Ancestral Lineage

The hall was deathly silent.

Lord Baelrick, the dwarf noble who had first opposed Ethan, swallowed hard, his red horns trembling as he slowly stood.

"...We acknowledge the Patriarch's supremacy," he rasped, his earlier arrogance shattered.

One by one, the other dissenters followed suit. Dwarves and vampires alike bowed their heads, a full acknowledgment of Ethan's undeniable rule.

Even the clan elders, those who had guided the Smith lineage for centuries, had no choice but to submit.

Vlad's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. As expected.

Seraphina, watching from the side, smirked. That's my grandson.

Christel stood still, untouched by the waves of power.

Her green eyes remained blank, yet there was something beneath them—a quiet conflict.

"Ethan," she spoke, her voice flat but edged with something unspoken. "This is not about your will. It is about mine."

Ethan turned to her, his golden eyes narrowing slightly.

"I do not desire this," she said, looking up at him. "But I have no choice. This is my punishment. I was given to you, whether you accept it or not."

Ethan exhaled, his wings folding behind him.

He hated this.

Hated the way she spoke as if she were some object, some offering made on a silver platter.

His fists clenched.

'This is ridiculous,' he muttered. 'You are not some bargaining chip.'

Christel didn't respond.

Ivar, now kneeling, dared to speak again. "Patriarch… If you refuse her, it will be taken as an insult to the elders. It will create division. Do you really want that so soon after taking your position?"

Ethan's jaw tightened.

This wasn't about choice. It was a power play—one meant to test him, to force his hand, to see if he could truly act as Patriarch.

He would not give them the satisfaction of thinking they had won.

He looked at Christel, his gaze softening.

'Do you truly have no say in this?' he asked her through telepathy.

She hesitated before answering. 'No. It was decided before I even walked into this hall.'

Ethan exhaled through his nose.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

Then—

He turned back to Ivar, his expression now neutral.

'I accept Christel,' he said, his tone making it clear he was only doing so for political reasons.

Ivar's lips curled into a small smirk.

'But,' Ethan continued, his golden eyes glinting, 'I will decide how she is treated. You do not dictate what she means to me.'

Ivar's smirk twitched.

Ethan stepped forward and reached for Christel's hand.

But instead of a romantic gesture, it was a statement—one not of possession, but of protection.

Christel blinked, startled, her fingers twitching in his grasp.

'You are not a prisoner,' Ethan whispered in her mind. 'I will find a way to fix this.'

For the first time, her green eyes flickered with something close to emotion.

A spark of hope.

Meanwhile…

Far from the Smith Clan's grand hall, in the middle of a devastated battlefield, Jerry and Reginald were losing.

The Sanguine Harpy circled above, her black-crimson wings casting a nightmarish shadow over the blood-soaked ground.

Jerry, panting, wiped the crimson streak from his lips, his mismatched red and silver eyes flashing with frustration.

Reginald, in his fox form, snarled, his fur matted with his own blood. His shoulder wound burned as the harpy's venom spread through his veins.

They had underestimated her.

She was too fast.

Too deadly.

"Shit," Jerry muttered, gripping his silver blade tighter. "At this rate—"

A chilling wind howled through the ruins.

The harpy suddenly stopped midair, tilting her head as if hearing something.

Then—

She smiled.

A twisted, hungry smile.

Jerry's eyes widened.

Something was coming.

Something worse.

And then—

...

Back in the assembly, the Smith clan members sat on beautifully cushioned chairs arranged in neat rows, all facing the massive stage at the front. The hall buzzed with hushed murmurs and quiet speculation as they awaited the final results of the Patriarch test.

Confusion rippled through the gathered dwarves and vampires as they noticed something unusual—the arrangement of seats on the stage had changed.

Traditionally, the leaders of the clan had their designated positions, but now, more seats were being added. This was not the norm, and it only deepened the uncertainty among the audience.

On the left side of the stage stood a grand, ornately carved door, its intricate metalwork glinting under the hall's dim lighting. Behind that door was the chamber where Ethan and the others were currently gathered.

It had been closed for thirty minutes now.

That was far longer than expected.

Most of the time, the position of Patriarch was chosen at birth, dictated by bloodline and tradition. It had been assumed that Ethan, being the son of the Princess, would simply be confirmed without much ceremony.

Yet now…

Something was different.

The hushed conversations grew louder.

"I heard he has dragon lineage..."

"How is that even possible? The princess didn't copulate with a dragon."

