Chapter Text
1792 — Styria Castle Grounds, Cloaked Sector
The corridor whispered. Cold stone walls, lined with torch sconces flickering blue flame, seemed to breathe with age and blood. It was near midnight, of course—it was always near midnight here.
Richter Belmont moved like someone half-dreaming, half-daring the walls to speak to him. His boots clicked across obsidian tiles, echoing down a path carved centuries before he’d taken his first breath. Behind him, Maria Renard floated like a secret in motion, arms crossed and eyes sharp.
“So... you’re sure no one’s watching?” she whispered.
“No one except the sentient shadows and probably a vampire librarian or two,” Richter muttered, adjusting the lapel of his long navy coat. “But if you’re hoping for privacy, you picked the wrong immortal family."
A pair of Styrain guards in silver and crimson stepped aside as he passed. They bowed without a word—high enough to recognize royalty when they saw it. Vampire royalty, of course, was more complicated than bloodlines and birthrights. It was forged in war, wrapped in legacy, and dipped in sarcasm. The guards didn’t meet Richter’s eyes.
He barely noticed. He was used to being noticed.
Maria glanced around. “When I suggested we hold the revolution’s first meeting somewhere dramatic, I didn’t mean castle with built-in portal system and ambient dread.”
“Well, welcome to Castle Styria,” Richter deadpanned. “Where the carpets are older than your grandfather and the bat problem is... familial.”
A chuckle slid from the shadows ahead.
“Oh, for Hell’s sake,” Richter sighed, not stopping.
From the left arch, Trevor Belmont emerged with a lazy stroll and the kind of tired grin you only develop after living for four centuries and still being the only one who knows where the wine is hidden.
“Maria,” Trevor greeted with a nod. “Looking unusually non-explosive today.”
Maria scowled.
“And you,” Trevor turned to Richter, eyes gleaming like moonlight off a dagger, “are walking like you haven’t stolen three blood tomes and a bottle of Isaac’s good ink. Care to explain?”
“I didn’t steal,” Richter huffed. “I borrowed. With intent to use for righteous rebellion.”
“Ah,” Trevor said. “The noblest of thefts.”
Maria stepped in. “We were scouting meeting locations. There’s unrest brewing in Paris and the resistance wants somewhere safe to—”
“To meet?” Trevor cut in. “And the secret castle full of ancient monsters felt like the best option?”
Richter shrugged, not backing down. “They fear us. That makes us neutral ground.”
Trevor gave a long sigh and, despite himself, looked proud. “Told your great-grandfather you'd be trouble.”
“And yet you still trained me.”
“I was bored. And Alucard needed a distraction from brooding.”
Maria was trying not to laugh.
“Come on,” Trevor said, turning on his heel. “Let’s find a room where the portraits don’t blink and Olrox isn’t lurking.”
Richter followed, coat flaring, jaw tight. In the dark, behind smirks and sarcasm, he was already hearing the calls of revolution and legacy twist together like smoke.
And far above them, unseen on a high tower balcony, Alucard watched with unreadable eyes.
---
The War Room wasn’t just a chamber—it was a cathedral of conflict.
A massive circular hall, carved deep into the heart of the castle’s cloaked side, where ancient stone met newer obsidian. Silver-veined chandeliers swung from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating weapons, relics, and parchments older than most kingdoms. The table at its center was shaped like a crescent moon—large enough to seat every war-weary soul and ego in the room.
Richter stepped through the towering doors as they creaked open, Maria flanking him, chin high.
Already gathered were shadows in motion.
Trevor Belmont leaned casually against the curved end of the table, sipping something suspiciously strong from a silver flask. Sypha sat to his right, swirling fire between her fingers like it was tea. Across from her, Alucard leaned in a sprawl of aesthetic perfection, boots propped on the edge, unreadable as always—his eyes flicking up when Richter entered. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
Further down, Dracula himself stood, regal and unnerving in equal measure, one hand resting gently over Lisa’s as she sat beside him. Lisa Tepes offered Richter a warm nod that felt like sunlight in a room full of moonlight.
At the far wall, Isaac and Hector stood like reflections—forge masters turned generals, their expressions grim, calculating.
Striga and Morana flanked the map table, red and black armor gleaming. Styria’s warlords, death on legs. Morana sipped dark wine, while Striga sized up Richter like she was deciding if he’d grown into his legacy or was still playing soldier.
Behind them stood the Belmonts.
Not just one or two—but all of them. Christopher, Soleil, Simon, Juste, Frederick, Amanda, Ann, Gerhart, Julia, Janis, even Leif Ericson, whose Viking vibes screamed “I use axes and flirt badly.”
