Даниил Зверков – The Last Queen Of Noctyra: Awakening Of Aronella (страница 1)

Daniil Zverkov

The Last Queen Of Noctyra: Awakening Of Aronella

Chapter 1

They say that in the beginning, there were no kingdoms. No cities. No names. There was only the Mother of Life — the one who wove Noctyra from darkness and the light of stars. She gave the world the breath of wind, the cold of stone, and the blood that flows through living veins. And so, the story began. Centuries passed. The first peoples walked the lands of Noctyra. Among them were humans —

mortal children of time. But there were others. Those whom the night had claimed as its own. They were called vampires. They were faster than men. Stronger. And they lived so long that human lives seemed no more than a passing moment. They built cities of black stone. Raised citadels upon the mountains. Created art that outlived centuries. Their power rested upon the Five Great Blood Houses. And so began the Age of Vampires. For centuries, their civilization ruled the continent. And it seemed that it would never end. But in the heart of Noctyra, another force had always existed.

The force of humans. Humans learned. Watched. Adapted. And one day they found a way to fight back. The alchemists began creating new warriors — beings capable of standing against those once believed immortal. That is how the Bloodbound were born. And then the war began. Later, it would be called the Crimson War. Cities burned. Rivers turned red with blood. The ancient houses of vampires fell, one by one. Their last stronghold became the Blackspire Citadel — an ancient fortress standing among the mountains. When it fell, humans believed the age of vampires had ended. Seven centuries passed. The world moved on without them. Human kingdoms rose upon the ruins of the old cities. Ancient names were forgotten. And stories of vampires became nothing more than tales used to frighten children. But in the chronicles of Noctyra, one line is written again and again.

It says: No blood ever truly disappears. Sometimes it only waits. Until the world is ready for its return. And one day, seven hundred years after the fall of Blackspire deep within the ruins of the citadel— something awakened.

PROLOGUE

The night above the continent burned red. Not from the sunset. Not from the moon. From fire.

Far across the plains, cities were dying. Flames climbed above rooftops and walls, staining the sky with a heavy crimson glow. Black smoke rose slowly, swallowing the stars, while the wind carried the scent of ash, blood, and heated iron toward the mountains. Once, these lands had been peaceful.

Caravans moved along the roads. People lived in stone cities and quiet villages, built homes, tilled the earth, and sang beside evening fires. Now all of it was vanishing in flames. A war had begun — one the world had never known. In time, men would call it the Crimson War. But on that night, no one thought of names. They thought only of one thing: whether they would live to see the dawn.

High in the mountains, among black cliffs and cutting winds, stood a fortress believed to be eternal — the Blackspire Citadel. Its towers rose so high that, on clear days, their sharp spires seemed to pierce the sky itself. The stone of its walls was dark — almost black — as though night had hardened into form. Massive bridges arched between the towers over endless chasms, while long stairways descended toward the city below. Once, Blackspire had been the heart of an age. The ancient vampires ruled from these halls. The great houses gathered here. The fate of the entire continent was decided within its walls. Music had once echoed through these chambers. Festivals filled its galleries.

Hidden gardens whispered with fountains. And at night, shadows of immortals walked its bridges —

beings for whom time meant nothing. It had seemed that Blackspire would stand forever. But not tonight. Below, the city was already burning. Fire devoured narrow streets, wooden roofs, and crowded markets. The glow reflected in the dark windows of the citadel, as if the fortress itself watched its own death. The sounds of battle climbed the mountain: screams, steel striking steel,

the dull thunder of battering rams. And sometimes — something else. Short, broken cries

that ended too quickly. The war had reached Blackspire. And yet, at the highest tower

there was silence. At the edge of the stone parapet stood a woman. Her silhouette was still against the crimson sky. Long black hair moved in the cold wind, and her dark armor caught the distant glow of burning cities. She rested one hand on the cold stone and looked down — toward the armies climbing the mountain. Human armies. And among them something new. Even from this height, she could see them. They moved differently. Faster. Sharper. Too fast for men. Blades flashed in the dark, and one by one, vampires — beings once believed immortal — fell. She did not look away.

