The Seven Days of Blood

The Seven Days of Blood
The heavy doors of Blackthorne Castle groaned shut as the Blood Ascension countdown began. The Blood Moon would rise in seven nights’ time—the celestial harbinger of power, sacrifice, and transformation. Within the towering walls of Blackthorne Castle, the royal twins prepared for the ancient rite of Blood Ascension. For these seven days and seven nights, they were sealed away, nourished on mortal blood, and honed by solitude—both to steel them for the coming war and to unlock the depths of their vampiric might.

DAY ONE

Azrael reclined in her ceremonial coffin, its interior lined with crimson velvet. Her eyes remained closed, but her mind refused to rest. Draven. His scent, his warmth, his arms wrapped around her in the forest just days ago... it was all she could think of. But even love couldn’t halt what had to be done.

A heavy knock echoed through her chamber.

"Bring in the offering," commanded one of her handmaidens coldly.

Two guards dragged in a human girl, barely in her twenties, her feet scraping against the stone floor. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, and blood smeared her cheek from where she’d resisted. Azrael's eyes, closed in meditation, flickered open as the girl was dragged in against her will.

“P—pl—please just let me go, I beg you,” she cried. “I’ll do anything.”

Azrael's gaze remained impassive. With a swift motion, she rose, her movements graceful yet predatory. The second the girl saw Azrael rise from the coffin, the girl began screaming.

“No! Please! I—I promise I’ll do anything, I was just—I was just in the village—!”

Azrael stood tall, eyes gold and blazing, her body ethereal in the candlelight. She hadn’t fed since before the isolation began. Her hunger was a monster clawing inside her chest. She approached the girl, her fangs descending as she whispered,

"You were chosen," Azrael said simply, her voice devoid of emotion. "This is the most honorable death you could ever have. Your sacrifice will ensure the strength of my kind.”

The girl tried to flee, but the guards shoved her forward. She fell to her knees, sobbing. Azrael crouched slowly in front of her, her sharp nails lifting the girl's chin. Her expression remained unreadable, but her fangs lengthened as her mouth lowered to the girl’s throat.

“No—no, please—!”

Her screams were cut short. Azrael sank her fangs into her carotid artery, and the blood exploded into her mouth like warm honeyed wine. The girl convulsed in Azrael’s arms, her fingernails digging into the vampire’s arms in a last, desperate effort to escape. Azrael didn’t stop until every drop was drained.

When she was finished, she let the lifeless body collapse in a heap, her lips red and glistening. She turned without a word, climbed back into the coffin, and closed her eyes once more.

Meanwhile, In Raphael’s Chamber

Raphael's sanctum was colder, darker. He had always preferred silence to ceremony.

His first offering was a man, physically older, muscular, and defiant.

“I won’t beg,” the man spat, eyes wild. “Kill me if you must, but I’ll curse your name and pray you burn in hell.”

Raphael didn’t respond. He simply lunged.

The man fought back. He punched Raphael hard across the jaw, drawing blood. The vampire grinned, licking it from his lips.

“Good,” Raphael murmured. “Make room for me in hell, I'll meet you after an eternity.”

They fell into a savage struggle, the human yelling, thrashing, clawing, even managing to tear into Raphael’s shoulder with a blade hidden in his boot.

Raphael only laughed.

“You really thought that would save you?”

He shoved the man to the ground, straddled him, and with a swift bite, tore his throat open. The blood flooded his mouth, coating his teeth, spilling down his chin. The man’s body spasmed beneath him before falling still.

Breathing heavy, Raphael wiped his mouth and returned to his coffin.

DAY TWO THROUGH FIVE

Three times a day, the guards delivered victims—men, women, sometimes even lovers dragged in together.

Azrael was the most ruthless on the third day.

They brought her a young couple—both screaming, holding hands even as they were forced apart. Azrael chose the woman. The man begged, pleaded, even offered his own life in her place.

Azrael didn’t listen. She drained the woman before the man's eyes, then when he lunged at her in fury, she killed him too—without feeding—ripping out his heart and letting it thud to the floor like discarded meat.

Each day her coffin welcomed her with new warmth pulsing in her veins and new horrors weighing on her mind. The more she fed, the more she hated herself. But she knew the price of power was blood—and survival.

Raphael fared no better. On Day Four, he was brought a young man who reminded him of Cyrus. Same emerald eyes, same dark brown hair, similar lips and a similar jawline.

He paused before feeding. The man looked up at him, shaking. “Please I beg you—spare me,” he whispered. “I’m not ready to die.”

For the first time in years, Raphael hesitated. But the hunger was louder than mercy.

He fed.

IN THE BLACKTHORNE COURTYARD

While the twins fed in the shadows, Blackthorne's army braced for war under the moonlight.

Armored vampires clashed swords in drills, their crimson capes flaring with each strike. Warlocks reinforced their silver weapons with magic, carving runes into their silver blades that hissed with ancient power. Blood-fed warbeasts were chained in the lower yards, trained to be unleashed during battle.

Lord Commander Elijah oversaw it all, barking orders.

“Double the warding runes along the southern wall! I want the shadowwalkers positioned at every watchtower!”

Above it all, King Valerion stood atop the battlements, his red eyes watching the preparations with a cold detachment. The fires of war had been lit, and now he would see them burn the world if needed.

DAY SIX

Azrael no longer wept between feedings. Her empathy was buried beneath the gallons of blood she had consumed.

When they brought her a young child by mistake—barely twelve, sobbing for his mother—Azrael’s fangs extended on instinct.

But she stopped.

“I won’t,” she whispered.

Her handmaiden looked horrified. “Princess, the ritual—”

“Bring me someone else. I won’t feed on innocent children.”

The child was dragged away, but Azrael remained shaken.

DAY SEVEN

The final day came heavy with dread.

Azrael lay motionless in her coffin, eyes closed, lips dry. Her last victim was still warm in the corner, eyes wide and lifeless.

Outside, the sky shifted to blood. The Blood Moon had risen.

She didn’t realize the passage of time until the lid of her coffin creaked open.

Four handmaidens stood above her, solemn and pale.

“It’s time, Princess.”

Azrael blinked, adjusting to the light streaming through the stained-glass window. The moon’s crimson light poured into the chamber like liquid fire.

She sat up slowly, her body heavier, her veins burning with the blood of dozens.

From the corridor beyond, the tolling of the obsidian bell began.

It was time for the Ascension.