Vampires, all of them now. Unaging, unyielding, undying. They were a choir of inherited wrath and quiet love.
And behind them were the Speakers, cloaked in ceremonial garb, their chants having reinforced the war room’s silence wards.
It was Richter who broke the hush.
“We’re late,” he said, stepping forward. “But not uninformed.”
Sypha raised an eyebrow. “Charming and punctual. You are evolving.”
Trevor snorted.
Lisa smiled. “He’s learning.”
Dracula’s voice followed like thunder muffled by velvet. “Then let’s begin.”
Richter moved to the table’s inner circle, unrolling a parchment map of France marked with red sigils and coded glyphs.
“Paris is on fire,” he said. “Not metaphorically. The humans have risen—and so has something else. Something unnatural in the catacombs. Resistance leaders think it’s divine.”
Trevor groaned. “It's never divine.”
Maria spoke up. “If they keep believing it, we’ll lose them. We need to make a move. Fast.”
Striga crossed her arms. “Then give us something to kill.”
Isaac nodded. “Something old may have awakened beneath that city. Something... familiar.”
Alucard finally spoke, voice low. “An old name... or a new trick wearing an old face?”
Hector looked toward the map. “We could send a scout.”
Richter shook his head. “No. I’ll go.”
Trevor blinked. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m a Belmont,” Richter shot back.
“You’re also full of teenage idealism and dramatic flourishes. So yes, a true Belmont.”
Dracula raised a brow. “Let him prove it.”
And just like that, the table grew quiet again.
Lisa placed a hand over Dracula’s. “He reminds me of you. When you still had hope.”
Trevor muttered, “We all had that once. Didn’t last.”
Maria looked at Richter. “So what’s the plan, golden boy?”
Richter looked at every face in that chamber—his immortal family, his mentors, his legends, and his future.
“We go to Paris,” he said. “We put down whatever evil thinks it can rise in our shadow. And we remind the world that the Belmont name still burns.”
From the shadows, Olrox, ever the cryptic sentinel, smiled.
---
Richter stood alone in the armory.
The torchlight glinted off rows of blades, crossbows, relics, and things that shouldn’t have names—cursed tools built to fight things even vampires whispered about. The air smelled like iron, oil, and memory.
He reached for his favored whip—Vesper, named by Trevor during a drunken story night. Supposedly forged from the sinews of a fallen demon, enchanted by Speaker magic, and occasionally sassy if the wind blew wrong.
As he clipped it to his belt, the door creaked open.
“Still brooding like your ancestors, I see,” came a voice like silk brushing over steel.
“Mother,” he said, not turning.
Julia Belmont glided in, tall and fierce in deep crimson robes. She was elegance wrapped around an arsenal, her eyes sharp and warm at once.
“You forgot this.” She held out a folded cloak, its lining stitched with anti-scrying runes and scent blockers.
Richter took it. “Thank you.”
She watched him for a moment, the way mothers do when their children are heading toward danger. Even if said mother had already outlived death.
“I remember your first sparring match with your uncle Juste,” she said softly. “You threw your wooden blade at him and declared the fight over.”
Richter smirked. “I was five. And dramatic.”
“You still are. But now you throw yourself into real battles.”
He looked away. “Someone has to.”
She stepped closer, brushing a hand through his hair like it was instinct.
“You don’t have to be the strongest, Richter. Just be the most stubborn. That’s how we survive in this family.”
Richter turned and hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder for a moment that felt stolen from a life they never quite had.
“I’ll come back.”
“You’d better. I’ll raise hell if you don’t.”
They separated with a shared smirk—and a heaviness neither acknowledged.
—
Elsewhere in the tower, in a high chamber where the wind cut through open gothic arches, Dracula stood at the balcony, gazing at the stars. Alucard leaned against a pillar behind him, arms crossed.
“You didn’t stop him,” Alucard said.
Dracula didn’t look back. “He wouldn’t have listened.”
“You always said Belmonts are reckless.”
“I also said they’re the only reason the world’s still spinning.”
Silence.
“You see yourself in him,” Alucard added.
Dracula’s fingers tightened on the railing. “No. I see you.”
Alucard flinched—barely—but his voice stayed even. “Then maybe you should tell him that.”
Dracula turned, his face unreadable, his red eyes softening just a breath.
“I would rather he become his own legend.”
“And if he falls?”
Dracula stepped forward and placed a hand on Alucard’s shoulder. “Then we burn Paris to the ground and bury what hurt him.”
Alucard didn’t smile, but something loosened in his spine. “You’ve gotten more sentimental.”
