The low growl of engines and the grind of heavy treads against stone filled the air around his unconscious body. Three massive armored vehicles advanced down the road in tight formation, their reinforced hulls scarred and worn from long travel. These were no ordinary transports. Thick plating covered their sides, and their frames were built for war, not comfort. Black banners were fixed to their exteriors, each marked with stark white lettering in a language unknown to these lands.

  Idris lay directly in their path.

  The lead vehicle slowed first, its engine dropping to a throaty idle as it came to a halt. The two behind it followed suit, metal clanking as brakes locked and dust billowed up around their armored forms. A hatch on the front vehicle hissed open.

  The commander stepped out. He wore a white robe bound tightly at the waist, a matching head wrap shielding his face from the dust of the road. Over the cloth sat heavy armor. His gaze swept the road before him as he raised a hand, signaling the others to hold position.

  His hand rested on the hilt of a curved blade at his hip as he moved toward Idris, slow and deliberate. He shifted his stance as he advanced, angling his body to watch for movement, for threats, for deception.

  He gestured sharply. Another hatch opened on the second vehicle, and another dropped down. Taller, leaner, dark-skinned, dressed in the same white and steel. A long spear was secured across his back as he fell into step beside the first man, eyes fixed on the unmoving figure ahead. The two of them stared at the body intensely. They knew better than to dismiss anything they come across in these lands.

  The tall one, Ramza, stopped first.

  He crouched beside the fallen body, spear still strapped to his back, one hand hovering near the pistol at his thigh. His eyes narrowed as he studied Idris’s face. It was too still, too pale, untouched by the road’s dust despite lying in it. He brushed two fingers near Idris’s neck, not quite touching skin.

  “No breath,” Ramza murmured.

  The Commander stopped a step behind him. His grip tightened on the curved blade. “Dead?”

  Ramza shook his head slowly. “No.” He leaned closer, then stiffened. “It’s just really slow… even the pulse is slow. It’s Cold. Not the cold of death. The cold of something that does not need warmth.”

  The Commander cursed under his breath. He unsheathed his sword halfway, the metal whispering free. “Move aside.”

  Ramza rose, stepping back. The Commander knelt now, forcing Idris’s chin upward. When the light struck his mouth, it caught on ivory points just visible behind parted lips.

  Silence fell.

  “A vampire,” Ramza said flatly.

  The Commander drew his blade fully. “Then we put it out of its misery.”

  He raised the sword—

  “Stop.”

  The voice came from inside the middle vehicle.

  A woman's. Calm. Unmistakably commanding.

  The Commander froze mid-motion. Ramza turned sharply toward the vehicle, eyes wide. The armored transport remained sealed, its engine idling low, but faint movement could be heard within. Soft murmurs, overlapping whispers that never quite formed words.

  The Commander straightened. “Princess, this is—”

  “Not yet,” the woman’s voice said, firm but restrained.

  The whispers grew louder for a moment, brushing against the air like distant breath. Then another voice joined them, deeper, older, weighted with authority.

  “The Princess commands,” the man said. “You will shelter him.”

  Ramza’s jaw tightened. “What? I mean…,” he said, keeping his voice even, “he is a vampire. Unconscious or not, this is reckless.”

  The Commander sheathed his blade with visible restraint. “We should neutralize him now. Before nightfall.”

  A pause.

  Then the older man spoke again. “Her Highness assures you he means no harm.”

  Ramza let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Assurance does not change blood.”

  “They do when they come from her,” the voice replied.

  Another silence followed. It was thick, uncomfortable.

  The Commander glanced at Idris once more, then toward the sealed vehicle. “And if he wakes hungry?”

  “He will not,” the woman said. “I swear it.”

  Ramza’s eyes flicked back to Idris. “You’re asking us to bring a monster into our convoy.”

  “I am ordering you to,” the Princess answered.

  The whispers subsided, as if the decision itself had silenced them.

