Prologue
The world remembers the year 1462 as the end of Dracula’s reign. The vampires remember it as the beginning of exile.
When Abraham Van Helsing drove his silver blade through the heart of the Dark Lord, the heavens did not sing, and the earth did not heal. It burned. For three nights, the sky wept ash. Blood ran in the rivers of Transylvania, mingling with the tears of creatures who could not die.
The last of the pure-blooded Houses — Noctis, Veyra, and Dravane — were hunted to the edge of extinction. Cities became tombs. Fire became holy. Humanity believed it had won.
But they were wrong.
In the shadows of that pyrrhic victory, Van Helsing struck a deal written not in ink, but in blood. The Truce of Obsidian: a covenant forged between mortal and immortal. The vampires would retreat beneath the earth and rule no more over mankind. In return, humanity would turn a blind eye to the ones who remained — those who fed discreetly, lived invisibly, and obeyed the new law of the night.
Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and fell. Empires turned to dust. But the Houses endured. Hidden in marble crypts and blackened palaces, they built a new order beneath the modern world — a monarchy carved from memory and fear.
At its center sat one throne.
King Azriel of House Noctis, first of his name, chosen by the ancient blood, crowned beneath a crimson eclipse. It was said the moon itself bled for him — the last true heir of the old line, the only vampire who could command both the noble and the feral. Under his reign, the Blood Court was born, and the Blood Guards — his immortal enforcers — kept the fragile peace.
Now, six centuries later, that peace trembles.
The vampires have forgotten their promise. The young-born vampires no longer bow to the old ways. And in the quiet corners of the world, whispers stir of a new hunt — not led by priests or hunters, but by something far older… something that remembered the night the sky burned.
The Truce is breaking. And when it does, the world will remember what it means to fear the dark.
Long before the world called him hunter, Abraham Van Helsing was a secret the heavens refused to name. He was born of two worlds — one of flesh, the other of wolf.
His father, a mortal scholar and warrior of the old faith, sought to understand the curse that turned men into beasts. His mother, a daughter of the Moon Goddess’s first pack, carried divine blood in her veins — a lineage that traced directly back to the Goddess herself. From their forbidden union came a child who was neither wholly human nor wholly wolf — the first true hybrid.
Abraham grew with the strength of a beast and the mind of a man. He could command both instinct and intellect, and it made him feared by all who crossed him. But his heart belonged to the Moon’s creation. He fell in love with Luna Draegor, the daughter of an Alpha King, born under a crescent moon and said to have been kissed by the Mood Goddess herself. She was a warrior and healer, fierce and radiant, and their bond was the kind that shook both realms — divine and mortal alike.
Together, they forged what the Moon Goddess would later call her living covenant. Their union sealed the balance between species, a sacred merging of the divine and the human. And when the Great War erupted — when Dracula’s legions rose against the living — it was Abraham Van Helsing who led humanity’s charge, his claws and mind united under divine wrath.
When the war ended and the vampires fell beneath his blade, the Moon Goddess descended upon him once more. Not to curse. To bless.
From that night forward, the Van Helsing bloodline bore her mark — a gift passed through generations. Those born of his line carried the Moon’s strength, the wolf’s spirit, and the human heart. They became the Black Wolves — divine guardians bound to protect the balance of night and day.
Centuries later, their descendants would bear a new name. A family forged in both fire and moonlight. The Black Wolf Pack.
They would be the Moon Goddess’s judgment and mankind’s last defense. And though the world has forgotten their sacred vow, one truth endures through blood and time:
When the night turns crimson, and the Truce begins to crack, the blood of Van Helsing will rise again.
Now the world has changed. But the blood remembers.
Centuries after the fall of Dracula, the Truce still stands — etched in blood, enforced by fear, upheld by the descendants of Abraham Van Helsing.
The Black Wolf Pack has become legend. The name Van Helsing no longer belongs to hunters in cloaks, but to a dynasty — the divine and the mortal merged into one unbroken line. From the highlands of Romania to the skyscrapers of New York, their crest commands respect, their power unchallenged.
The vampires call it oppression. The humans call it protection. The wolves call it duty.
Under the rule of Alpha Hunter Van Helsing, the Pack thrives as the most formidable supernatural force in existence. His dominion spans continents — from the hidden citadels of the Lycan Council to the shadowed cities of men. Every Pack bends the knee to his command. Every rogue is brought to heel.
The Moon Goddess’s light is said to still favor him. The world still fears him. Yet beneath that fear, a storm brews.
In the catacombs beneath Vienna, the vampire aristocracy festers — hungry, humiliated, and hollow from centuries of subservience. Once, they ruled the night; now, they crawl through it, forbidden from feeding freely, their ancient titles stripped by the accords their ancestors signed in defeat.
They whisper King Azriel’s name with reverence and hope, their loyalty to the Blood Court turning into quiet rebellion.
For them, the Truce is no longer peace — it is prison.
And though Hunter Van Helsin rules with strength and justice, even he cannot silence the hunger of an empire waiting to rise again.
The tenuous air thickens.
The Goddess grows silent.
The moonlight flickers, red at its edges.
The Truce of Obsidian has begun to fracture — not with armies, but with whispers. Assassinations cloaked as accidents. Vanished envoys. Fledgling uprisings. And in every shadow, a scent the wolves cannot trace — ancient, cold, familiar.
As the Blood Court sharpens its fangs, and humanity grows blind to the danger in their midst, the first prophecy comes to pass:
When the Moon bleeds, and the wolves howl at silence, the night shall remember its true king.
Hunter stands beneath that bleeding moon, his green eyes reflecting the crimson light — unknowing that the peace his ancestors died to build is already unraveling.
The world that once bowed to the wolves is stirring again. And this time, the dark does not plan to be tamed.
