Long before mortals built their fragile empires, long before the stars dimmed under city lights, the world belonged to creatures that drank the lifeblood of men and called the moon their god. Vampires ruled the night, not as monsters, but as kings. And among the most feared and noble of these ancient bloodlines were the Ashcroft and Nagova clans. The feud between them was carved into history with fangs and flame.

The Ashcrofts were warlords, molded by pain and sharpened through conquest. Their lands sprawled across dead forests, storm-blasted coastlines, and stone cities that reeked of ash and iron. They fed openly on humans, built their throne from fear, and believed the world owed them its blood. There were no laws in Ashcroft, only order through dominance. A king who showed mercy did not deserve a crown.

The Nagovas, in contrast, ruled high in the mountains where silence ran deep and snow fell like prayer. They had long forsaken the chaos of their origin, choosing instead the path of restraint. Their palaces were temples. Their teachings sacred. They preached that to feed was not a right but a burden, and that true power lay in control. Humans, they claimed, were not prey but allies, or at the very least, creatures who deserved choice.

Their feud burned for centuries. Fields soaked red, heirs slaughtered before coronation, alliances broken by whisper and steel. Neither would fall. Neither would yield. Until now.

A summit was called under the full gaze of the moon in the ruins of an old neutral citadel. Both clans gathered for what elders naively titled "The First Night of Peace." Royal guards flanked the stone hall in clan colors—crimson and black for Ashcroft, silver and white for Nagova—as the air crackled with old magic and older hatred.

Proof Ashcroft, heir of his house, stood near an obsidian throne wearing no crown but radiating power. His posture was relaxed yet vigilant as he watched the proceedings, particularly focused when the Nagova heir entered. A shift rippled through the room as tension hummed like a drawn bow.

Elders spoke of unity with rehearsed speeches until Proof's voice cut through like poison: "Well, isn't this quaint. Enemies dressed like diplomats. I wonder how long the performance will last." He stepped forward with boots echoing against stone, tilting his head with mock curiosity toward his rival. "Tell me, do you sleep better knowing your ancestors are turning in their graves? Or do you simply not care?"

His cold laugh echoed. "I suppose this was always your way. Hide behind scriptures and smiles. Pretend mercy is strength. Let humans leash you, and call it progress. You and I both know this gathering is a farce." His voice dropped lower, directed solely at his rival. "You came here to play at peace while your people starve themselves of power. How pathetic."

Tensions escalated as elders from both clans interjected until High Seer Alvane of the Shadow Accord silenced everyone with warnings about the rising human threat. Yet Proof's gaze remained locked on his rival, hatred burning for the silence that seemed to control the room without speaking a word.