The heroes advanced with banners raised and light blazing through the frozen north, but they were not alone in shaping the battlefield.
Beneath the ice, within citadels carved from obsidian stone and ancient bone, the Vampire King watched with calm patience.
His domain was vast. Older than the Kingdom that now pushed against its borders. Older even than the Church's earliest scriptures. The northern lands were not ruled by mindless undead hordes or scattered necromancers clinging to forgotten ruins. They were governed. Organized. Defended by entities that had survived centuries of war, betrayal, and extinction-level conflicts.
The Vampire King commanded twenty Noble Vampires.
Not fledglings. Not lesser blood drinkers elevated by convenience. These were true nobles, each one a sovereign of slaughter in their own right. Some ruled cities buried beneath the ice. Others governed battlegrounds where entire armies had perished and risen again under crimson banners. Each Noble Vampire had lived long enough to refine their craft into something terrifyingly precise.
In addition to them were two Liches.
Ancient beings who had abandoned flesh for eternity, their souls bound to phylacteries hidden beyond mortal reach. Unlike most liches, these two did not bicker or hoard power in isolation. They served the Vampire King by choice, bound not by domination but by mutual respect and shared purpose.
Among them stood Heinz.
The vampiric necromancer who had first made contact with Aldrin.
Heinz was a Noble Vampire in title, but in power he stood equal to the two liches. His mastery over death magic was refined through patience rather than obsession. He did not flood battlefields with endless corpses. He shaped the dead like an artist, turning fallen enemies into weapons tailored for the next engagement.
The Vampire King regarded these three as anchors.
Each of them was comparable to Brago.
A true High Class Demon.
That alone spoke volumes.
Brago stood within the Vampire King's throne chamber, molten glyphs faintly glowing across his arms as he listened to the King's assessment. The chamber itself was a cathedral of frost and crimson crystal, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls etched with the names of wars long forgotten by mortals.
"You will not deploy further," the Vampire King said, his voice calm and absolute.
Brago inclined his head slightly. "I expected as much."
A lesser demon might have bristled at being restrained. Brago did not. He understood strategy. He understood investment.
"You are Aldrin's blade," the Vampire King continued. "But you are also his shield. If you fall, his rise slows."
Brago smiled faintly. "And you wish to deny the enemy that victory."
"Yes."
The Vampire King's gaze sharpened. "You will remain with me only until the first true breach. After that, you return to Aldrin."
Brago's expression did not change, but his mana pulsed subtly. "You trust your nobles that much?"
"I trust experience," the Vampire King replied. "Something the invaders lack."
Brago did not argue. Instead, he allowed his attention to drift outward through the chamber, sensing the movements of the nobles as they prepared for war.
One by one, the Vampire Nobles took the field.
Each of them specialized in a discipline refined beyond mortal limitations.
There was Valcryn the Crimson Duelist, whose martial prowess rivaled the greatest swordmasters of the Kingdom. He fought without armor, his body hardened by blood arts that turned every wound into fuel. Against him, human champions fell in seconds.
There was Selene of the Red Choir, a hemomancer whose magic resonated through sound. Her chants twisted blood into living sigils, rupturing veins and shattering concentration across entire formations.
There was Morvain the Pale Alchemist, whose concoctions transformed spilled blood into corrosive fogs and sentient parasites that burrowed into armor and flesh alike.
Each Noble Vampire commanded legions, but none relied on numbers alone.
Their true power was hemomancy.
Blood was not merely sustenance to them. It was memory. Force. Currency.
On the battlefield, blood spilled by the invaders became ammunition for the defenders. Every fallen knight strengthened the ground itself. Every wounded soldier fed spells that turned defensive lines into slaughter zones.
The heroes adapted quickly.
Soren's light purified tainted blood before it could be weaponized.
Landon's dragons incinerated fields to deny resources.
Zeke deployed magical weapons designed specifically to cauterize wounds and disrupt blood flow.
But adaptation came at a cost.
And the vampires had paid that cost long ago.
They had fought dragonkind in eras before contracts existed.
They had battled holy crusades that burned entire continents.
They had survived the fall of gods.
Compared to that, this invasion was familiar.
On the front lines, Marcus Smith stood knee deep in frozen gore, his armor dented but unbroken. He crushed a charging blood construct with a single blow, but even he felt the strain.
"These bastards don't break," he growled.
Danitha moved beside him, her blade glowing with divine radiance as she severed the head of a vampiric knight. "They are stalling us. Intentionally."
Zeke's voice came through the communication array. "Confirmed. Every engagement delays without committing full force."
Above them, Landon circled, his dragons roaring in frustration as enemy commanders withdrew just before annihilation.
"They are baiting us," Landon said. "Testing our limits."
"And buying time," Soren added quietly.
Time was exactly what the Vampire King wanted.
Every day the heroes pushed forward, their supply lines stretched thinner. Every night, vampire scouts tested defenses, probing for weakness, draining isolated patrols, retreating before retaliation.
The forest itself turned hostile again.
Undead that had once fled from Soren's presence now emerged in coordinated waves, shielded by layered blood wards that dulled purification effects just enough to force prolonged engagements.
Zeke clenched his jaw as reports poured in.
Casualties were rising.
Not catastrophic.
But steady.
Exactly as intended.
Far from the battlefield, Aldrin meditated within his frozen sanctum.
He felt it all.
Not through fear. Not through panic.
Through calculation.
Brago's presence was distant but steady, his mana signature acting like a lighthouse amidst the chaos. Aldrin trusted him. Trusted the Vampire King's judgment.
For now.
"You are growing too fast," Brago had told him earlier. "You need control."
And so Aldrin focused inward.
His mana reserves surged with every breath, guided by the combined teachings of Brago and Elsharion. Darkness flowed naturally now, no longer resisting his will. He felt his affinity deepen, sharpen.
The world outside fought.
He prepared.
Back on the battlefield, Heinz finally entered the fray.
The necromancer did not announce himself. He did not roar or cast grand spells.
He simply raised his hand.
The dead responded.
Fallen heroes rose not as mockeries, but as precise instruments of war. They moved with preserved skill, wielding techniques they had mastered in life. Against them, human forces hesitated. Striking down a monster was one thing. Striking down a former comrade was another.
Heinz watched the hesitation spread.
That was enough.
He withdrew, leaving devastation in his wake.
By the time the sun dipped below the frozen peaks, the heroes held ground.
But they had not advanced.
The Vampire King stood upon his balcony, crimson cloak unmoving in the windless cold.
"They are strong," he admitted to no one in particular.
Behind him, the twenty nobles gathered, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"But they are mortal," the King continued. "And mortals tire."
He turned, gaze sharpening.
"Hold the line."
The northern war settled into its true phase.
Not conquest.
Not annihilation.
But attrition.
And for the first time since the hunt began, the heroes realized something unsettling.
They were no longer climbing.
They were being held.