: Valecar Hatred

Valecar didn’t sleep.

He hadn’t in years, not since he first tasted what it meant to sit on the throne—even if only as a placeholder. Even if only as the one left behind when the bloodlines scattered and the old order cracked like dry stone.

He stood in the lower wing of the keep, far beneath the throne room. No light reached here. No sound but his own breath.

But the silence helped.

Helped him remember.

Helped him hold onto the anger.

His jaw clenched, fangs bared in the half-light as he paced the edges of the old chamber. Cracked tiles traced circles beneath his feet, worn down by his own boots over years of walking this path—this same stretch. Over and over. The same way a hound paces its cage.

Above, he sat. Like it was owed.

Like it meant nothing.

Valecar snarled quietly and pressed a hand to the nearest column. Blood surged beneath his skin, vibrating through his fingertips. He didn’t smash it. He wanted to. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he whispered to the walls.



"Do you feel that?" he muttered. "He’s there. Wearing the weight like he earned it."

The stones didn’t reply. But they remembered. He could feel it.

They remembered when it was Valecar they bent to. When the elders bowed their heads and the clan leaders whispered his name like it held the realm together.

Not because they loved him.

But because they feared silence more than they hated him.

And now that silence was gone.

Replaced by a name none of them had dared speak until it returned like a damn plague: Lucifer.

Valecar turned and walked back to the arch, where the wall gave way to a hidden room. He’d kept it sealed for years. Even when the servants forgot it existed. Even when the blood priests begged him to destroy what was inside.

He didn’t.

Because he knew the day would come when he’d need it.

The door cracked open with a hiss, ancient seals breaking like old scabs. Inside was a single table, and on it, a book bound in flesh. Not vampire flesh. Something older. Something colder.

Valecar didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, he stared at the faint carvings on the walls—his own hand, centuries ago, drawing rituals no one dared practice now.

He had been a prince once.

A noble.

Now?

He was a shadow.

A ghost the elders pretended didn’t exist now that their precious King had returned.

Valecar’s breath shook as he whispered to the dark.

"You think I’ll just fade away?"

His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm until blood welled up. He let it fall, drop by drop, onto the floor. The tiles drank it greedily.

"You left this place to die," he growled. "And now you come back and wear its crown like you deserve it."

He remembered the days after Lucifer vanished. The chaos. The screams. The silence that followed. And he remembered being the one who held the pieces together. No throne. No title. Just weight. Just burden.

He bled for this realm.

Fought for it.

Kept the clans from killing each other in blind hunger.

And now... they dared look at him like he was less?

He turned from the table and faced the mirror near the wall. His reflection looked... tired. But not weak. The silver in his eyes hadn’t dulled. The scars near his collarbone still pulsed with energy—marks from the Binding War. The war Lucifer hadn’t been around to fight.



"I kept them alive," he said softly. "And they forgot."

The air stirred behind him.

A figure emerged from the darkness—a younger vampire in red robes, eyes sunken, lips pale from hunger.

"My lord," the servant whispered. "The eastern hall is sealed. No one saw you leave the gathering."

"Good," Valecar said. "Keep it that way."

The servant hesitated. "They’re saying it openly now. That the throne has chosen him. That he is the First Fang."

Valecar turned, slow and sharp. "Do you believe that?"

The servant swallowed. "It doesn’t matter what I believe."

"Wrong answer," Valecar said.

He stepped forward until their faces were inches apart.

"Tell me."

The servant flinched. "I... I believe the throne recognized blood. But it also remembered silence. And fear. I believe some of us still remember you."

Valecar watched him a second longer... then stepped back.

"Good," he said. "You’ll be my voice. Quiet, but sharp. I want ears in every wing. Every quarter. If anyone questions me, say nothing. Just watch. But if anyone doubts him..."

He smiled, cold and wide.

"...let it spread."

The servant bowed and vanished back into shadow.

Valecar waited a moment longer before turning back to the book. His fingers hovered just above it now.

"You wanted to return, Lucifer," he whispered. "You wanted to wear the weight."

He opened the book slowly.

"You’ll feel it."

The pages shifted on their own, reacting to the scent of his blood still lingering in the air. Symbols twisted into form—old curses, forbidden names, spells long purged from vampire scripture.

Valecar’s eyes scanned the lines, lips moving silently. He didn’t need monsters. He didn’t need armies.

He needed a single crack.

A single moment of weakness.

And the realm would remember who kept it alive.

Who truly ruled it when the First Fang was just a story.

He closed the book gently, sealing the spell with a mark carved into his wrist. The wound pulsed, then disappeared.

The room darkened again. But it wasn’t just shadow.



Something answered him from beneath the castle.

Something old.

Valecar turned and whispered to it.

"I don’t need to fight him in the open. Let him sit on the throne. Let him rebuild. I’ll rot it from the inside."

And then his voice dropped lower. Not a threat. Just truth.

"Even kings can bleed."

He stepped out of the chamber, sealing it behind him with a single word. The air shifted once more, cold and thick with ancient dust. Far above, the throne room stood still—unaware.

For now.

But the cracks had started.

And Valecar would be patient.

Because hate was colder than time.

And colder things always lasted longer.