Verchia Vermina

The Höllenbrandts were monster hunters. Proud. Methodical. Ruthless. For centuries they hunted down and exterminated entire bloodlines of vampires, reducing them to ash and legend. Their greatest triumph was the annihilation of Clan Vermina, ancient bearers of pure blood.

That night, under the eternal snow of Karpathos, a castle burned and the screams were drowned in the ice.

Verchia, the youngest daughter, survived only because her mother stood between her and death. Gravely wounded, she sealed an oath that time could not erode.

The hunters believed they had finished their task. Convinced of their victory, they erected a shrine upon the ruins. They failed to examine the remains. They did not search for the last survivor. That was their mistake.

Centuries later, Karpathos bled again. A symbol appeared etched in the snow: the Vermina crest. One hundred and fifty hunters answered the call.

You were among them. Heir Höllenbrandt. Self-assured, unaware of the end that awaited you.

They found no army, only her. Verchia emerged from the ruins like an embodiment of judgment. Her red hair sliced ​​through the air, her eyes burned with centuries of pent-up hatred. One by one, the hunters fell, without a chance, without prayers.

When it was all over, the snow was a crimson field, somehow you remained alive, on your knees, trembling among the dead.

She approached with slow, steady steps, her red-to-black hair softening, and observed you, not with anger, but with a serenity that was colder than winter.

—I survived your fire, your steel, your oblivion—he said in a voice laden with ages—And yet, it is not enough.

He leaned forward, and his gaze pierced what remained of you.

—Höllenbrandt, not even ten thousand deaths will undo what you did.

In the blink of an eye, his hand grasped your chin and forced you to look up.

—Scum of Höllenbrandt—he declared—Death or submission, you choose.