The Drekkh Family: Where Breakfast Means Business

Sorynth Drekkh, his father, walked ahead without a word.

He didn't need to speak.

Every step down the staircase felt like a death sentence in motion, cold and inevitable. There were no guards. No entourage. Only the deep, suffocating silence that clung to him like a shadow, a harbinger of the storm that followed.

Sylarion didn't realize he had stopped breathing until his vision blurred.

Beside him, Varekth remained as still as the room itself. He didn't look, didn't shift, didn't acknowledge the presence of their father. It was as if to even recognize his arrival would somehow shatter the fragile tension in the air.

The Vampire Lord reached the bottom of the stairs.

He didn't glance toward Sylarion.

There was no need.

That ancient gaze, cold and unwavering, swept across the room like a storm searching for cracks in the foundation. Sylarion felt it pass over him, dissecting, measuring, discarding—leaving nothing untouched.

His heart beat once. Loud.

Then again, softer.

Then silence.

A silence so complete, it seemed… engineered.

Sorynth moved toward the table with an elegance that seemed to defy time. His every step was deliberate, shoulders squared, spine unyielding. His robes whispered as they trailed behind him, as if they'd never known the weight of the world.

When he reached the head of the table, the seat pulled itself out.

It didn't scrape.

It glided.

The chair didn't wait for him.

It obeyed him.

Still, not a word.

Sylarion watched, entranced, as the man—if that word still applied to this ancient being—lowered himself into the chair with an ease that was at once effortless and absolute.

He entered without a single utterance.

The room stilled, as though the very air held its breath. And then, once seated, Sorynth lifted his gaze. First, it settled on Sylarion. Then, on Varekth.

His eyes, ancient and unblinking, lingered just long enough to weigh something unseen.

And then—his voice, colder than winter steel, broke the silence:

"Where is Maelren?"

The question landed like a blade.

"Where is Maelren?"

Varekth didn't hesitate. Didn't even blink. He didn't glance at Sylarion. The question had never been for anyone else, it seemed.

He exhaled, almost imperceptibly, before speaking with an indifferent calm, tinged with disdain.

"Who knows what that brooding ghost does. He comes and goes like a curse."

His fingers tapped once against the chalice, slow and deliberate, before stilling once more.

"If he's not here, then he doesn't want to be found."

The room held its breath.

Then, from the walls.

From beneath the table.

From behind the pillars—they appeared.

Servants.

Dozens of them, gliding silently from the shadows like forgotten memories. Dressed in black and gold livery, their faces hidden behind smooth porcelain masks, they moved with the kind of grace that could only come from centuries of practice.

Breakfast was served.

Silver trays slid into place as if summoned by mere thought. Steam rose from freshly baked bread, its golden crust fragrant and inviting. Roasted roots, sun-dried fruits, strange cuts of meat—some marbled, others faintly glowing—appeared in seamless coordination. Pitchers poured dark brews and pale nectars into jeweled cups without a single hand lifting.

It was elegance. It was precision. It was unreal.

And then, just as quickly as they'd come, the servants were gone.

The table was no longer a meeting space.

It had become a banquet.

A banquet bathed in a morning light that never reached this place.

And Sylarion realized with a cold clarity…

This wasn't breakfast.

This was theatre.

The silence stretched again, taut and thick, after Sorynth's unspoken command.

But it was Varekth who shattered it, his voice cutting through the stillness with sharp intent.

"Father," he said, his tone firm yet laced with urgency, "we both know you're doing wrong."

His gaze met Sorynth's, unflinching.

"You cannot—by any means—let Sylarion enter that damn place."

The room held its breath again.

Sorynth's expression remained unchanged. His eyes, those ancient pools of time, stayed locked on his son. The tension thickened, suffocating the air, until it felt like the walls themselves were pressing in.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sorynth spoke. His voice was colder than the stone that encased them.

"There is no need for further discussion," he said. "My decisions are law. You will obey."

His gaze shifted briefly to Sylarion, but the words weren't meant for him.

"Now, eat your breakfast."

The weight of the command was palpable, settling heavily in the room like a shroud.

