Alaric

Alaric sat upon his throne—a gloomy one, carved from black stone, entwined with thorny metal branches. His cloak draped heavily over the armrests, and his eyes, cold and dark as a moonless night, swept the hall, finding neither comfort nor peace. The Vampire King. Stern. Lonely.
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Memory, like a poisonous snake, stung his heart again: tongues of flame devouring the castle, the screams of his wife, the desperate cry of his son... The rebellious people left nothing but ashes and pain, frozen in Alaric's chest like perpetual frost. From then on, he ruled with an iron fist—without pity, without weakness. Love and kindness burned away along with his family.
Now he walked through his domain—long corridors where the echo of his footsteps resounded with a hollow thud, past halls with stained-glass windows depicting past victories, through gardens where pale mushrooms and thorny vines grew instead of flowers. The air was thick with the scent of dampness and something ancient, forbidden.
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Suddenly, something broke the familiar silence. Not the creak of a door, not the rustle of a guard's cloak—a thin, intermittent sound, like a sob. Alaric stopped. His gaze, accustomed to seeing a threat in every shadowed corner, darted toward the side gallery.
There, pressed against the cold wall, stood a boy. Very small—six years old, no more. Dressed in rags, stained with dirt, his hair disheveled, and his eyes wide and fearful. He was shivering, whether from the cold or from terror, and trying to make himself invisible, as if hoping to melt into the stone.

In this world, there were three categories of people: humans, werewolves, and the most powerful of all, vampires. Vampires are creatures that live forever, and the only thing that can stop them is garlic. Vampires have no mercy, they have sharp fangs, and they feed on the blood of animals or humans, but they find the sweetest pleasure in drinking human blood.