  The older man spoke one final time. “Prepare a containment berth inside the vehicle. Sun-shielded. Guarded at all times. If he stirs, report immediately.”

  The channel closed. The engines hummed on, indifferent.

  Ramza exhaled slowly. “This is a mistake. Especially since they are following us still. What happens if we get ambushed?”

  “We can think of that while we’re moving,” the Commander said. He nodded toward Idris. “Lift him. Carefully.”

  Ramza hesitated, then moved. As his hands touched Idris’s cold form, something unseen seemed to shift beneath the stillness, an almost imperceptible tension, like a blade drawn just short of striking.

  Unaware.

  Or pretending to be.

  They laid him on a reinforced restraint slab bolted to the floor. Steel bands locked around his wrists, ankles, and chest, runes etched shallow into the metal where light could strike them. Sun-shields slid into place overhead, flooding the compartment with a muted, artificial glow meant to keep anything unwelcome uncomfortable but contained.

  Idris did not react.

  No hiss. No flinch. Not even a twitch.

  That unsettled Ramza more than resistance ever could have.

  The convoy rolled on.

  Inside the lead vehicle, the Commander stood near the open interior hatch, watching the road ahead through a narrow viewport. Ramza leaned against the bulkhead opposite him, eyes distant. The engines’ low growl filled the silence between them for a long stretch.

  “He should be writhing by now,” Ramza said at last.

  The Commander didn’t turn. “Youre right, it is odd that he isn’t affected.”

  “I’ve seen vampires restrained before,” Ramza continued. “They fight it. Even unconscious, there’s instinct. Muscle tension. Rage. Hunger.” He shook his head. “This one though. It’s like there’s nothing.”

  The Commander glanced back briefly. “You think he’s faking?”

  Ramza considered it. “If he is, then he’s better than any I’ve encountered.” A pause. “But no. I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because even elders react to light,” Ramza said. “Not like pain… like irritation. This one didn’t even acknowledge it.”

  The Commander turned fully now. “You’re saying he’s stronger than an elder?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “I’m saying something is wrong.”

  That earned a grim smile. “That’s not comforting.”

  Ramza pushed off the wall and paced once, restless.

  The Commander folded his arms. “Could be starvation.”

  “No,” Ramza said immediately. “Starved ones are even more volatile. They cling to sensations even.”

  The engines hit a rough patch of road. The vehicle shuddered. Still, no report from the containment berth. No movement. No alarms.

  The Commander exhaled slowly. “And the Princess swears he means no harm.”

  Ramza snorted quietly. “I can’t believe this. It’s like her and her father have gone mad.”

  “Careful,” the Commander warned, though without heat.

  Ramza inclined his head slightly. “I trust her judgment. I just don’t understand it this time.” He hesitated, then said the thing that had been sitting heavy in his chest. “Whatever he is, he’s not like the others. Not feral. Not cursed in the same way.”

  The Commander turned back to the road. “You think he chose this?”

  “I think,” Ramza said slowly, “that if he wakes… we won’t be the ones in control. Restraints or not. You know commander, I should be asking you these questions.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  ***

  The convoy pressed on.

  No alarms. No movement reports. No screams.

  Eventually, even the engines’ constant growl couldn’t mask how wrong that felt.

  Ramza stood watch outside the containment berth, spear unstrapped now and resting against his shoulder. The reinforced door was sealed, rune-lines faintly glowing along its edges. Through the narrow observation slit, Idris lay exactly as he had been placed. Still, bound, eyes closed, chest barely rising.

  Something finally changed.

  It was so subtle Ramza almost missed it. Idris’s fingers twitched.

  Ramza straightened instantly, one hand lifting to the wall control. “Commander.”

  “I see it.”

  Idris’s head tilted a fraction to the side, as though listening to something only he could hear. Then his eyelids fluttered open.

  His eyes met the artificial light overhead. There was no panic in them. No hunger. Just confusion… and a deep, distant weariness.

  He blinked once. Slowly.

