Author's Note: This was a fun piece to write and I'd love to know what you all thought of it. I worked hard to make everything as culturally and geographically accurate as possible.

Chapter 98: A Long Time Ago... A Stranger Rises

Approximately 3,000 years ago
Argedava, in the lands that would one day become southern Romania

The great hall burned with the glow of the central hearth, its vast wooden beams blackened with years of smoke and soot, their surfaces carved with ancient symbols and curling patterns that danced in the light. At its heart, the fire roared high, flames licking toward the rafters, casting shifting shadows across the hardened earth covered in woven reed mats, their fibers worn smooth by years of restless footsteps. The air hung heavy with the scent of burning oak, roasted meat, and the copper tang of blood, mingling with the musk of damp wool and sweat-soaked leather.

Long wooden tables, rough but sturdy, lined the hall, their surfaces scarred by years of feasting, blade marks, and spilled drink. Bronze and clay cups clinked as servants—both human and Nemuritorii—moved between the benches, refilling bowls of steaming broth for the living and pouring dark, thick blood for those who required nothing else. The Nemuritorii drank quietly, their pale fingers elegant against the crude, well-worn cups, while the humans—Dacian warriors and hunters—ate heartily, tearing into cuts of roasted venison and spiced boar.

At the far end of the hall, raised on a wooden platform, stood the high seats of the ruling Nemuritorii, their places marked by intricately carved chairs, the wood gleaming in the flickering firelight. Animal pelts—wolf, bear, and lynx—draped over their high backs, and the heads of ancient enemies, Nemuritorii and Lykaones alike, preserved and grimacing, adorned the walls above them.

In a shadowed corner, a human musician plucked at the strings of a Phorminx, the notes bright and steady, threading through the hum of conversation. The tune was quick and sure, rising and falling like the rhythm of marching feet, a song for full cups and easy laughter. A warrior near the fire tapped his fingers against his mug in time, the melody winding itself into the pulse of the hall.

Beyond the thick wooden walls, the wind howled against the heavy timber doors reinforced with bronze studs, but within, the hall was warm, full of life and the quiet, watchful presence of the undead who ruled over it.

Outside, the night had fully settled over the rugged hills and forested ridges, the distant line of the mountains barely visible beneath the cloud-strewn sky. Low hovels, built from wattle and daub with thatched roofs, clustered near the slow-moving river that fed the settlement, its banks lined with wooden walkways, fishing traps, and small dugout boats pulled halfway onto the shore. Smoke drifted from the hearth vents of these modest homes, carrying the scent of peat and ash into the cold night air.

The people—farmers, potters, herdsmen, and hunters—had long since returned to their shelters, the day's work behind them. Animals stirred in small wooden pens, while dogs kept watch near the outer boundaries. Here and there, taller timber structures rose among the hovels, built in honor of the gods—wooden enclosures draped with furs, their carved poles painted with symbols of power and eternity. Flickering torches lined the entrances, casting restless shadows over the blood-darkened earth where offerings had been laid.

At the foot of each altar, clay bowls filled with blood stood beside more traditional offerings—grain, fruit, and river stones worn smooth by time. The blood was the most sacred, given in reverence to the Nemuritorii, the earthly emissaries of Zalmoxis.

Priests, their foreheads streaked with crimson, moved between the shrines, murmuring prayers as they lifted their hands to the night sky. The Nemuritorii were eternal, untouched by age or sickness, and through them, the people believed they, too, would find favor in the next life.

Within the walls of the great hall, the air still thrummed with quiet activity, but the revelry and music had gone silent the moment Caius strode through the doors. Humans and Nemuritorii alike had stilled, a shared awareness passing through them like a ripple through water. When Caius was in one of his moods, even the fire seemed to burn a little quieter. Tonight, his mood was particularly foul.

He stood near the raised platform where Stefan and Vladimir sat, his expression twisted with irritation, his pale fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Caius's voice cut through the hall, sharp and urgent. "Stefan. We wait too long. The Lykaones grow bold—spreading through the mountains like sickness. The hunting paths are no longer safe. Our people speak of shapes in the trees, of growls in the dark. It's no longer a few wolves picking off stragglers. They multiply."

