CHAPTER 8: THE VEYLAN

The vampire city lay beneath the earth, carved from black stone, its halls lined with torches that burned with cold blue fire. It was a place of silence, where shadows stretched unnaturally and whispers slithered through the darkness. Deep within the labyrinth of tunnels, beyond the reaches of common vampires, lay a peculiar dwelling—Veylan's lair.

Unlike the pristine, gothic structures of the upper courts, Veylan's home was a mess of strange objects—dried organs in glass jars, blood-stained books filled with insane scribbles, and relics stolen from witches long dead. It smelled of damp stone, old parchment, and something unmistakably rotten.

At the center of the room sat Veylan.

He lounged in a throne of bones, carved from the ribcages of creatures unknown, his long fingers drumming against the armrest. His smile was sharp, too wide, too knowing. His black hair fell past his shoulders, tangled as if he had been too deep in thought to care for his own appearance. His nails were long, painted black, clicking against the skull in his hand as he turned it absentmindedly.

Then came the knock.

"Enter." His voice slithered through the air, amused before even knowing who stood outside.

A lower-ranked vampire, clad in the blood-red uniform of the council's messengers, stepped in hesitantly. He never wanted to be the one to summon Veylan, but orders were orders.

"The Council has summoned you," the messenger said, standing as stiff as a corpse.

Veylan grinned. "Finally. I was beginning to think the Elders had forgotten my talents."

The Council's chamber was massive—a cathedral of darkness where four ancient vampires sat on their thrones, watching from above like gods of death. Below them, Kastiel stood, his fury barely contained.

"The traitor must be found," Kastiel spat. "They dared to betray us in the middle of a war. I want their heart ripped from their chest."

Veylan stepped forward, a slow, almost mocking bow. He took his time to look around, to let the tension build. Then, with a lazy smirk, he asked,

"Who, exactly, am I hunting?"

Kastiel's eyes burned. "The traitor who killed one of our own."

Veylan let out a sharp, wild laugh. It echoed in the chamber, making some of the younger vampires shift uncomfortably. His sharp fangs gleamed under the dim torchlight.

"How fun," he mused. "A vampire who betrays their own. Do you know how rare that is? The irony is delicious."

"You'll do it, then?" One of the Elders asked, her voice as ancient as time.

Veylan tilted his head, a twinkle of madness in his golden-red eyes.

"I would have done it even if you didn't ask."

His hunt had begun.

Veylan was unlike any vampire in the clan.

Where others sought power, he sought truth—ugly, raw, and unfiltered. He didn't care for loyalty or vengeance. To him, life was a puzzle, and he was obsessed with finding the pieces. He enjoyed watching people squirm, unravel, reveal their hidden selves.

Some called him brilliant.

Most called him insane.

He kept collections—not of gold or fine art, but secrets. His lair was filled with things stolen from the dead—half-burned letters, journals with bloodstained pages, broken weapons that told their own stories. He believed everything—every word spoken, every action taken—was a clue.

And now, he had been given his most interesting case in centuries.

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The battle site was still stained with witch blood and vampire remains. The air reeked of magic, and the ground was scorched where spells had clashed against fangs.

Veylan loved it.

The first person he interviewed was Lucien.

Lucien was a high-ranking warrior, strong and respected—but Veylan knew that strength didn't mean intelligence. People like Lucien saw the battle, but they never truly watched it.

Veylan's gaze drilled into him, his smirk playful, but his golden-red eyes calculating.

"So, tell me, dear Lucien—who panicked first?" Veylan asked, circling him like a predator.

Lucien frowned. "Panicked?"

"Yes." Veylan gestured to the battlefield. "A battle is like a song. There's a rhythm, a pattern. Something broke that rhythm when Kastiel was struck. Who flinched? Who moved out of sync?"

Lucien hesitated, his mind running back through the bloodshed. Veylan watched his expression like a hawk, waiting for the flicker of realization.

"The witches," Lucien finally said. "After Kastiel was struck, they cast a light spell and retreated. But one of them—Eloise—hesitated. She tried to take a body with her."

"Interesting." Veylan tapped his chin. "And among the vampires? Who was... different?"

Lucien scoffed. "We're not weak like the witches. No vampire hesitated."

But Veylan grinned. A little too wide.

"You're lying."

Lucien stiffened.

Veylan's voice dropped to a whisper, but it slithered into Lucien's ears like poison.

"I can hear it in your tone, smell it in your hesitation. You saw something—**someone—**act out of place, didn't you?"

Lucien clenched his jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Veylan chuckled, stepping back. "Fine. I'll find out on my own."

Lucien turned to leave, but Veylan added, almost lazily,

"Oh, and Lucien? If you do remember anything... pray I don't find out you kept it from me."

Lucien walked away, but Veylan could feel his nervousness.

---

Veylan spent the next few hours speaking to survivors.

Some were eager to talk, describing how they tore through witches like animals. Others were reluctant, their pride refusing to admit that the witches had held their own.

But one thing became clear—no one saw the traitor.

The arrow had come from within their ranks, but vampires were too fast, too chaotic, for anyone to pinpoint where it had been fired from.

Still, Veylan was patient.

He sat with a lower-ranked vampire, a nervous young soldier who had barely survived the battle.

"You were close to Kastiel when he fell, weren't you?" Veylan said, his tone almost kind.

The soldier nodded quickly.

"Tell me everything," Veylan whispered.

The soldier swallowed hard. "I—I saw the witches retreat. And then... there was a shift. A pause, just for a moment. It was like... like something unnatural had happened."

Veylan's eyes gleamed.

He leaned in, his voice low and intimate.

"What kind of unnatural?"

The soldier hesitated. "It—it felt like hesitation. Like one of us stopped."

And there it was.

Veylan grinned, standing up. "You've been very helpful."

The soldier sighed in relief—only to freeze when Veylan gently patted his cheek, his long nails scraping against his skin.

"Be careful who you trust," Veylan murmured. "People who see too much tend to have... accidents."

The soldier nodded quickly, too afraid to speak.

Veylan walked away, satisfied.

The pieces were coming together.

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