In the depths of Sylarion's mind, the Predator System stirred—its voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, well. Looks like things are getting interesting. This should be fun," it mused, amusement curling through its voice like smoke.

Sylarion didn't respond.

His eyes remained locked on the silent conflict unfolding across the table.

He didn't need the System's commentary.

He already knew that this wasn't just a family meal.

This was a reckoning in slow motion.

But then—something shifted within him.

He understood now, clearly.

Varekth. Maelren.

The names clicked into place with terrifying clarity,

the last hundred pages of the diary. The ink had been erratic towards the end, but the emotions had never dulled. Rage. Shame. Desperation.

That day.

The council chamber.

The sneers. The whispers.

Selene Virell, standing next to her new suitor—her "pureblood" choice, a vampire wrapped in elegance and ice. The insult had been public, cruel, final.

And the original Sylarion—driven by pride, grief, and the foolhardy defiance of a human challenging a vampire for love—had stood against him.

He hadn't stood a chance.

But before the duel could begin, before Sylarion's blood could stain the marble, Maelren had stepped in.

The elder brother. The shadow behind the throne.

Maelren had stopped the duel.

He had saved Sylarion's life.

But he had also destroyed the last remnants of Sylarion's dignity.

The duel never happened.

But the mockery did.

The whispers didn't stop.

The Drekkh name, once spoken with respect, was dragged through the velvet corridors with snickers and disdain. The only reason no one dared speak aloud was because Sorynth Drekkh and his sons were too powerful to insult openly.

But in the shadows?

Even the nobility bled laughter.

The council elders had demanded Sylarion be exiled. Stripped of the Drekkh name, cast out like a rotting limb.

And now…

Now Sylarion understood.

This breakfast wasn't a meal.

It was a verdict.

His future lay on the table, colder than the meat itself.

His gaze dropped, unwilling to meet his father's eyes. The silence between Sorynth and Varekth was deafening in its clarity.

They weren't waiting for Maelren.

They were deciding what to do with him.

Then—

The voice in Sylarion's mind echoed, dripping with sarcastic amusement.

"Is this the start of your end?" the Predator System sneered.

The silence in the room thickened, suffocating them all.

And then—

A sound.

At first, a whisper.

Then more.

The air trembled, vibrating like the heartbeat of something monstrous.

Sylarion's instincts flared. His muscles coiled, ready for action, but his mind couldn't keep up.

What was happening?

It wasn't until they came—thousands of them—that Sylarion realized.

Black wings.

An unearthly rush of air. A storm of bats, countless and dark, spiraling through the room like a living shadow, blocking out the faint light.

The invasion was immediate, unrelenting.

But Sorynth Drekkh didn't flinch. Neither did Varekth. They sat as though the very storm didn't exist, calm and composed, while Sylarion's heart pounded in his chest.

What was going on?

The bats scattered in a burst of noise. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Then, in an instant, the swarm collapsed into a singular form—a man.

A figure.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, wild and untamed.

Maelren.

His presence brought an immediate chill to the air, as if the warmth had been sucked from the room itself.

Sylarion's breath caught in his throat.

Maelren had arrived.

But Varekth, without so much as lifting a finger, smirked.

"No need to show off like that," he drawled. "We were just waiting for you."

Maelren straightened, brushing through his disheveled hair as if the storm of bats had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience. His voice was bored, almost dismissive.

"Oh, I just woke up," he said casually.

Sylarion blinked, confusion gnawing at him. How could Maelren be so unaffected? So… nonchalant?

Maelren—the same brother who had intervened in the council, who had stopped the duel to save Sylarion's life… and reputation.

And yet, now, he seemed utterly unbothered.

But Sylarion couldn't stop the thought from rising in his mind, taunting him.

"When do I get to do that? Summon a swarm of bats and make an entrance like that?"

The Predator System's voice replied in his mind, dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh? Now you want bat powers? Maybe when you actually get moving, Sylarion. Keep dreaming."

Sylarion smirked quietly, his gaze lingering on Maelren.

"Yeah, right. I can't wait."