The ashes of the old ones still stained the cobblestones of Rome.
It had been only three weeks since the purge of the Ancients — a reckoning long overdue. Their betrayal had rotted beneath the surface for centuries, masked by their eloquence, their false councils, their honeyed words of wisdom that concealed fangs aimed at my back.
They forgot one simple truth:Our hearts are bound.And betrayal — even the faintest flicker of intent — burns within me like wildfire.
They never had a chance.
When the first whispers of treachery rippled through the Old Circles, I didn't wait. The Eternal cannot afford sentimentality, not when loyalty is the thread that binds centuries together. Their hearts, bound to mine, betrayed their intent before their tongues ever dared.
The purge in Italy was swift. Blood ran through the marble streets like crimson rivers, ancient bones shattered like brittle glass beneath my feet. Even the elders — those who sat in council halls for a thousand years — turned to dust before they could draw breath to defy me.
Now… silence.
A rare, heavy silence that settles after the storm.
For the first time in decades — maybe centuries — I crave something else. Not conque
I find myself wandering the cliffs of Amalfi, far from the blood-soaked ruins of Rome. The sea stretches en
And yet, I cannot escape what I am.
I walk the cobbled streets of forgotten coastal towns, where tourists snap photos, oblivious to the ancient predator passing them by. My reflection is perfect — unnaturally so.
They stare, of course. Whisper. Some wonder if I am an actor, a relic of cinema's golden age wandering the earth.
They do not know… I was ancient when their grandfathers were but dust.
And yet, among them, a curiosity stirs. A hunger not for power… but for someone who might understand. A partner — not in blood, but in spirit.
The world is different now.
Gone are the days when kingdoms rose and fell beneath my hand. Now, wars are fought with screens, words, algorithms. Yet the old darkness remains, coiled beneath neon lights and glass towers.
Even in peace, I cannot rest fully. The descendants — the ones bound to my blood, my promise, the veil that shields them — they thrive, hidden among mortals. Their loyalty hums beneath their skin. They feel my presence, though many do not know why. Generations upon generations, all carrying the mark.
But what is legacy without connection? What is eternity… without someone to share the burden?
As the Mediterranean breeze tangles in my long white hair, I remember…
I remember Isolde, the healer from the Plague Years.Elena, the witch burned at the stake in Florence — who smiled even as the flames kissed her skin.Margaux, the resistance fighter in Paris — fierce, brilliant, dead too soon beneath Nazi bullets.
All of them… fleeting. Mortal.
Perhaps that is why I hesitate now. To reach for connection is to invite loss. And yet… I am tired. Not weak, never that. But weary in the marrow of my immortal bones.
In the town square, beneath the faded frescoes of an ancient church, I watch the people. Lovers entwined in whispered promises. Children laughing, oblivious to the weight of centuries pressing upon this place.
And then I see her.
Not beautiful in the mortal sense. But there's something… ancient. Eyes the color of storm clouds. A presence, quiet but unshakable, like stone cliffs weathering endless waves.
She watches me too. Not with fear — but recognition.
My pulse — if you can call it that — quickens.
Could it be? One of the old lines? A descendant of those bound to me by the veil? Or… something else? A relic from the forgotten bloodlines that slipped through the cracks of history?
I step closer, my boots silent on the worn stone. Her gaze never falters.
"Arthur," she says softly, with an accent that dances between forgotten dialects. "The last immortal."
Her knowledge is not coincidence.The veil whispers to those worthy.Or… dangerous.
A thin smile curls my lips. "You know me, but I do not know you."
"Not yet," she replies. Her name — I will learn it. Her purpose — I will unveil it. Whether she brings companionship… or a dagger hidden in silk… time will reveal.
But for the first time in centuries, something stirs within me.Hope?Curiosity?A dangerous blend of both.
The purge is over. But the game… never ends.