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Victory bore a bitter crown. Alaric’s men rejoiced, but each cheer drew the hunger tighter around his throat. Children’s laughter warmed him—and then left a cold ache as if a distant memory had been stolen. Worse, Eremon’s bargains were not finished. Night granted him dominion over creatures of shadow, but every dusk it demanded a tribute: a promise unpaid in daylight. The more he fed the hunger in secrecy—on wolves, traitors, the corrupt—the more his face etched into something regal and terrible. Mortals began to whisper of a lord with skin like moonlight and a gaze that peeled lies off the honest. Mothers barred doors with iron nails and prayers; the very priests who once blessed the fields now crossed themselves when his shadow fell upon the altar.

Light left him first; then the need for waking. He rose from the stone an hour later, or perhaps a century—time measured poorly beneath bargains. Where his heart should have been, something else kept rhythm: a hunger that tasted of night and moonlight. He swore to use it only to protect Durnhelm. dracula untold 2 filmyzilla verified

The chapel smelled of mold and old prayers. The figure that rose from the altar was not wholly human: too tall, too thin, with eyes like pale coins and teeth that shone like bone. It named itself Eremon and spoke of power in lilting, patient tones. For the price of his bloodline, it would grant Alaric strength enough to hold a valley against an empire. The rite asked for a crown, not of gold, but of memory—the name that bound him to mortal mercy. Alaric gave it without flinching. Victory bore a bitter crown

When dawn crested the hills, the men of the valley found their prince standing on the chapel steps, pale but whole. He smiled in a way that warmed the heart and chest of his people; none suspected the emptiness beneath. Over the years, the tales that grew around Durnhelm were of a ruler who kept invaders at bay with uncanny ferocity and mercy where he could afford it. In taverns, folk would argue if the Night Warden was man, monster, or myth. Children would dare each other to whistle at midnight beneath the bridge and say his name like a charm. Worse, Eremon’s bargains were not finished