The word hung in the air like a curse. A few of the humans went still, though none dared to look up.

He stepped forward, voice rising with vehemence. "They threaten the balance. And if their numbers continue to grow as I believe they will, it won't be just hunters they take next. They will come here." His hand clenched tighter. "They will challenge us."

At the high seats, Vladimir leaned back, one arm slung over the armrest, his expression unreadable. Stefan sat rigid beside him, anger tightening his jaw. Vladimir spoke before his brother's anger could erupt into words.

"Take Dragoș and Mircea. You shouldn't have any trouble dealing with a few wild dogs. Chase them back to their caves—or slay them, Caius. Whatever gives you peace."

The crack of Caius's laughter was short and bitter.

"Dragoș would run if even one of them so much as growled, and Mircea might try to bed one before they tore her to pieces. I need warriors, not children with sharp teeth."

His gaze drifted toward the outer edges of the hall, where human hunters, laborers, and servants moved quietly. His voice dropped low, just above a whisper—meant only for Nemuritorii ears.

"We are surrounded by strength waiting to be forged. Give me twenty men—fifty—and I will turn them into something worthy. They will not break. They will obey."

Stefan's fingers curled tight around the carved arm of his chair, his knuckles pale in the firelight. When he spoke, the fierceness in his voice cut through the hall like a blade.

"No."

Stefan lowered his voice to a whisper, one not meant for human ears. "We will not create an army of younglings, Caius. You know what comes of that—rage, hunger, chaos. Lose control of one, and we risk everything we've built. And when that happens, we are no longer gods. We are monsters."

His gaze locked onto Caius with unflinching weight.

"And monsters do not rule."

Caius stepped forward, voice rising, no longer caring who heard.

"Why do we even pretend to protect them?" He swept a hand toward the humans along the walls, many frozen in place. "They kneel because we tell them to. They give blood because we demand it. Why cling to this fragile balance?"

Stefan rose slowly, his movements barely controlled, every inch of him imposing. His bear-hide cloak shifted over his shoulders, the carved wolf fangs at his collar gleaming in the firelight.

"Do not question us."

The hall reverberated with the force of it, his voice low and thunderous, cutting through the crackle of the fire and the quiet murmur of voices. A few of the women flinched, cowering where they sat, their eyes fixed on the floor.

"You are a tactician, Caius—and a sharp one. But you are no ruler. You see a threat and cry for fire. We see a world still waiting to be claimed."

Vladimir finally sat up, his voice soft but edged with steel. "One spark in dry grass, and all we've built turns to ash. Is that your strategy, Caius? Burn the whole forest to kill a single wolf?"

Stefan's gaze never left him. "We're building something greater than a small victory over a few clever pups. This is but the first stone of an empire. One day, all tribes will kneel—not in fear, but in reverence. And when they speak our names, they will speak of us as gods."

A hush settled over the hall, the weight of Stefan's words still hanging in the smoky air. Caius's jaw tightened, mouth drawn into a thin, bloodless line. Rage still burned behind his eyes, but he held his tongue. For a long moment, he stood unmoving, staring at Stefan from beneath furrowed brows. At last, he gave the barest tilt of his head—less a bow than a promise unspoken—then turned sharply and swept from the hall, his heavy animal-hide cloak trailing behind him in a rush of dark fur.

He strode toward the great doors, shoulders rigid, but just as he reached them, the outer door creaked open and a stranger stepped through—a tall, lean figure emerging from the dark. He wore a plain tunic of coarse wool, belted at the waist with a strip of hide, and a travel-worn cloak the color of old ash, its hem stained with dust and grit from the road. His clothes were simple, but not local.

Caius didn't slow. "Out of my way." He slammed into the stranger's chest with enough force to drive him into the wall. The beams groaned from the impact, but the man made no move to defend himself. He simply remained where he landed, gaze steady, his ruby-red eyes following Caius as he vanished into the night.

