Sigurd Erikson stood over a dead man and cursed his own bloodline. He wanted a beast that could tear his brother's champions apart. He was second son of the Nordic Clan, keeper of Dracula's monsters, and every night-beast he bred came out weak. His brother would stay clan heir. Sigurd would stay a shadow. Unless the corpse at his feet rose stronger than anything his brother owned. The corpse had been a soldier. Now it was a strigoi mort, a monstrous undead thing meant to hunt in the dark. Sigurd had stitched and starved and bled it for weeks. It still lay flat on the stone floor of the Hall of Monsters. He kicked its cold leg. Nothing. "You can't build a champion when you don't know what one is," said a voice behind him. He turned. The Mother stood in the doorway, her white veil trailing far down the corridor. Ioana Tepes ruled the witches. She had resurrected Dracula himself. She spoke once and expected obedience. Sigurd owed her house a debt already. Her daughter had bled herself unconscious to raise his last two wolves. Beside the Mother stood that daughter. The Crimson Prințesă wore all red, her ruby crown catching the orange light. Maria Tepes was the first blood bender, the most dangerous witch alive. She looked at the dead soldier the way a smith looks at raw iron. "Fury is not strength," Maria said. "A champion needs both. You gave this one meat and rot. You never gave it will." Sigurd bristled. "Then teach me. I don't grovel, but I'll listen." The Mother nodded once. "Blood carries the mind. Muscle without a mind is a puppet. You must fold both together." Maria knelt beside the corpse. She pressed one sharp nail to its chest and drew a thin red line. Sigurd watched her draw power not from her own life but from the moonlight stored in her crown. The rubies dimmed as she worked. Blood lifted from the wound and coiled in the air like a living rope. "Watch what makes it a champion," she said. "Not the flesh. The rage you weave inside it." She drove the blood back into the corpse. The strigoi mort convulsed. Its eyes snapped open, black and hungry. It lunged. Sigurd caught its throat and felt real force fight him back. For the first time, his creation shoved him across the floor. He laughed, wild and loud. He finally understood. A champion night-beast was flesh married to fury by blood magic. He could breed them now. Then the Mother spoke her last words, quiet and flat. "The girl's crown is nearly spent. Blood-bending needs stored moonlight, or it eats the caster alive. You know the method. You do not have the power." Sigurd's grin died. The knowledge was his. The fuel was not. To breed a whole bloodline, he would need moonlight of his own, and he had none.

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.