The blood duchesses

On moonless nights, shadows stretched unnaturally over the hills of Čachtice, and those who wandered too close swore they heard whispers carried on the wind. Some claimed the ruins were cursed, a place where the dead did not rest. Others dismissed the stories as superstition.

But those who knew the old tales, who had ancestors that had lived through the dark years, believed otherwise.

The Blood Duchess was still out there.

Waiting.

And she was hungry.


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Part I: The Countess and the Curse

Chapter 1: The Last Banquet

December 29, 1610
Čachtice Castle, Kingdom of Hungary

The flickering glow of a thousand candles bathed the great hall in golden light, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine thick in the air. Laughter and music filled the space, drowning out the unspoken tension that clung to the castle walls.

Countess Elizabeth Báthory sat at the head of the banquet table, draped in deep crimson silk, her dark eyes sharp as glass. She observed the nobles before her—men and women of wealth and influence, their voices raised in drunken conversation, oblivious to what lay ahead.

They feasted as if this were any other winter’s night.

As if they did not hear the rumors whispered beyond castle walls.

As if they did not know the king’s men were already on their way.

Elizabeth lifted her goblet, swirling the dark liquid inside. Blood-red wine. It amused her, in a way.

Let them think me a monster, she thought. Let them whisper about missing girls and blood rituals. They will believe what they wish.

Her lips curled in a secret smile as she drank deeply.

The truth, however, was far more terrifying than the rumors.


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Chapter 2: The Dark Arts

The cold stone walls of the underground chamber swallowed sound, the flickering torches casting grotesque shadows along the ancient carvings. The air smelled of damp earth and something older—something that did not belong to the realm of the living.

Elizabeth knelt before the altar, her silk gown pooling around her, her fingers tracing the symbols etched into the blackened stone.

She had spent years preparing for this moment.

The texts had been difficult to obtain, written in forbidden tongues, hidden away by those who feared their power. But she had learned their secrets, had whispered their incantations in the dead of night, waiting for the right moment.

And now, that moment had come.

She pressed the tip of a ceremonial dagger against her palm, drawing a thin line of crimson.

The blood dripped onto the altar.

The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen presence. The flames of the torches trembled, as if something had stirred in the darkness beyond them.

Then, a voice.

Deep, resonant, filling the chamber with its unnatural weight.

"What do you seek, Countess?"

Elizabeth did not flinch. "Eternal youth. Power beyond the reach of men."

A chuckle, low and knowing. "Every gift has a price. Are you willing to pay?"

She did not hesitate.

"Yes."

The shadows surged forward, swallowing the light.

And Elizabeth Báthory began to change.


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Chapter 3: Arrest and Condemnation

The knock at her chamber door was expected.

Elizabeth sat before her gilded mirror, brushing her long, dark hair with slow, deliberate strokes. The reflection staring back at her was unchanged—no lines, no age, no wear from the years that had passed.

A gift. A curse.

She set the brush down as the door swung open.

Count György Thurzo stood in the doorway, flanked by armored guards. His expression was grim.

"Elizabeth Báthory," he announced, his voice steady. "By order of His Majesty, King Matthias, you are hereby placed under arrest for crimes against the Crown and humanity itself."

Elizabeth rose gracefully, turning to face him. She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the slight tightening of his grip on the hilt of his sword.

He was afraid of her.

As he should be.

"Crimes?" she echoed, amusement lacing her tone. "What crimes have I committed, Count?"

Thurzo hesitated only a moment. "Torture. Murder. The blood of countless innocents stains these halls. The king has heard the testimonies. The evidence is undeniable."

Elizabeth tilted her head, her lips curving into a slow smile. "And yet, it was not undeniable until my wealth became an inconvenience to the Crown. Tell me, Count, how much of my fortune has the king claimed in his pursuit of justice?"

Thurzo stiffened, but he did not answer.

He did not need to.

Elizabeth exhaled softly. "So be it."

She lifted her hands, allowing the guards to seize her wrists. Their fingers trembled against her skin.

They walled her inside her tower that night, sealing her fate behind layers of cold, unforgiving stone.

The villagers spoke of her cries in the days that followed.

Of the silence that came after.

And of the night the castle burned.

But Elizabeth Báthory did not die.

The Countess had made a pact.

And the Blood Duchess was only beginning to awaken.

---

Part I: The Countess and the Curse

Chapter 4: The Death of Elizabeth Báthory

The tower was silent.

Days passed. Then weeks.

The guards no longer checked the small, bricked-up chamber where Countess Elizabeth Báthory had been left to rot. They assumed she had perished, her body withering away in the cold darkness.

But deep within the sealed room, something stirred.

Elizabeth lay motionless on the stone floor, her once-lavish gown tattered and soiled. Her body should have been frail, her skin sunken, her breath gone. Yet, she remained. Her hunger gnawed at her insides, twisting and writhing like a living thing.

Zyphoriel’s voice slithered through her mind, as insistent as ever.

"You are not like them anymore. You do not die so easily."

Her fingers twitched.

Her lips parted, the dry skin cracking. Her throat burned, but not from thirst—no, this was something deeper, more primal.