  The restraints clinked as he shifted his wrists, testing them with minimal pressure. The runes flared faintly in response. Idris paused, registering them.

  “Oh,” he murmured.

  His voice was hoarse, but calm.

  Ramza felt a chill crawl up his spine. “He’s awake.”

  The Commander tapped the intercom rune. “You are restrained,” he said, voice firm and measured. “Do not resist.”

  Idris turned his head toward the sound, eyes focusing on the observation slit in the vehicle. For a moment, his gaze sharpened, taking in the new vessel he found himself trapped in. The inside of the vehicle was completely metal. He was in its centre, in a circle carved from different runes. He could tell these runes were different however. They weren't magic. They reminded him of something dwarven. From one enclosure to the next.

  “I see,” Idris said. “That explains the headache.”

  Ramza exchanged a glance with the Commander. “He’s coherent.”

  “Unusual,” the Commander replied quietly. Then, louder, “State your name.”

  There was a pause. Idris seemed to think, as though the answer were buried under layers of dust.

  “…Idris,” he said at last.

  Ramza frowned. “You’re a vampire.”

  Idris’s brow creased. “Is that all you care about?”

  That earned a sharp look from both men.

  Another pause.

  Ramza broke it. “Do you know where you are?”

  Idris’s eyes drifted, taking in the metal walls, the hum beneath the floor. The clattering of the wheels against the ground from the outside “Inside a moving fortress it seems. I doubt it however because I didn’t know there were such things.”

  “No such things? An armored vehicle?”The Commander stiffened. “How? They’re everywhere.”

  Idris frowned slightly. His face was that of a lost child. “Everywhere?”

  Ramza tilted his head. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen an armored convoy before.”

  Idris considered the question, then gave a slow, careful nod. “Not like this. Not… alive.” His gaze traced the ceiling, following the vibration of the engines. “Your machines have a rhythm. Almost like breathing.”

  The Commander’s jaw set. “How long were you hiding, hmm bloodsucker?”

  Idris’s eyes returned to the slit. For the first time, something like uncertainty flickered across his face—but it vanished just as quickly. “Hiding? I haven’t been hiding.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Ramza said.

  “No,” Idris agreed gently. “It’s a courtesy.”

  The Commander exhaled through his nose, patience thinning. “Then let’s dispense with the courtesies. Why were you in an unconscious state when we found you?”

  Idris did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted inward, past metal, past the present entirely. When he spoke, it was quieter. “Because I was tired and that happened to be the spot my blood pressure decided to drop. What were you expecting? I was chasing some silly human and didn’t get my fill of blood?”

  “Convenient,” Ramza muttered.

  Idris’s lips twitched. “So I’ve heard.”

  The Commander leaned closer, voice sharpening. “Then answer this. Why does the Crown want you alive?”

  That got his attention.

  Idris’s eyes lifted, focusing fully now, like a blade being drawn halfway from its sheath. “The Crown?”

  “You were saved,” the Commander said. “Not staked. Not shot. Retrieved. Alive.” A beat. “By request.”

  Idris blinked once. “Request?”

  “From the Princess,” Ramza added.

  Silence.

  Idris stared at the ceiling, then at his bound hands. Slowly, a sound escaped him. Low at first. Breathless.

  A laugh.

  It grew, rough and incredulous, scraping against a throat unused to mirth. Idris turned his head to the side, eyes unfocused, as though seeing something far away.

  “The veiled woman?” he murmured. “Is she the princess?”

  Ramza stiffened. “You know her?”

  “Not really,” Idris said, still smiling faintly. “I just helped her pick a flower.”

  His laughter faded, replaced by something almost fond. Almost amused. “She saved me over that.”

  Ramza’s grip tightened on his spear, but not with pure anger. There was a baffled frustration there. “A flower,” he repeated, his voice flat. “You’re saying the Crown’s intervention, this whole secure transport, is because you played gardener for an afternoon?”

  Idris’s smile turned wry. “It was a very nice flower. She seemed to think it was important.”

