Chapter 1
1229words
"No." Cathy sighed, explaining for the third time. "He's just a delivery guy working for a living."
"Working for a living?" Alaric frowned. "A serf?"
"...Can't you stop using medieval thinking to understand the 21st century?" Cathy rubbed her temples. "Look, he delivers food, you pay him. Simple transaction."
Alaric pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Ah, I see. Like a mercenary."
"Close enough." Cathy gave up trying to correct him. She opened a Sichuan restaurant app and tapped on a Kung Pao Chicken combo. "See this? It's called 'cash back for good reviews.'"
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Cash back? Some form of blood ritual?"
"What?"
"You give a good review, he returns cash." Alaric analyzed gravely, "In vampire tradition, this resembles an 'equivalent exchange contract.' An ancient ritual, typically performed under a full moon..."
"Stop, stop, stop!" Cathy fought back a laugh. "It's just marketing! They give you back barely enough for a bottle of water if you leave a good review."
Alaric fell silent, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"Money for... water?" he finally said, voice thick with disbelief. "Humans would compromise their integrity for mere dollars?"
"...Well, when you put it that way, it does sound pathetic." Cathy sighed. "Welcome to modern capitalism."
"No, I don't understand." Alaric shook his head firmly. "In my time, honesty was the cornerstone of nobility. For a mere handful of gold..."
"It's fifty pence!!"
"...to distort truth would bring disgrace to the Ashford name."
Cathy bit her lip, fighting back laughter at the vampire's self-righteous expression.
"Fine, Sir Noble." She waved dismissively. "Let's forget the cash back. Just consider it charity and leave five stars, okay?"
"If the food truly merits five stars, I shall award them." Alaric straightened his shoulders. "The Ashford family does not deal in falsehoods."
Cathy rolled her eyes and hit "Submit Order."
She turned to face the vampire lord perched awkwardly on her cheap folding chair and took a deep breath.
"Alright, enough chitchat." She crossed her arms. "Let's get down to business. You want me to write a prophecy—how exactly am I supposed to do that?"
Alaric reached inside his coat and produced a notebook. Its parchment cover bore gold-embossed patterns at the corners—clearly an antique worth a small fortune.
He flipped to a specific page and handed it to Cathy.
"These are Seraphina's known movements thus far," he said. "I need you to predict her next move based on this intelligence."
Cathy took the notebook and squinted at the page.
The entire page was filled with flowing cursive script. Each letter was penned with elegant precision, but she could barely make out ten words in total.
"Uh... dude, I flunked my history electives." She looked up with a helpless expression. "Could you translate this into modern English for me?"
Alaric blinked in surprise.
"You cannot read proper English?"
"Not when it looks like that!"
"Then how do you write?" Alaric looked genuinely confused. "The vampire dialogue in your stories perfectly captures 17th century aristocratic speech patterns."
Cathy's mouth twitched. "I copied those from period dramas, dude! I write web novels—who gives a damn about authentic Old English!"
Another awkward silence fell between them.
Finally, Alaric relented. He took back the notebook and verbally summarized Seraphina's activities.
Cathy listened intently, fingers flying across her keyboard as she organized the information.
Ten minutes later, she paused and stared at her screen, brow furrowed in concentration.
"So," she summarized, "your cousin is publicly preparing for the family banquet while secretly rallying extremists from the other six vampire houses to stage a coup during the blood moon ritual to steal your inheritance rights."
"Precisely." Alaric nodded grimly. "But I don't know her specific strategy. She must have an ace up her sleeve—she wouldn't be this confident otherwise."
Cathy massaged her temples. "So you want me to write fiction that predicts what her secret weapon is?"
"Yes."
"Dude, I'm a web novelist, not a psychic!" Cathy threw up her hands. "How could I possibly—"
She froze mid-sentence.
A sudden inspiration struck her.
In a novel, what would this type of ambitious villain typically use as leverage?
Almost instinctively, she began to type.
"Seraphina's secret weapon is an ancient vampire artifact," she read aloud as she typed. "Legend says this relic can, during the blood moon ritual, forcibly strip the current heir of their bloodline authority and transfer it to the wielder. Its name is..."
She paused briefly, conjuring a suitably ominous name.
"...the Crimson Scepter."
After saving the document, she turned to gauge Alaric's reaction.
"That's it?" Alaric frowned. "How could you possibly know she possesses such an item?"
"I don't." Cathy shrugged. "I just followed standard villain tropes. You're the one who claimed I have prophetic abilities, so let's test that theory..."
Her voice trailed off.
Alaric's expression had transformed.
The change was subtle—pupils contracting to pinpoints, lips pressed into a bloodless line, the shadows around him darkening perceptibly.
"What did you say?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Crimson Scepter?"
Cathy's heart skipped a beat. "What's wrong? Did I say something weird?"
"...No." Alaric inhaled sharply. "You weren't wrong. That sacred artifact exists. It vanished during the vampire civil war three centuries ago—all houses presumed it destroyed."
Cathy stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Wait." She stammered. "Are you saying this name I pulled out of thin air is real?"
"Not only is it real," Alaric fixed her with an intense gaze, "but if Seraphina truly has found it, her coup will almost certainly succeed."
Cathy's hands began to tremble.
This couldn't be happening.
She'd invented a cool-sounding artifact on a whim—how could it possibly...
"I don't believe it," she whispered. "It has to be coincidence."
"Then continue writing," Alaric urged, leaning forward. "Detail how she plans to use the scepter—be as specific as possible."
Cathy swallowed hard and placed her trembling fingers back on the keyboard.
This time, her fingers felt leaden.
She stared at the blank document, her thoughts scattered. That first "prophecy" had already rattled her—now being asked to continue, she had no idea what to invent next.
"I..." she began hesitantly.
The doorbell chimed.
"Delivery!" called a voice from outside. "Your food's here!"
Cathy exhaled in relief and stood to answer the door.
As she moved toward the door, Alaric materialized before her, yanking her behind him.
"Wait." His voice dropped to a growl, eyes blazing crimson. "Danger approaches."
"What danger?" Cathy asked, bewildered. "It's just the delivery guy!"
"No." Alaric's gaze fixed on the door. "This one reeks of silver."
Alarm bells clanged in Cathy's mind.
Silver—according to her own novel's lore—was standard equipment for vampire hunters.
With shaking hands, she pulled out her phone and opened the delivery app to check the order.
The driver's profile showed a young man in a baseball cap.
He looked eerily similar to her editor Claude—whose signature accessory was, coincidentally, a baseball cap.
"Shit." Cathy hissed through clenched teeth.
Another knock rattled the door.
"Cathy?" Claude's familiar voice called through. "I saw you ordered takeout, and since I'm moonlighting as a delivery driver, I grabbed the order. Open up."
Cathy and Alaric exchanged alarmed glances.
Then she felt a warm trickle in her nose.
She touched it—her fingertips came away red with blood.
