Blood Awakening: The Strongest Hybrid and His Vampire Bride

A glass of deep red wine shimmered in the moonlight of a dark mansion.

Alucard swilled the glass slowly, with a faint smile. He watched the thick liquid cling to the sides before flowing back to the centre, creating small ripples through the wine.

Of course, this wasn't regular wine, no.

The vintage came from an old bloodletting ritual from the southern continent. Thirteen virgins who had just come of age, slowly squeezed, crushed underfoot like grapes. Aged over twenty years with a delicate, sharp and sweet metallic taste on the tip of his tongue.

Alucard rocked in his chair, with an arm resting against the chair's arm. The chair squeaked, with each movement as its polished mahogany shimmering in the light.

He hadn't spoken in half an hour.

Mikaela stood by the far window, arms folded, watching the snowfall begin outside. Her tail twitched once, the only sign she was growing impatient.

When he finally chuckled, it came softly. Like someone had whispered a joke only he understood.

"…You're smiling again," she said without turning.

"I am," Alucard replied. "Rare, isn't it?"

She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowed. "Did something happen?"

He took a sip before answering. His eyes didn't leave the fire.

"The Bone Saints are gone."

Mikaela's brow furrowed. "Destroyed?"

"Gone," he said again. "Wiped out. Not a scream. Not a flame. Not even ash left for the priests to scrape."

A beat passed. Then she turned fully.

"By who?"

Alucard didn't answer immediately. He set the glass down beside him and picked up the folded parchment that had arrived not long before. It bore the scent of old wards and frightened couriers. Unsealed. Sloppy.

"The chamber was closed. Only two guards at the stairs. Both were found broken, but reports mentioned that dog Drago appeared near the area several times. So..."

Mikaela frowned.

"You think it was him?"

"I know it was."

He leaned back in the chair again with both hands folded.

"Alaric's always been loyal to that old man, not strength or money. He tolerated us while we held the leash. But the moment that leash loosened…"

His smile widened.

"…he slipped it."

"But why now?" Mikaela asked, voice lower. "Why Viktor? He's already broken."

Alucard looked up at her for the first time in minutes.

"Because blood remembers," he said simply. "Because loyalty isn't logic—it's memory. Because even an old wolf stinking of rot still smells like home to the right beast."

She didn't respond.

He picked up the wine again, swirling it once more.

"And if Alaric's turned…" he went on, "that means the boy is close. Close enough for them to risk it. Close enough for him to matter."

"The Young Wolf... Nikolai?"

Alucard's smile faded slightly, but his eyes gleamed.

"Ah, so you've been listening."

Mikaela stepped closer to the fire. The orange glow made her pale skin look like polished bone. "He's not strong enough to challenge us yet."

"No," Alucard agreed, raising his glass again. "But he is growing much faster than I had anticipated, and a vicious dog that cannot be tamed should be put down."

He drank.

"And sometimes, those are the ones that become problems."

Alucard understood Mikaela and why her face looked so troubled, and so he couldn't help but poke her wound.

"Are you worried because he's her son?"

"!!"

Mikaela couldn't deny it... Her voice locked in her throat as she tried, but she couldn't.

Despite being on the opposite side now, she couldn't forget her friend and struggled to treat her son in the same way.

"F-Forgive me... my love."

Mikaela dropped her gaze, her hand curling near her chest as if trying to press something back inside herself. Her usual cold expression showed a hint of warmth.

Alucard watched her with a kind of passive indulgence. The same way one might watch a fire slowly catch.

"You've never been good at hiding guilt, Mikaela."

She didn't answer. Not right away.

"I'm not conflicted," she said at last, though her voice lacked weight. "I serve you. I serve the Nosferatu."

"And yet," Alucard murmured, "you flinch when I mention her... and you stutter when I name him."

Mikaela's changes amused him—the way she became more animated and human pleased him. He found her stunned, a work of art. His art.

"You were close to her," he continued. "Too close. But I allowed it. You were loyal then."

"I am loyal."

