6 BCE (Before Common Era)

“I see it!” the old warlock declares, flailing his arms in the air. Immediately, the hot cauldrons of fire erupt, sending a river of flames roaring skyward. The emperor stands rooted to the marble floor, though his subjects scatter in fear, pressing themselves against the towering temple pillars.

He draws a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the warlock, whose gnarled hands tremble with power. Blood pools off the sacrificial altar, trailing across the steps in sticky red ribbons. The smell of burning flesh clings to the thick, smoky air, making each gulp of breath feel like swallowing ash.

Still, the emperor believes the sacrifice is necessary, or so he tells himself. The few lives offered today could secure the future of many, or so he hopes.

“What do you see?” the emperor asks, his voice holding just enough composure to hide his unease. A power-hungry warlock is a volatile ally.

“The gods have given me a vision. A vision of a boy!” the warlock proclaims, whipping around to face the emperor. The servants and guards’ recoil, their sandals skidding on the blood-slick floor. Small gasps and shrieks flutter through the temple’s high arches. “Yes, a boy. Born in the second Sanguine,” he announces. He carefully steps down from the altar, the crimson fluid coating his boots as he goes.

“Did you get a name?” the emperor asks with a weary drawl. Since childhood, he has endured the old man’s theatrics. The warlock’s gift for Decay magic remains his only saving grace at court.

“No–no–no,” the warlock mutters, shuffling away from the emperor. He taps his chin and shakes his head, his eyes darting around like a startled animal. “But wait!” His shout makes everyone flinch. “I have a plan.”

The emperor exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“But you will not like it.”

The emperor’s brow creases as he stares into the warlock’s milky-white eyes. Shadows from the flames flicker across the old man’s haggard face.

“What is it?”

Alexandros jolts awake to the piercing sound of screams echoing through Rome’s dark streets. The night air hums with panic, and his pulse hammers as he leaps out of bed. His short sword rests against the wall, the metal catching a faint glimmer from the moonlight seeping through the window.

Grabbing the blade, he rushes outside. A distant, flickering orange glow spreads across the horizon near the city’s centre. The acrid smell of smoke and charred flesh hits him like a physical blow, choking his breath and driving him onward.

He pushes through the city’s gates, the familiar stone archways suddenly transformed into passages of horror. Families cower in corners, mothers clinging to their children, sobbing desperately for the gods to intervene. Fathers stand with trembling fists or battered weapons, trying in vain to protect what’s left of their kin. Sisters cradle their brothers’ lifeless bodies, eyes wide with disbelief.

Alexandros’ heart twists painfully when he sees a young boy, barely able to walk, cut down by a soldier. This isn’t the shriek of a foreign enemy, it’s the roar of Rome destroying itself.

“What is this madness?” he whispers, his vision swimming. Blood runs through the cobblestone streets, thick and dark, and the smoke from burning pyres cloaks everything in a haze. Disoriented by the carnage, he staggers, until a sudden movement before him snaps his senses back.

A small boy lies on the ground, tears carving streaks through the grime on his cheeks. His brown hair matted with blood. He attempts to stand but collapses again, nearly trampled by the guards closing in. Their swords, glistening with gore, rise to finish the job. Acting on pure instinct, Alexandros hauls the child up and over his shoulder, shielding him as he draws his broadsword.

“Halt!” a familiar, gruff voice shouts from behind. The guards stop immediately, dropping to one knee. Alexandros knows the reverence in that bow isn’t for him.

“Legatus Tiberius,” Alexandros turns to face the man.

“Alexandros,” the Legatus replies with a curt nod. “Hand over the child.”

“Are you mad?” Alexandros barks. “They’re children, all of them young boys! What crimes have they committed?” He flings his sword toward the carnage, pointing at the bodies lying across the streets. A flicker of guilt crosses the Legate’s face and quickly avoids Alexandros’ gaze. Each agonised cry from a grieving mother seems to stab him, too.

