Rejected Princess : Engaged to a Missing Man

The remnants of the once brilliant kingdom of Volcarus were a glimpse of what could be for the neighboring kingdoms around it.

A majestic piece of history left in the hands of Mother Nature and those who dwelled in the dark.

As Alastor walked through the kingdom gates, the sight of it welcomed him in eerie silence.

The city within was a labyrinth of decay.

Streets paved with smooth marble were cracked and uneven, sprouting wildflowers and hardy grasses.

Majestic fountains, once flowing with crystal-clear water, were now dry, their basins filled with stagnant pools that mirrored the twisted beauty of this abandoned place.

Ornate statues of kings and gods lay toppled, faces eroded and arms missing, their silent majesty reduced to echoes of a golden age. Alastor gave them a sidelong glance as he walked past them.

Even with company and years of experience, Alastor could not shake the unsteady feeling that accompanied him as they walked together down the main road.

Some places were stained by what was left of their recent battle—blackish spots against aged stones. And if they had fought Mordaths before, now they were dispatched to hunt Vampires.

"How many did they say there were?" asked Sixty-one, breaking the silence.

"They said around five? Or was it fifteen?" Sixty-two answered, their identical owl masks differentiated only by a few strokes of personalization. Alastor, or Twenty-three, walked slightly behind them.

"If it had been fifteen, they wouldn't have sent a three-man team," Alastor answered, knowing enough from past experiences.

The two looked over their shoulders, wary of their senior in the group. Of the three, Alastor had been the least talkative; when he did speak, it was only when necessary.

"Where do you think they're hiding? This place is huge," Sixty-one asked, confident this time that it was a question worth asking. And he had been right.

"They won't hide anywhere they don't have enough room to move during the day. And definitely not where a little bit of sunshine can come through. I'm guessing they're in the city's tomb," Alastor answered, remembering the eerie silence of miles and miles of piled bodies lying just below their feet.

Before it was reduced to 'Sector Three,' Volcarus had been a standing kingdom of centuries-old predecessors, and all their people were appreciated by being buried along with everyone else who had lived there.

Sixty-two shivered at the thought. "So what are we waiting for? Let's get going," he said.

"What's the rush? Enjoy every second of your life," Alastor replied with meaning. He had seen many of his comrades who had gone and didn't make it back alive. They, too, wanted to get it over with, meaning to come home as soon as possible.

Being their senior, Alastor held them back. And it was only an hour's walk up to the tomb's door. A large and wide stone gate had its iron doors unhinged and bent sideways.

Naked, human-like footprints were left on the dried, muddy ground.

The closer they walked, the more apparent the small lump beside the gate became—a disheveled figure with a torn neck.

A girl, around the age of fourteen, lay lifeless, her empty eyes staring ahead, held in a permanent state of contorted terror. Her mouth hung open.

Vampires, just like any other monstrous night creatures, could easily make another by biting or scratching their victim.

But the Vampires were caught in a conundrum: they were monstrous enough to be terrifying beings, yet present enough to know who they wanted as their own.

Hence, they did not always create Vampires, leaving behind this girl, along with dozens of others, at the small town they had attacked a few nights ago.

Alastor took out a small but bright flashlight from his pocket and led the way down the descending stairs of the tomb.

Sixty-two followed behind him, while Sixty-one took the time to close her eyes and used her robe to cover her face.

Soon, she would just be a skeleton, forgotten, just like the thousands of scattered bones around the city.

Ahead, Alastor was far too familiar with the massive underground tomb.

It revealed itself under the stark beams of their flashlights, its construction impeccable and almost unnervingly perfect. Volcarus was renowned as the leading expert in the great architecture of their time, and it was evident in their work.

Polished stone walls gleamed faintly, their surfaces intricately engraved with angular patterns. Smooth archways rose overhead, supported by towering columns carved with the likenesses of stoic, long-forgotten figures.

The floor, tiled with dark stone, reflected the light in uneven glimmers, revealing faint signs of wear from ancient footsteps.

The air was cold and dry, carrying the faint metallic tang of something old and preserved.

Just as they entered the hauntingly dark inner chamber, the first dragged screech of a Vampire was heard from the distance.

The sounds echoed through the tomb, and Alastor halted in his place.

"Stay close and watch your back. They're sneaky," Alastor said, which received a low-voiced "yes" from the two behind him.

Then, just as he warned, a figure of a man appeared from behind a pillar.

His eyes were those of a human, but his skin was a sickly bluish shade, with dark rims under his eyes. He was wearing a new set of clothes, no doubt from the townsmen who had died defending their home.

"Oh, what's this?" it spoke, and despite it having been human once, it was as if it had lost its ability to sound human. Merely mimicking what it had heard in the past. Its pitch was off in places, and the sound was just loud enough for them to hear.

"Have we been so... horrible... for the black... opt... to come for us?" it asked, its voice breaking ever so often into a low, animalistic growl. But without waiting for an answer, it hunched its back and then screamed.

Its mouth was wide, its jaw stretching beyond the normal capability of a human jaw. Its four longest fangs were like those of a baboon.

The three sprang into action as other Vampires moved out of the shadows, all this time lurking in the darkness of the tomb.

Right then, Sixty-two emanated from his body a bright yellow light, like a star illuminating their surroundings. And to Alastor's horror, there were indeed at least fifteen of them, if not more.

Right then, his mind went blank. Just like any other time in his life, he no longer thought of anything else but lived in that moment, his body taking charge, and memories of past battles prompting his movement.

His body was immediately wrapped by his black thorny vines, each hand wielding a thin sword, and with one clean swing, he decapitated the Vampire.

Every movement was a blur, and the sharp sound of steel slicing through flesh filled the air as another Vampire crumbled at his feet.

Sixty-one fought with brutal efficiency to his left, claws tearing through the chest of a snarling foe, while Sixty-two's brilliance blinded the creatures long enough for the trio to gain the upper hand.

But the numbers were relentless. Five was hard enough. They were fast, and their bodies quickly regenerated. If they didn't manage to kill them with one cut, they'd come back faster and angrier.

Alastor's breath came in sharp bursts as he parried another strike, his black vines whipping out to ensnare an attacker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three Vampires break away, their glowing eyes fixed on Sixty-two, who had paused to fend off another.

"Sixty-two, move!" Alastor's voice rang out, but it was too late.

The three creatures launched themselves as one, their combined force overwhelming. Sixty-two managed to drive a fist into one of their faces, shattering its jaw, but the other two sank their claws deep into his body.

A strangled cry escaped him as he fell to his knees, the brilliant light he emanated flickering, dimming.

Alastor turned, his swords poised to strike, but a fourth Vampire lunged at him, forcing him back.

"Sixty-two!" he roared, his voice breaking through the chaos.

The light vanished, plunging the tomb into near-darkness, and Alastor felt the crushing weight of failure.

The remaining Vampires circled, their snarls echoing through the tomb, as Alastor steadied himself, the loss fueling the rage that surged in his veins.

Beside him, being a comrade of the same generation, Sixty-one cried out.

They were down to two, and despite seven killed, there were more. They didn't attack immediately, their resounding low laughter mocking. And what was worse, the light Sixty-two offered had gone with him, leaving them only with the limited light of the flashlight.

Its beam swept through the dead faces of the Vampires, their eyes reflecting the light back like those of a cat. Alastor felt his heart beating loudly as adrenaline rushed through his body.

Right then, he remembered something, someone, who could help him—albeit by force.

I'm sorry, I can't let my story end like this. Not now, not here...