The comfortable quiet of the broad, paved hallway was broken by the steady clicking of cloven feet on granite as Raziel and Zephon made their way to the Razielim Council Chamber. Torchlight flickered from sconce-held brands that adorned the walls at regular intervals, lending a pleasant, mellow hue to the evening air. They spoke little as they walked; much of the information they planned to discuss was not meant for Fledgeling - or even Elite - ears. After a while, Raziel voiced a question, more to break the silence than anything else. "Is Zephon not joining us?" queried the vampire, "I would have thought he of all people would want to be present at this meeting."

"He has much to rebuild." Replied Turel darkly. "Besides, he has already made his desire for punishment known."

Raziel humphed in amusement. He could well imagine the embellishments his incensed sibling had added to his request; if he had his way, there's be little left of the Sarafan Lord by the end of the day. They arrived at length at the designated chamber by means of a winding stone stair and a drawbridge which constituted the only means of access to this part of the building. Raziel waved his brother through the massive ebon door, once inside offering him a goblet of mulled wine, one of the few 'human' drinks a vampire would still imbibe by choice. Turel accepted with due grace and presently they set about compiling list of Antaris' crimes against the Vampire nation. Their intention was to present the evidence to Kain so that the Master Vampire might impose a punishment suitable for the crimes committed. When a natural break arose in their work, Raziel asked conversationally about the whereabouts of Sarafan in question.

"I had him transferred to one of your cells when I arrived."

Raziel nodded in approval. "I'll have one of my Elite go down and give him a good kicking before we leave."

As both Lords had expected, it took several hours to compile the list. In addition to the Sarafan Lord's recent outrageous attacks on Zephon and the Sanctuary, there were endless minor misdemeanours with which the Lieutenants felt he should also be charged. At long last, their damning inventory completed, the two sat back to review their work and ensure there had been no omissions. Heaven forefend that Antaris should miss one iota of torment for an oversight on their part!

Casting a sly glance at his brother, Turel chanced, "And what of his transgressions against the P'ramma?"

"That is not our concern." Replied Raziel sternly.

His companion gave a provocative chuckle. "It was enough of a concern yesterday for you to go chasing after her to Meridian." Turel, in common with all siblings everywhere, took great delight in antagonising his brothers.

Raziel gave him a quelling glance "There are more pressing matters at hand. Tell me, what news from the Sanctuary of the Clans? How much damage was done?"

"Few got past the wards." It became clear from Turel's consequent explanation that the Clans were more concerned about the sheer audacity of the attack than any transitory physical harm. "Still," he commented optimistically, "The instigator of the assault is in our hands now, and after Kain has taken appropriate action, the Sarafan will no longer be a thorn in our side."

Raziel was far from convinced. "Antaris was not the only Sarafan with an overinflated ego and a nominal lordship, Turel. Others will emerge from his shadow and follow in his footsteps. Our attack on Meridian will not be without its repercussions."

Turel nodded, rising from his seat to refill his cup. Raziel held out his own for replenishment as he continued, his chin resting contemplatively on his fist. "There are numerous Sarafan strongholds scattered throughout Nosgoth. If it comes to all-out conflict, what with Zephon's fighting force at half strength, I would not like to guess at the outcome."

Turel resumed his seat and drummed his claws lightly on the curved wooden armrest. There is one possible means we might use to increase our chances . . ." Raziel raised his brows in courteous interest. "Did you ever seek out the remains of that blood demon?" His brother, tardily remembering, nodded assent. The past months' events had taken much of his time and attention. Turel resumed his pitch, "Were we to consume its essence, the power to be gained would be such that there would be none who could stand against us, and Nosgoth would be ripe for our uncontested rule."

His eyes narrowing in calculating thought, Raziel departed in search of the phial. His path took him along an elevated, balustraded corridor which overlooked a large hall where the fledgelings were wont to gather at this hour. A minor commotion from below caused him to peer over in investigatory curiosity to see that Freya had joined them in their evening's recreation. They were evidently playing a game of sorts, at which the woman seemed to be consistently losing. However, the atmosphere was neither oppressive or threatening, quite the contrary in fact, and not only was it keeping his fledgelings out of trouble, but it was ensuring that the P'ramma - Freya, he corrected himself - would not be snooping around his vaults. He left them to it.