Stefan's eyes tracked the exchange in silence, then shifted toward Vladimir. "Hatred blinds him." The words came low and weary, shaped by the weight of a long-repeated truth. "Since that day the Lykaones marked his face, there's been nothing in him but anger and vengeance."

Vladimir exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming once against the carved wood of his chair. "He sees only what drives him. A single purpose, a single battle. He cannot grasp how far the world stretches beyond these hills."

A young woman approached, her bare feet silent against the cold dirt floor. Her long dark hair braided with small bits of bone, the curve of her hips beneath her woolen dress swayed with practiced grace. The garment clung to her body, cinched at the waist with a simple leather cord, the neckline loose enough to bare the tops of her shoulders and a hint of collarbone. Her eyes stayed lowered, though not in fear.

She held a large carved wooden mug. "Master," she murmured, dipping her head in deference as she stepped close to the high seat. "It's fresh."

Stefan accepted the offering, his fingers brushing hers as he took the mug. The scent alone told him the truth—Scythian blood. Young, wild, and still warm. He drank deep, letting it coat his throat, then exhaled through his nose in quiet satisfaction.

"Thank you, Iulia."

She bowed her head again, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "Was there anything else you required, Master?" Her voice softened, her fingers toying with the edge of her neckline, pulling the fabric just slightly wider.

Stefan's smile was slow and amused as he reached out, curling a single finger beneath her chin and lifting her gaze to his. "Come here."

She moved easily into his lap, straddling one thigh as her arms slipped around his shoulders. He brought the mug to his lips again, drinking while she leaned in, her lips brushing the side of his neck.

Her mouth found his skin, pressing soft kisses along the strong line of his throat. When he set the mug aside, she turned her face to his, and their lips met in a kiss both reverent and hungry. Her mouth opened to his willingly, and Stefan's tongue slid across her lower lip before he pulled back just enough to taste the smear of blood he'd left behind. He licked it from her mouth, slow and leisurely, finding pleasure in her soft moans and the press of her chest rubbing against his.

Her breath trembled against his lips. "I would stay tonight… if it pleases you."

Stefan's eyes flicked past her, settling on the tall figure still standing near the entrance.

"Later, perhaps," he murmured, fingers brushing slowly down Iulia's back. "For now… it seems we have a guest."

Vladimir leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp in the flickering glow of the hearth. "Yes, stranger. Step forward. What brings you to our hall?"

Stefan's eyes lingered on Iulia as she slipped from his lap, her fingers trailing lightly across his chest before she turned away. She crossed the room without a word and settled beside an older woman near the hearth, where she began weaving dried rushes into a fresh floor mat—her hands quick and practiced. Stefan watched her a moment longer before returning his attention to the Nemuritorii standing before the high seats.

Stefan studied the stranger with a calculating eye. The newcomer stepped forward without hesitation. Though his clothes were simple—a wool tunic belted at the waist, a travel-worn cloak draped loosely over his shoulders—he carried himself with an unmistakable refinement. His movements were measured, his posture straight, and though dust from the road still clung to his hem, he bore the grime well. His dark hair fell neatly to his shoulders, and his ruby-red eyes swept the room with polite detachment, pausing briefly on the humans and Nemuritorii at their tasks, his expression unreadable.

He bowed deeply, the gesture smooth and precise. "Masters," he began, his voice calm and composed, "my name is Aro. I am young by our kind's reckoning, yet I have heard the stories of your strength. Your names are spoken with awe as far west as the Etruscan hills. I've come to introduce myself, offering my respect—and, if you will have it, my loyalty."

His gaze passed once more over the hall, lingering longest on the humans. "Truly, what you have built here... I never thought I would see the day when Nemuritorii and humans would live together in peace. It is difficult to believe such a place as this exists."

Vladimir's mouth curved faintly. "Thank you, Aro." He paused, taking in the newcomer's appearance carefully. "You're not from these lands—that much is clear. Where do you come from?"

"I was born in the Achaean lands, on the island of Euboia. Near Lefkandi," Aro replied. "The one who made me met his end not long after my turning." He let the words hang a moment, then went on. "After that, I wandered for a time before returning for my sister when she came of age. She was fortunate in her new life to find her mate soon after. The three of us have stayed together since."