"I'm just telling you what I heard. Besides, you saw him, right? He looks more dragon than a dwarf."

"But we can all feel the connection. Both vampire and dwarf. There's no doubt about that."

"That's the confusing part."

"Doesn't that mean he's a hybrid? The first true hybrid?"

"It's possible..."

A rough voice cut in. "I don't care if he's even a demon. I'm tired of hiding like some gecko. It's high time we were respected and feared, like in the old days."

"You're right. It's frustrating, to say the least."

A sudden voice, playful and teasing, interrupted the serious tone.

"Do you think he'll find me attractive?"

Silence.

Then someone scoffed. "Didn't you see the women by his side? He's perfectly straight."

"I'm a woman, Gary!"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"You look like a damn bulldozer."

"This fucker!"

Suddenly, the hall fell into a hushed silence as someone walked in from the back.

The figure was feminine but frail—her long green hair cascaded to the floor, completely covering her face, and concealing her eyes. Her skin, unnaturally pale, was even paler than the vampires, yet it carried a sickly, almost translucent hue. Dirty and unkempt, she looked completely out of place among the noble gathering.

Her robes, once perhaps elegant, were now grey and tattered, hanging loosely off her thin frame. Bruises marred the exposed skin beneath the fabric, something unheard of for someone with vampiric blood. She was too slim, practically skeletal, like a malnourished child.

Each step she took was unsteady, weak—she limped heavily, her movements slow and labored.

She didn't look at anyone.

Instead, she made her way toward the farthest row of wooden chairs, seating herself at the very back, as if trying to disappear from sight.

But the clan members had already noticed her.

Whispers, sharp and venomous, slithered through the silence.

"Look, it's the vampire with a blood allergy."

"Such a weirdo. I wonder why she's even still here. They should've killed her the moment they found out."

"Just her presence pollutes the air. I can barely breathe properly."

"Who even birthed such a disgrace?"

The whispers grew louder, laced with mockery and disgust.

"She shouldn't even exist. A vampire who can't drink blood? What a joke."

"Maybe she's not even a real vampire. Probably some half-breed mistake that should've been drowned at birth."

"She looks like a corpse. No, worse—at least corpses don't embarrass their clans."

"Disgusting. Just looking at her makes my appetite vanish."

"She should just do us all a favor and disappear."

"Pathetic creature. No strength, no power, nothing but an eyesore."

"Even the weakest humans are more useful than her."

A snicker followed.
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"Maybe that's why she hides her face. Even she's ashamed of what she is."

Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, some sneering openly while others simply looked away in disdain, as if she were a stain on the noble gathering—something dirty that didn't belong.

Elaine had always been treated this way, ever since she turned twelve. Now, nearly forty-two years old, she was nothing but a shadow within her own clan. To humans, she would be considered old, but among vampires and dwarves—especially those of the Smith clan—she was still in her youth. Yet, unlike others of her generation, she held no status, no respect. She was an outcast. A weakling. A curse that refused to die.

Why her? How had her life become this way? Only her missing parents might have known the answer. But they were long gone. Thirty years had passed since they disappeared on an expedition, leaving nothing behind. No clues, no messages, nothing. Declared dead, just like the last shred of dignity she once had.

Her downfall had been swift and brutal. When it was discovered that she had a blood allergy—an unforgivable weakness for a vampire—everything crumbled. She lost her title as the Maiden of the Chief Elder, stripped of her rank and any privileges she once held. From then on, she was nothing more than a tool, a disposable thing that the clan could use and discard at will.

And yet, there was one mercy in her suffering. She had been spared from being forced into anything of a sexual nature, a fate that could have broken even her hollowed-out soul. But that was the only kindness she had ever known. Everything else was torment.

She had tried to end it more times than she could count. Cutting, drowning, poison—none of it worked. It was as if fate refused to let her die, forcing her to endure humiliation after humiliation. Immortal. That was what she was. A being cursed to live, but never truly exist.

One thousand and three. That was how many times she had attempted to take her own life. And she would have tried a thousand more if not for the announcement.

A new patriarch.

For the first time in decades, a spark of something unfamiliar stirred within her. Hope? It felt foreign, almost painful, but it was there. Maybe this new patriarch would be different. Maybe—just maybe—things would change.

The hall was still filled with whispers and quiet laughter at her expense, but she barely heard them now. Her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes, hidden behind the curtain of green hair, fixated on the grand stage.

A heavy thud echoed. Then another.

The murmurs died down.

All attention turned forward.

With an eerie slowness, the grand doors on the stage creaked open.