Raziel passed a massive claw above a bloodstone set in the sculpted hands of a supplicating sandstone seraph and the solid rock wall before him parted with the grinding, reluctant scrape of stone on stone. He stepped across the threshold and at once that familiar feeling of utter safety and homecoming washed over him as his feet once again rested on the ground of his inner sanctum. As the rock wall slid closed behind him, leaving him for the briefest of moments in the welcoming embrace of Stygian darkness, a vast network of vermillion veins began to spread from his cloven feet to encompass every inch of floor, wall and rocky ceiling, illuminating the chamber in a warm red glow. Avoiding the temptation to succumb to the siren song of the purpose- built niche in the ground and take a moment of restorative respite, the vampire crossed the room to where a massive stone sarcophagus stood incongruously in one corner. A quick rummage through its haphazardly - piled contents brought to light not only the phial, but also a large number of the much sought-after Sarafan documents. With a self- satisfied smile, Raziel replaced the texts. He would get his money's worth from them, eventually.

On his return, he noticed that the fledges were now singing some form of repetitive song, where errors seemed to be punished with a draught from a large stein which was being passed around the steadily growing group. Many of his fledgelings were still new to their vampiric un-lives, and it often took many years for some of them to fully shed the illusory remnants of the mortal coil. A final glance at the scene below caused him to shake his head anew at the vagaries of human behaviour, and he returned to the waiting Turel.

The two Vampire Lords appraised the innocuous little bottle with all the reverence normally accorded a sacred relic. On holding the glinting crimson object up to the light, it could be discerned that the liquid was almost opaque, and unlike 'normal' blood had lost none of its fluidity, despite the length of time it had been separated from its erstwhile host. Raziel unstoppered the phial and raised it to his nose, his finely-attuned olfactory senses detecting nothing out of the ordinary. It smelled of blood. Seeing no reason to hesitate further, he set the liquid to his lips and was about to imbibe when he paused, turning suspiciously to Turel. "You seem eager to see me drink this, brother. Are you not tempted to try it yourself?"

Turel, his fixed, expectant expression fading slightly, replied, "Of course, Raziel. It is my intention that all six of us should benefit from the power of the blood - but only after you. You were first-born, after all."

Raziel, appeased by this argument, proceeded to quaff the elixir, making a face very much alike to that of a child who has just been made to swallow some nasty brown medicine. After draining a small portion of the bottle's contents, he passed the remainder to his companion. A moment later, he frowned as his stomach muscles began to contract sharply, ostensibly with the arrival of the liquid, and then when his three-clawed hands curled unbidden into rigid fists, he began to suspect that something was seriously amiss. Turel stood back and watched with detached, almost scientific interest as his brother cried out and collapsed to all fours in incredible pain, the agony of a forced, accelerated, premature transformation testing the endurance of even his vampiric strength.

So the legends of the Demon's blood were true.

Raziel, his mighty claws buried deep in the granite floor, his every muscle bunched and shaking, was unable to comprehend the magnitude of the pain that beset him. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured on every nerve in his body, and that each and every fibre of his being was being tugged and stretched beyond its natural boundaries. A sickening tearing noise forced him to crane his neck around to seek the source of the sound, his horror-struck gaze met by the emergence of thin slivers of chalk-white bone from twin slits at his shoulderblades. For one awful, gut-wrenching second as the bone continued to work its way out of his flesh, his overwrought mind almost convinced him that he was growing a misshapen, skeletal hand from his back. Moments later, thin globules of concentrated mucous membrane began to spread over, under and around the new bones, darkening progressively to an earthy hue. The leathery vanes began to distend, growing steadily with each passing moment until the pointed wingtips reached their full extension. With a groan of anguish, the indomitable Vampire Lord pitched face forwards onto the unyielding stone floor, his plunge upsetting the table on which had been perched the wine and goblets. His newborn wings fell useless at his sides with a sullen, wet slap.

Wings.

Turel certainly hadn't expected that.

A concerned face appeared at the door. The crunch of marble on granite accompanied by the smash of crystal had brought Isca running. One glance at his revered Lord's state left the fledgeling staring open-mouthed in troubled awe.

Turel regarded at the boy with eyes filled with predatory cunning. "Yes, fledge. Your master has metamorphosed. This is indeed a great day." Isca held back, uncertain until Turel added in a sharper tone, "Go, tell your compatriots!"

At the fledgeling's rapid departure, Turel regarded the prostrate form of his brother where he lay twitching in unconscious torment at his feet, and took another draught from his goblet. He knew his sire well enough to guess Kain's reaction to one of his progeny overtaking his evolution.

Raziel would be exiled, banished, outcast.

No longer would he be Kain's favoured son.

That honour would belong to Turel.