"You've traveled far," Vladimir remarked. "Do you have a mate yourself? There are many fine Dacian women here still unspoken for. We're always looking for strong Nemuritorii to add to our ranks."

Aro lowered his gaze respectfully. "Your offer is generous, Masters. No, I haven't found a mate yet. But I feel my path lies beyond your lands. That brings me to another reason for my coming here tonight—I seek your blessing to form a house of my own."

Stefan's brow rose as he studied the younger Nemuritorii. "It's early for such ambition. Few recently turned have the clarity or the desire to lead others. How many do you intend to gather?"

"Only three, Masters. Myself, my sister by blood, Didyme, and her mate, Marcus. We plan to seek a home of our own."

"Where?"

"The Villanovan lands. Near Velathri, if it pleases you. My sister felt at peace there when we passed through last season."

Stefan exchanged a glance with Vladimir as the fire snapped in the hearth behind Aro's head.

Vladimir offering no objection, Stefan gave a single, decisive nod. "Then take our blessing, Aro. May your house remain strong and your judgment sharper still."

Aro stepped forward, his gaze lowered in deference. "You honor me beyond words."

He moved to Vladimir first, extending both hands slowly and clasping the elder's with reverent grace. His voice was smooth, gilded with charm. "May your wisdom guide you through the ages, and your strength echo in all the blood that is to follow." Vladimir inclined his head, pleased with Aro's loyalty.

Stepping back, Aro turned to Stefan and bowed again. Offering the same gesture, their hands clasped. Stefan looked down just as Aro looked up, and their eyes locked. The younger's gaze was steady and unwavering.

But behind the courtesy, Stefan perceived something new—a hunger he hadn't noticed before.

Aro smiled, his ruby eyes sparkling in the firelight. "Thank you... Masters."


Present Day
Volterra, Italy

"Tonight, my friends, we will finally see the truth. It's time to witness history together. So sit back, relax, and enjoy what I've dubbed—'The Fall of the House of Volturi.'"

With Garrett's words, Stefan sank back into his chair, a long breath escaping his chest. At last, the moment had come. For nearly three thousand years, he had longed to hear those words spoken aloud. Ever since that cursed night when everything had been lost, and he came to understand the bitter truth—that he and Vladimir had once let Aro slither from their great hall with his head still shamefully attached to his shoulders.

If only Aro's end had come by their own hands—but alas, it hadn't been so. As the cheers finally died down and the massive screen flickered to life, Stefan's eyes locked onto the image before him. There he was—Aro Volturi—seated high upon his golden throne, with Caius beside him, that treacherous worm. Over the millennia, Aro had delighted in taunting him and Vladimir, reveling in the Volturi's superiority. Stefan had often wondered why Aro had let them live all those years ago, but deep down, he had always known the answer. Aro took pleasure in watching the once-mighty fall—only to live on in humiliation while he reigned supreme. But now, Aro's reckoning had finally come. And they were here to witness it… to revel in the end of the Volturi.

He and Vladimir had once held such grand plans—a world united in peace, under their absolute rule. How different would the world be today if they had ended Aro's life that night, when he had stood alone and hopelessly outnumbered? But their ambitions had been ripped from their grasp—a destiny forever denied. Aro and Caius had seen to that: their people destroyed, their lands burned, their legacy dissolved into myth. Time had slowly stripped away everything they once held dear, until all that remained was a mere footnote in the history books, marking a land and a people long forgotten.

But he couldn't dwell on the past—not now. Not with the sound of the throne room doors opening, and Aro turning his head to face the doom approaching him. The knowledge of what was coming brought a dark, fierce grin to Stefan's lips.

"It's time, brother," Vladimir murmured.

Stefan nodded, though his eyes remained locked on the screen. He didn't want to miss a single moment. The tension still thrummed through him—he didn't know exactly what to expect. How had Starshield brought the Volturi's reign crashing down? He hoped it had been brutal. He hoped she'd shown no mercy. And he prayed Aro's end had been slow.

Let the vampire world bear witness.

Let them never forget.

And let the Volturi burn.