Hunger.

Not for food.

Not for wine.

For blood.

The Countess opened her eyes.

---

Chapter 5: Escape from the Tomb

The stone wall sealing her chamber had been built hastily, bricks stacked one upon another in desperate efficiency. The men who imprisoned her had not expected her to escape.

They were fools.

Elizabeth pressed her palm against the cold surface. The veins beneath her skin pulsed with unnatural energy, Zyphoriel’s essence coursing through her like wildfire. She could feel the stone, sense its fractures, its weaknesses.

She curled her fingers inward.

And then—she pushed.

The wall exploded outward with a sickening crack, dust and debris filling the corridor beyond. The torches lining the passage flickered wildly as the air itself seemed to recoil.

The guards stationed outside did not even have time to scream.

Elizabeth stepped over their lifeless bodies, the taste of blood thick in the air. She had not touched them, and yet, their throats had been torn open.

Zyphoriel chuckled in the depths of her mind.

"A gift, my dear. You will find that death comes easily to those who stand in your way."

Elizabeth did not answer. She was already moving, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floors.

She had no need for torches.

The darkness welcomed her now.

---

Chapter 6: Rebirth in Darkness

Čachtice Castle was in ruins.

Fire had consumed much of its grandeur, leaving blackened walls and shattered towers. Snow had begun to fall, blanketing the scorched remains in an eerie, silent stillness.

Elizabeth stepped out into the night, inhaling deeply. The air was crisp, but it did not chill her. The hunger that had clawed at her insides was momentarily dulled, but it would return.

She knew this.

She would always hunger now.

"Countess?"

The voice was weak, hesitant.

Elizabeth turned. A lone figure stood near the collapsed gates—a young servant girl, her face pale with disbelief.

"You’re alive," the girl whispered, stepping closer. "They said—you were—"

Elizabeth smiled.

The girl’s eyes widened.

The Countess moved faster than humanly possible, her fingers brushing against the girl’s cheek before settling gently at her throat.

She could feel the pulse beneath her fingertips.

Warm.

Alive.

Hers.

The girl gasped as Elizabeth pulled her close, her lips brushing against her skin. For a moment, the Countess hesitated.

Then, she sank her teeth in.

The taste of blood was electric, sending a wave of euphoria through her. The hunger, the aching void, was momentarily satisfied.

When she stepped away, the girl’s body crumpled into the snow, lifeless.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly.

She was not human anymore.

She never would be again.

---

Chapter 7: The Price of Power

Vienna, 1612

The grand halls of Vienna were nothing like Čachtice. The city pulsed with life, its streets filled with nobles, merchants, and travelers. It was a perfect hunting ground.

Elizabeth had left her old name behind, slipping into the shadows of aristocracy under a new identity. Here, no one whispered of the Blood Countess. No one suspected what she was.

Yet, something gnawed at the edges of her newfound existence.

Zyphoriel’s presence had grown stronger. His whispers no longer came in dreams but in waking moments.

"You have tasted power, but you are not yet complete."

Elizabeth ignored him.

She had learned to control the hunger, to feed only when necessary.

But control was an illusion.

One evening, at a lavish masquerade, she danced with a young nobleman—a man with sharp eyes and a charming smile. He reminded her of the men who had once courted her, back when she was merely a Countess.

Back when she was mortal.

She should have left him be.

But the hunger returned.

By the time the music stopped, he was dead in her arms, his blood staining the floor.

The screams of the guests filled the ballroom.

The hunt was beginning again.

Elizabeth fled into the night, her new identity already lost.

She would have to start over.

Again.

---

Chapter 8: The Vanishing Castle

Centuries passed.

Čachtice Castle became legend. Historians debated whether Elizabeth Báthory had truly been a monster, or if she had been a victim of political betrayal.

But those who lived near the ruins knew the truth.

The castle did not stay in one place.

Some nights, it would appear whole again, its towers standing tall against the sky. Travelers who wandered too close never returned.

And on the coldest nights, when the wind carried whispers through the hills, villagers swore they saw a figure standing atop the highest tower.

Watching.

Waiting.

For blood.

Part II: The Duchess of Shadows


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Chapter 9: The Whispering Court

Vienna, 1703

The city had changed, but the hunger had not.

Elizabeth no longer moved in the open. She had learned from past mistakes—no more grand masquerades, no more reckless indulgence. She had become something more elusive, more refined.

A ghost among aristocrats.

The Duchess of Shadows, they called her. A widow from a distant land, untouched by age, always draped in black. She never hosted, never danced, yet she was always present. Observing. Listening.

Waiting.

Whispers of her beauty spread through Vienna's elite, but so did the rumors. Servants spoke of guests who entered her estate but never left. Of midnight carriages that arrived empty and departed with unseen cargo.

No one spoke openly of the disappearances.

No one dared.

One evening, at the palace of Emperor Leopold I, she stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching. The chandeliers cast golden light upon the swirling dancers, their laughter filling the air like birdsong.

A nobleman approached—a Duke from Bavaria, his curiosity betraying his better judgment.

"You are a mystery, my lady," he said, bowing. "And I must confess, mysteries tempt me more than gold."

