Sigurd Erikson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Sigurd knew the method now. He did not have the fuel. So he called the whole court to the Hall of Monsters and gambled on a show. If Dracula saw his strigoi mort, the crown might grant him moonlight magic of his own. Then he would breed a bloodline without begging witches for scraps. He wore his wolf-fur cape for the occasion, its weathered pelts brushing the stone floor. The Crimson Prințesă came to stand beside him. Maria Tepes wore all red, her ruby crown dark and spent. She looked at the caged strigoi mort. "Your beast is dead again," she said. "It needs blood to rise. I have no moonlight left. My crown is empty for weeks." Sigurd's gut dropped. He had built the whole night on her power. Around him the court filled the hall. Dracula entered last. Heartbeats in the room bent toward Maria as she passed, tugged off rhythm by her mere presence. "Show me," Dracula said. His voice was flat and final. "You promised a champion." Sigurd stood over the pale corpse. Its bat wings lay folded, black eyes shut. He had no witch to wake it. He refused to grovel in front of the crown. So he made a plan on the spot. He drew a sharp nail across his own wrist and let his blood fall on the beast's chest. "Teach me the fold," he told Maria, low. "Not your moonlight. Mine. My life for this once." Maria met his eyes. "It will hurt. It will cost you." "I know what it costs," he said. She pressed her nail beside his blood and guided his hand. He felt her pull the red like a river by its throat. He shoved his own will into the corpse. His strength drained fast. His knees shook. The blood coiled and drove into the wound. The strigoi mort convulsed. Its wings snapped wide across the hall. It rose off the stone and shrieked, black eyes hungry, fangs bared. The court went silent. Even Dracula stood still. Sigurd swayed, gray and hollow, but he laughed. His champion hung in the air, alive and furious. He caught himself on the cage bars before he fell. Dracula studied the beast a long moment. "A true champion," he said. "But you burned your own life to raise one. You cannot breed a whole bloodline this way. You will die on the tenth beast." "Then give me moonlight of my own," Sigurd said. "No," Dracula answered. "Moonlight is scarce. My kingdom's shield nearly failed for want of it. I will not spend it on your ambition." He turned and left. Sigurd stood alone with his one champion and his empty hands. He had proven the beast. He had proven himself. And he had learned the crown would give him nothing. If he wanted moonlight, he would have to take it somewhere no one would grant it.