“Don’t tell your mother.”
“She already knows.”
---
The moon rose over the twin castles like a silver coin dropped into black ink. Cloaked in magic, unseen by mortal eyes, the courtyard was a swirl of banners, beasts, and blades.
Richter adjusted the straps on his chestplate, Vesper coiled at his side like a sleeping serpent. He looked up as the rest of the team gathered, each more dangerous than the last.
Maria Renard arrived first, hair tied back, dressed in a crimson riding coat lined with silver-thread spells. She had two doves perched on her shoulders and an expression that screamed, I will hex your kneecaps.
“I brought snacks,” she said. “And curses. Which do you want first?”
“Surprise me,” Richter muttered.
Tera followed, robes billowing, her walking staff glowing faintly with Speaker magic. She didn’t speak much—but when she did, people tended to live longer if they listened.
Julia Belmont descended next, hood drawn, twin daggers at her hips and a holy relic strapped to her thigh. Her smile was sharp. “Try not to get possessed this time.”
Juste Belmont arrived fashionably late, hair too perfect for a mission, sipping from a jewel-encrusted flask. “I’m only here because someone has to ensure you all don’t die inelegantly.”
And then—mist curled near the fountain. Olrox formed from the smoke like a memory too proud to fade.
“No invitation?” he asked.
Richter blinked. “Did we send one?”
“No,” Olrox said, baring fangs in what might’ve been a grin. “But I heard you were going to Paris. I’m always curious about dying empires.”
Maria muttered, “This is your vibe.”
“War and wine. I’m predictable.”
The gates creaked open with the groan of old magic, revealing a swirling mirror of shadows—the castle’s teleportation array, now active.
Tera stepped forward. “Destination locked. Paris. Resistance-aligned district. Be ready.”
As they approached, Richter turned back one last time.
At the top of the stairs, Trevor stood, arms crossed, looking every bit the retired champion who hated being retired. Beside him, Sypha and Alucard. Behind them, Dracula. And above all, Lisa Tepes, watching like a mother to them all.
No words were spoken. None needed to be.
Richter nodded once—and stepped through.
The others followed.
The portal swallowed them whole.
---
Castle Noctis—the fused, towering behemoth of Dracula’s legacy and Styria’s iron beauty—was eerily quiet.
For about three minutes.
Then someone knocked over a suit of armor in the west wing.
“Was that you again, Adrian?” Sypha yelled from the library, where ancient tomes were trying to reorganize themselves alphabetically and failing with violent magical outbursts.
“I haven’t moved from this sofa in an hour,” Alucard replied coolly from said sofa, one boot dangling off the armrest, his hair tied back in a ribbon Lisa had given him just to keep the place from getting covered in gold strands.
“You lie with such elegance,” Trevor said, entering with a bottle of wine and the disappointed posture of a man who raised half the castle’s population and got zero credit.
Lisa looked up from her embroidery in the corner. “He gets that from his father.”
“I’m right here,” Dracula murmured from the shadows of the window, sipping blood like it was aged whiskey and watching the storm outside with intense brooding goals.
“Then stop hiding like a painting with depression,” Trevor snorted, flopping beside Sypha and poking her with the wine bottle. “Want?”
She took it, rolled her eyes, and drank like a true vampire revolutionary queen.
Meanwhile, on the training balcony, Striga and Morana sparred under the rain, blades singing and echoing into the night. Hector sat nearby repairing a steel gauntlet with Isaac, the two forge masters working in companionable, slightly awkward silence.
“He’s stronger than last time,” Hector said, nodding toward the shadowy training dummies being utterly obliterated by a speed-boosted automaton.
Isaac raised a brow. “He’s furious. He always works better when he’s furious.”
“About what?”
Isaac looked up. “Richter’s gone. He didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Back inside, Djamila—one of the newer vampires under Dracula’s banner—tiptoed through the halls with Morana’s cat in her arms.
“I don’t like humans,” she whispered. “But that little Belmont smells like sunshine and tea. It’s revolting.”
The cat meowed.
“Exactly,” Djamila sighed. “He’s going to break hearts.”
Back in the dining hall, Alucard finally sat up straight.
“Should we worry about them?” he asked the room.
“They’ve got Juste with them,” Trevor said, biting into an apple like it insulted him.
“That is a reason to worry,” Sypha corrected.
Lisa stood and walked to Dracula, placing a hand on his arm. He turned toward her, the years softening in his face when she touched him.
“They’ll be fine,” she said gently. “Our children are made of nightmares and miracles.”
Dracula nodded once, but his eyes never left the storm.
---