Prince of Crows

As the sun descended towards the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the sprawling grounds of the Rook Manor, Branwen and I returned to the ancestral home, weary but content after our eventful journey to Lancaster.

    The grand facade of the manor loomed before us, its weathered stone walls bearing witness to centuries of history and tradition. As we stepped through the ornate front doors, a sense of peace and tranquility washed over me, enveloping me in the familiar embrace of home.

    My mind abuzz with the knowledge and experiences of the day, I made my way up to the library on the second floor, eager to lose myself in the comforting embrace of the written word. With a farewell nod to my mother, I disappeared into the labyrinthine corridors of books, my footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floors. ‘I think I’ll start with the Egyptian medical texts,’ I said.

Branwen’s POV

    Watching her son depart, Branwen felt a bittersweet nostalgia wash over her, mingling with a profound sense of pride and gratitude. She settled herself in a cozy armchair by the sunroof, a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea cradled in her hands as she reminisced on the century she had spent with her son.

     Memories flooded her mind like a torrential downpour, each a precious treasure she held close to her heart. She remembered the countless hours spent in the library, poring over ancient tomes and grimoires with Malakai by her side, her mind alive with the excitement of discovery and exploration.

    She recalled the training she had put him through – the long hours of practice and dedication, the moments of frustration and triumph as he mastered the intricacies of blood magic with unwavering determination. And she marveled at the man he had become – strong, compassionate, and wise beyond his years.

    As she sipped her tea, Branwen allowed herself to dwell on the bond she shared with her son—a bond forged in the fires of adversity and tempered by time. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the library, Branwen felt a sense of peace settles over her like a warm embrace.

    Branwen's instruction of Malakai's blood manipulation training spanned over a century, a journey of discovery and mastery that unfolded with each passing year. As a pure-blooded witch with centuries of knowledge at her disposal, she guided her son with a combination of wisdom, patience, and unwavering determination. ‘Not that he needs much help. He is a genius.’ She giggled in astonished amusement. ‘He picks up everything I teach almost instantly.’

   Their training sessions often took place within the secluded confines of their mansion, where the ancient walls bore witness to the secrets of generations past. In the dimly lit chambers of the library or the echoing halls of the grand foyer, Branwen imparted her knowledge to Malakai, meticulously instilling the fundamentals of blood magic in him.

   His training began with the basics—understanding the life force that flows through every living being and the delicate balance of energy that bound the universe together. Branwen taught Malakai to sense the ebb and flow of this energy, to feel its pulse as it thrummed through his veins like a symphony of power waiting to be unleashed.

    From there, he progressed to more advanced techniques, delving into the intricacies of blood manipulation with a focus and intensity that bordered on the obsessive. Branwen taught Malakai to harness his blood as a conduit for his magic, to shape and mold it with precision and finesse to achieve his desired effects.

   Under her watchful eye, Malakai learned to slow his heart rate to a near standstill, mimicking the stillness of death that defined his kind. He learned to control the flow of his blood, directing it through his veins like a river carving its path through the earth. And he learned to tap into the primal forces that lurked within him, channeling the raw power of his vampiric nature to fuel his spells.

   But perhaps the most crucial lesson Branwen imparted to her son was the understanding that power alone was not enough – that true mastery came from within, from the strength of one's will and the purity of one's intentions. She taught Malachi to wield his magic with wisdom and compassion, not for personal gain or glory but to protect the innocent and defend the weak.

   As the years passed and Malakai's power grew, Branwen watched with pride as her son transformed from a fledgling apprentice into a master of his craft. ‘He is turning into a little monster,’ she admired.

   As a vampire blood witch, Malakai stood apart from other vampires in more ways than one, and his very nature was a testament to the uniqueness of his existence. Unlike his undead brethren, who were bound by the need to feed on the blood of the living to sustain themselves, Malakai possessed a gift that set him apart – the ability to manipulate his blood with a mastery that bordered on the supernatural. 

   While other vampires were pale and lifeless, their skin as cold as ice and devoid of color, Malakai's complexion bore the warmth of the living. His skin retained a healthy hue, flushed with the vitality of his blood coursing through his veins. Though frozen in time, his heartbeat was steady, a testament to the power of his blood magic.

   This mastery over his blood allowed Malakai to defy the limitations of his vampiric nature. While other vampires were forced to subsist on the blood of humans or animals to sustain themselves, Malakai had no such need—for he controlled the very essence of life that flowed within him.

   Through years of practice and dedication, Malakai had learned to manipulate his blood with unparalleled skill, shaping it to his will like a master sculptor molding clay. He could slow his heart rate to a near standstill, mimicking the stillness of death that defined his kind, or he could quicken its pace to match the rhythm of a living being, giving him the appearance of vitality and warmth.

  But the most awe-inspiring aspect of Malakai’s blood magic was his ability to manipulate the blood of others. With a mere thought, he could command the blood of any being with a circulatory system, bending it to his will with a mere flick of his wrist.

  It was a power that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies and earned him the respect of his allies. With his blood magic as his weapon, Malakai stood as a force to be reckoned with—a living testament to the boundless potential of the supernatural world.