"Mm," he hummed, unconvinced. "And yet… you're hesitating at the thought of killing a child who holds her eyes."

Mikaela's eyes narrowed. "He's not a child anymore."

Alucard chuckled.

"Doesn't that make everything I do fine, then?"

He rose from the chair, slow, deliberate. Every movement was smooth, like he didn't have bones beneath his skin—just controlled muscle.

And approached her with a smile, a dark smile.

"Would you hesitate?"

His voice was low, charming and yet stern. "What if I told you to bring me his head?"

Mikaela stood her ground, but her hands clenched. "If you command it…"

"No. Not if I command it," he cut in softly. "If I asked you… as your love."

She swallowed.

The fire snapped behind them.

Alucard slipped closer, his hands stroking her cold arms as he narrowed his eyes and curled his lips.

"There's a part of you..."

"That wants to see him win."

She shook her head, as if desperate to remove such thoughts, or even the doubt.

"N-No, you're wrong!"

He said nothing. Just watched her, lips curling slightly at the edges.

Then he turned away, returning to his chair as if nothing had happened at all.

"Send someone to confirm it," he said casually. "If Drago has betrayed us, I want the ones who protected him brought in first. Quietly. I want names."

"And if Nikolai comes?" she asked, voice lower now.

Alucard picked up his glass again.

"Then we let him come."

He took a long sip.

"And we show him what happens when little wolves think they're ready for the mountain."

The firelight danced against the polished floor as Mikaela stood frozen in place, her breath shallow and her throat tight.

She hated that he was right.

There was a part of her—a small, wounded, infuriating piece—that couldn't forget the way she used to sit beside that woman. Her friend. Her sister-in-arms. Her queen.

And now her son—her son—walked in the shadows of war, and she was expected to be the hand that severed his rise.

She couldn't speak.

Not truthfully.

Not here.

Alucard didn't seem to care. He leaned back into his chair once more, long legs crossed, glass in hand. The very picture of leisure.

"Fear not," he said lightly. "I won't make you kill him. Not yet."

He swirled the bloodwine again, slow and unbothered.

"But when the time comes, Mikaela… and he stands before us, fangs bared and eyes full of fire…"

He took a sip.

"…you'll have to choose."

Her beloved man's words cut through her like a knife, yet she couldn't bring herself to complain or speak out. The memories of Elizabeth before Mikaela died... a sweet time when she could ignore her fate and future.

Mikaela's answer never came.

She knew.

They both knew.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Quiet, soft, gentle—masking the violence to come.

Alucard's eyes watched his wife like a hawk, always waiting for her to speak, to react.

Even if she went against him now, he didn't get angry or jealous.

His voice dropped, more to himself than to her:

"The blood remembers...

But blood must also burn."

A small pop from the fire was the only reply.

He set the empty glass down on the side table with a soft clink.

"Send the hounds. I want to know if he's truly moving. And if he is… We'll prepare a proper welcome."

This time Mikaela bowed without any issue, her lips parted as if to complain, but nothing came out.

Instead, she left the room in silence, giving a single look to Alucard before nodding.

Alucard didn't watch her go, instead, his eyes seemed to be aflame.

As the heavy doors shut, a calming silence returned, but it wasn't empty.

Alucard rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing beneath his chin with a strange expression.

For a long moment, he simply listened. Not to sound, but to stillness—the kind that followed hesitation, the kind that always came before war.

"She'll break eventually," he murmured.

His fingers tapped once, twice, against his knuckles.

"She always did."

He rose from his seat again, this time slower, stretching slightly as if waking from a long nap. His coat fell behind him in a gentle wave as he walked toward the tall window. Rain was lashing against the corners of the glass.

The moon above looked tired, half-full and pale. Below, the land stretched in silence.

"Come then, little wolf," he whispered. "Show me your fangs."

He pressed one palm flat to the window. The glass fogged where his breath touched it.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:

"I wonder which one of them you'll sacrifice first."

And with that, he turned back toward the fire.

Still with a smile, calmly waiting for everything to mature, like the wine in his hand.