“By order of the emperor,” the General says with an edge to his voice, “boys by the age of four will die.”

“What!?” Alexandros snarls, stepping forward. The tip of his blade hovers near the Legatus’ throat, enough to make the man swallow nervously. “Who? Who told him to do this?”

“I think you already know the answer,” the Legatus mutters, twisting his face with scorn. Alexandros’ rage flares, resisting the urge not to cut the man down on the spot.

“Take me to him.”

Silent and grim, the men lead Alexandros through the streets. He keeps his eyes averted from the bodies underfoot, gripping the trembling child tighter against his chest. If he can save at least one boy tonight, he will, whatever the cost.

As they near the city’s capital, the grand marble columns stand tall but feel haunted by the echoes of chaos. The child’s knuckles whiten as he clutches Alexandros’ tunic, his small body shaking with sobs. Blood-smeared marble steps lead to a familiar hall, once a proud symbol of Roman strength, now marred by the sight of lifeless forms scattered like refuse.

The emperor steps out to meet them. Alexandros notices how the man's eyes on him with cold assessment, noting Alexandros’ rough state, his unkempt hair, sunken eyes, and a beard that hasn’t seen a razor in weeks. The tang of stale wine lingers around Alexandros like a bitter perfume.

“What do I owe the pleasure, great hunter?” the emperor sneers, voice echoing off the towering walls.

“Enough!” Alexandros snaps. “You do not dare call me that again!”

A muscle in the emperor’s cheek twitches. “I see you are holding a child.”

“This is madness, Augustus! How many have you killed? How many lives have you taken tonight?” Alexandros’ voice resonates in the chilly space, bouncing off tall pillars and frescoed ceilings.

“I did this for the good of Rome!” the emperor roars. “If I hadn’t, we would all be in danger!”

“Danger? Danger from what? From you?” Alexandros demands.

The emperor scoffs. He turns to the warlock, who looms nearby like a vulture. “Tell him what you told me, old man.”

“I see him,” the warlock rasps, stretching a crooked finger toward the boy in Alexandros’ arms. “He is the king.”

Alexandros’ blood turns to ice. He stares at the child, whose hazel eyes brim with tears, pleading silently.

Shaking himself from the shock, Alexandros snaps, “You’re telling me you slaughtered all these people, these children, because some old oaf gave you a faulty prediction?”

“I didn’t want to take any chances!” the emperor shoots back, anger twisting his features.

“Chances? What if there was no king? Then all these people lost their precious children for nothing!” Alexandros shouts, his outrage echoing in the high ceiling.

“It wasn’t for nothing!” the emperor growls. “No king, no risk. I’d rather sacrifice them all than risk his birth once again.”

“No one can predict the birth of the Vampyr king,” Alexandros argues. “He could be half a world away for all we know!” The Emperor nods toward the trembling warlock, who mutters incessantly while sifting through severed limbs as though searching for some dark relic. “He’s high on Decay magic, using these deaths for power. How can you trust what he says?”

The emperor’s gaze shifts uncomfortably to the warlock, who picks up a dismembered arm and checks beneath it, frowning as if disappointed.

“The child needs to die,” the emperor says, voice cracking just enough to betray his own misgivings. Alexandros pulls the boy closer, feeling the child’s frantic heartbeat.

“As your friend, and a fellow warrior, let me take care of the child. If he truly is what you claim, I will end him myself.” Alexandros forces himself to utter these words. The boy gasps, a sob catching in his throat, and Alexandros’ chest tightens with guilt.

“You do know he will be the only one,” the emperor murmurs. “The people will want someone to blame. If they see him alive after losing their own children, they will turn on him. Give him mercy.”

“No. This is mercy, letting him live out his life, no matter how difficult it becomes.” The emperor exhales a ragged breath, his eyes darting to the lifeless forms strewn across the hall. Finally, he waves to his guards.

“Very well.” He turns away. “Let him leave with the boy.”