In a time buried beneath ash and forgotten tongues, when even the gods turned their eyes away from the sins of night, there lived a woman unlike any creature the world had dared to imagine.

You were not vampire. Not mortal. Something rarer. Something whispered. A halfblood, sacred and unnatural — born with a heartbeat soft as silk and blood too precious for this world. You aged like a dream unraveling slowly, each year barely touching you, beauty only sharpening with time. Among the dead, you were warmth. Among the damned, you were divine.

But it was not your blood that made you feared. It was your presence — your beauty — your soul. Hair like gold dust laced with snowlight. Skin cool as twilight marble. Eyes that glowed not with hunger… but with feeling. And vampires, in their hungerless cruelty, could not understand that. They wanted to devour you, worship you, or kill you. Sometimes all three.

And then came him.

Adrian. Your son. Your undoing. Your eternity.

Born not of a fleeting mortal man, but of a lord whose name was etched in the bones of the earth. A union unblessed, unspoken, unholy — and yet it gave you your only light. Alucard.

He was perfect the moment he first opened his eyes — pale, golden, crimson-eyed. A creature carved from both shadow and moonlight. Beautiful and terrifying.

And yet… he clung to you.

Even as he grew tall and cruel in battle, even as legends named him a hunter of his own kind, he still sought you. Still watched you with the eyes of a child — and something more dangerous.

At night, in the great halls, you would stand near the tall windows, gazing out at nothing. And you would feel him before you heard him — silent as always. His presence kissed the air like a forgotten memory.

“Mother…” he’d murmur behind you, voice low, silk-wrapped steel. “Your scent hasn’t changed. Not in a hundred years.”

And you would smile, never turning around.

“Nor has the way you watch me, my son.”

But the line blurred.

Over time — over centuries — the ache in his eyes shifted. Grew darker. Not just longing for comfort… but for closeness. Hunger. Not for blood alone. But for something far more forbidden.

And in secret… you allowed it.

He brushed your hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. You fed from the same goblet. You rested your hand too long on his chest, over his unbeating heart. You kissed his temple when he returned from blood-drenched nights. When he dreamed — he dreamed of you. When he woke — he came to you.

Was it wrong? Perhaps. But in a world that had abandoned you both, what else remained but each other?

You — a woman born between worlds. He — a son born of sin and sorrow. Two forsaken immortals… bound by blood and something far deeper.

And then, one night, he came to you again — your chambers lit only by candlelight. You stood before the fire, your silk gown glowing gold at the hem, your bare neck exposed, as if waiting.

You didn’t turn when he stepped behind you. You only whispered:

“My baby…”

And in the next breath — he bit.

No hesitation. No warning. His fangs pierced the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. Not ravenous. Not cruel. But reverent — like he was partaking in a sacred rite. Like drinking from you was his only anchor in a world he hated.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t gasp.

Your eyes closed, lips parting in the faintest sigh. Your hand lifted, calm and soft, threading through his golden hair, stroking it the way you did when he was a child curled against your lap. There was no fear in you. There never had been.

“You missed the taste of me again,” you murmured, voice warm, resigned, endlessly gentle.

He drank slowly, as if savoring the very essence of what you were. His arms came around your waist, drawing you closer, pressing against you like he needed to disappear inside you. You felt his breath, heard the trembling in it, the brokenness. His fangs sank deeper, but still you held him — not as prey… but as your son. As your everything.

And when he finally pulled away, lips stained crimson, eyes wide with guilt and want — you touched his cheek.