Her name was Aronella Velkaris. Ruler of Blackspire. The First of the Ancient Blood. The one from whom the age of vampires had begun. There was no fear in her eyes. But in the stillness between the wind and the distant roar of war, she understood something others had not yet realized. This was not a battle. This was an ending. From above, the battlefield seemed alive. Torches moved like rivers of fire, slowly climbing the slopes. Thousands of soldiers surrounded the city, their camps stretching to the horizon. Siege engines groaned. Ladders rose against the walls. And among them those figures again. Calm. Precise. Without fear. One of them reached the city wall. He climbed faster than any human could. His movements were short, controlled — almost mechanical. His blade flashed once.

An ancient vampire fell. One strike. Clean. Final.

Aronella knew what they were. She had heard the whispers. The alchemists called them Bloodbound.

Humans whose bodies had been altered. Weapons. Created for a single purpose— to kill her kind.

In the streets below, battle had turned to chaos. Steel clashed. Bodies fell. Blood ran across stone.

And then — for a moment — the fighting paused. An ancient vampire stood face to face with one of the Bloodbound. What have you done to humanity he whispered. There was no anger in his voice.

Only disbelief. The Bloodbound did not answer. He stepped forward. His blade moved. And the vampire fell. No hesitation. No mercy. As if nothing living had stood before him at all. Elsewhere, fire consumed a house. A woman ran into the street, clutching a child. She looked around desperately, searching for escape. A Bloodbound turned. Saw her. She froze. She did not understand what stood before her. Vampires did not fear humans. She took a step back. Hoping he would pass. He did not.

Two steps. One strike. Her scream never finished.

Aronella turned away. She had seen enough. And yet even as she looked aside, the sounds reached her— steel, fire, death. Her warriors were dying. Friends. Allies. Beings she had known for centuries.

Some still tried to speak. Tried to stop the fighting. Tried to reason with those who had become weapons. But the Bloodbound did not listen. They moved forward. Cold. Precise. Unstoppable.

And with every passing moment, more of Blackspire burned. Aronella looked down again.

Now she understood. This was not war. This was annihilation. And then— something changed.

Light. Not from fire. From within the city. She turned her gaze. The inner gates. The ones that led to the upper levels of the citadel. They were never opened during a siege. Never. And now— they were opening. Figures stood upon the bridge. Vampires. Holding torches. Not fighting. Watching. One of them raised a hand. The gates began to open. Aronella felt the cold rise through her body. She recognized him. Even from this distance. The way he stood. The way he moved. The silver embroidery on his cloak. House Morvath. Betrayal. She closed her eyes — not in pain, but in clarity. Now she understood. This war had not begun outside the walls. It had been prepared. Planned. From within.

When she opened her eyes again, they were colder. Still. And then— she heard footsteps behind her.

She turned. Five figures stood at the entrance to the tower. Alchemists. Their long dark cloaks moved in the wind. Beneath their hoods, faint symbols glowed — shifting, precise, unnatural. They did not look like men who had come to fight. They looked like men who had come

to finish something.

So, Aronella said quietly, it was you. One of them stepped forward. His face was pale. Calm. Too calm. The age of vampires is over, he said. No hatred. No anger. Only certainty. You ruled this world for too long. Below, the battle raged on. But up here— it already felt distant. Aronella straightened. You believe, she said, that you can destroy me? The alchemist tilted his head.

No. A pause. Another step forward. Destroying you is impossible. He raised his hand.

And in that moment— she felt it. Not pain. Not force. Something else. Her blood. It slowed. For all her existence, she had felt it — the quiet, endless current of life flowing through her. Now— it was freezing. She tried to move. Her body did not respond. For the first time in thousands of years—