  “And you just… helped?” The Commander’s tone was deeply skeptical.

  “I was bored,” Idris shrugged as much as the restraints allowed. “She was polite. It was a novel interaction. You don’t get many of those when people are usually screaming or throwing garlic.”

  Ramza pinched the bridge of his nose. “So we’re to believe you, a vampire, are getting a pardon for botany?”

  “Royal botany, don’t forget that part too,” Idris quipped, his dry tone laced with amusement. “Though, I’ll admit, this is a more enthusiastic review than I anticipated.” He jangled his manacles.

  “Watch your tone,” Ramza said, but the heat was leaving his voice, replaced by weary exasperation. “You’re here on her sufferance. Don’t act like you’ve won a prize.”

  “Aren’t I?” Idris challenged lightly, his eyes glinting. “I’m alive. You’re frustrated. It seems I’m ahead.” He leaned his head back, looking between the two soldiers. “The real question is: what does that make you? Royal escorts? Or glorified nannies for a fanged beast?”

  Ramza felt his cheek twitch. “We’re following orders.”

  “Ah, the noble refrain,” Idris sighed dramatically. “I’m sure it’s very comforting. It must just itch, though. Knowing you could end the potential threat right now. One clean strike.” He nodded toward Ramza’s spear. “But the pretty princess said ‘no.’ So you stand there, all duty and repressed instinct. It’s almost poetic.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself staked?” Ramza asked, though it came out more like genuine curiosity than a threat.

  “I’m just pointing out the absurdity of your situation,” Idris said. “I’m just the only one who seems to find it funny.”

  The Commander let out a long, slow breath. “Your humor is noted. And unhelpful.”

  “I have little else to offer at the moment,” Idris replied. “Except my continued, well-mannered non-violence. See? I’m a model prisoner. You could even say I’m… disarmed.” He wiggled his bound hands again, a flash of a real, sharp-toothed grin appearing.

  Ramza just stared at him, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a profound sense of surrealism. He was being teased by a vampire. A coherent, witty, infuriatingly calm vampire who was here because of a flower.

  “Just… be quiet,” Ramza finally said, turning to resume his post.

  “As you wish, noble nanny,” Idris’s voice followed, rich with playful mockery. “Do wake me for supper. I’d hate to miss the menu.”

  Ramza shook his head, turning his back to the slit to lean against the cold metal wall. “Unbelievable.”

  “A question, then, for my noble nannies.” He paused. “The world has clearly moved on. These machines… this metal that moves. How long has it been since the Mages shattered Darkthorn?”

  Ramza glanced at the Commander, who gave a slight, wary nod. It was common history.

  “Three centuries,” Ramza said, turning back. “Give or take a decade. The final Purge Wars ended around 312 years ago. Darkthorn’s ruins have been a dead zone for longer than that. Why?”

  Idris did not respond.

  He had gone perfectly still. All traces of his former amusement vanished, wiped clean as if by a sudden, cold wind. His eyes, fixed on the ceiling, widened slightly, the glowing irises seeming to swallow the dim light. His chest stilled for a heartbeat, then two, before resuming a shallower rhythm.

  “Three… centuries,” he repeated, the words a dry whisper. The faint, mocking smile was gone, replaced by a slackness of profound shock. He slowly turned his head to look at his own hands, bound in modern, rune-etched steel, then back at the stark metal ceiling of a world he clearly did not recognize.

  “I… see,” Idris said finally, but the words held no comprehension, only a dawning, staggering weight. All the clever banter, the taunts, the defiance, had been predicated on a understanding of the world that, in a single sentence, was proven utterly false.

  He closed his eyes, a deep line of concentration or pain etched between his brows. When he spoke again, his voice was low, stripped of all affect, meant only for himself, yet carried perfectly to the men outside.

  “A very long sleep, then.”

  The Commander and Ramza exchanged a new, even more confused glance. His earlier ignorance wasn’t an act. The convoy, the technology, the state of the world—it was all genuine news to him.