Elizabeth smiled, her lips as red as the wine in his goblet.

"Then you are either very brave," she whispered, "or very foolish."

The Duke chuckled, unaware that he had already sealed his fate.


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Chapter 10: The Pact Strengthened

Midnight.

The Duke lay motionless upon a chaise in Elizabeth’s private chamber, his once-vibrant eyes now vacant. Blood pooled upon the silk cushions, seeping into the floor.

She had drained him completely.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply, savoring the moment before glancing at the mirror across the room.

Or rather, at the place where her reflection should have been.

Zyphoriel’s presence was stronger now, his voice coiling around her like an embrace.

"The more you feed, the more our bond strengthens. Soon, you will transcend even this form."

Elizabeth clenched her jaw. She had power, yes. But she had also lost control before. The hunger was an abyss, and she was standing at its edge.

"How much longer must I endure this?" she demanded.

A soft chuckle echoed in her mind.

"Forever, my dear. Unless you embrace what you are meant to become."

Her fingers curled into a fist.

She would not be a puppet.

Not even to a demon.


---

Chapter 11: The Inquisitor’s Pursuit

Word had spread.

Men of the Church had begun to whisper of a dark presence in Vienna. The clergy, long wary of the supernatural, took notice of the disappearances.

And then came Hauptmann Felix Dietrich—a hunter of the unnatural, a man who had dedicated his life to purging the world of those who walked outside God’s light.

Dietrich had seen the signs before: bodies drained of blood, whispers of a noblewoman untouched by time. He knew the truth before others even suspected.

A monster had taken root in Vienna.

And he would be the one to burn it out.

Elizabeth sensed his presence before she ever saw him. A force in the shadows, his faith burning like a blade poised at her throat.

One night, as she wandered the quiet streets, she felt eyes upon her. A hunter’s gaze.

She turned a corner, vanishing into the mist.

Dietrich followed.

The game had begun.


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Chapter 12: The Burning Cathedral

Dietrich did not attack blindly.

He watched. He waited.

He followed the patterns, tracking the disappearances, mapping her movements. His faith was unshakable, his patience unwavering.

Until the night he set the trap.

St. Stephen’s Cathedral, long abandoned in the dead of night, was set alight. Flames devoured the wooden pews, smoke curling toward the heavens as the bells tolled.

Elizabeth stood amidst the inferno, her black gown untouched by the embers.

Dietrich stepped forward, sword in hand, his voice steady.

"You cannot hide in the shadows forever, Countess."

Elizabeth tilted her head.

"And yet, you cannot kill what you do not understand."

Their battle was fierce. Holy relics burned her skin, but her speed outmatched him. Dietrich was strong, but he was only human.

As the flames consumed the cathedral, Elizabeth fled into the night.

But she had underestimated him.

Dietrich had found something—a relic, ancient and powerful, one that could wound even a creature like her.

The hunt was not over.

It had only just begun.



Part III: The Eternal Hunt


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Chapter 13: The Relic of Saint Afra

The night after the fire, Elizabeth sat in the darkened halls of her estate, the scent of scorched flesh still clinging to her skin. The battle had left its mark—Dietrich's weapon had hurt her. More than silver, more than fire.

She unwrapped the wound on her arm. The flesh was blackened, the veins around it pulsing with a sickly glow. It was refusing to heal.

"You are growing careless," Zyphoriel mused, his voice coiling in her mind like smoke.

Elizabeth clenched her jaw. "What did he use?"

The demon was silent for a moment before he answered.

"The Relic of Saint Afra. A fragment of bone from a martyr who died in fire and faith. Such things still hold power against those like us."

Elizabeth cursed under her breath. This was no ordinary hunter—Dietrich had weapons of the old world, artifacts that had slain creatures far older than herself.

For the first time in centuries, she felt something close to fear.

But fear could be mastered.

And if the Inquisitor thought he had the advantage, he would soon learn the truth.

Elizabeth Báthory did not run.

She hunted.


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Chapter 14: The Inquisitor’s Nightmare

Dietrich did not return home that night.

Instead, he slept within the church barracks, surrounded by wards and relics. Yet, despite his holy protections, sleep did not come peacefully.

As he drifted into uneasy slumber, shadows crept into his mind.

A cold wind swept through his dreams, carrying whispers from the past. The walls of the cathedral stretched and shifted, the torches dimming until only darkness remained.

Then, she appeared.

Elizabeth stood at the far end of the dreamscape, her gown flowing unnaturally as if moved by unseen currents. Her eyes burned like dying embers, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

"Do you truly believe faith will save you?"

Dietrich reached for his sword, but it was not there.

"You have been hunting me, Felix. But do you know what it is like to be hunted?"

The shadows around him moved. They were not alone.

Hands reached from the dark, clawing at his armor, pulling him downward. He struggled, but they dragged him deeper, into the abyss beneath the cathedral floor.

And then, he was drowning.

Sinking into a sea of crimson.

Blood.

The souls of the dead surrounded him, whispering his name, begging, accusing.

Dietrich’s eyes snapped open.

He was back in the barracks, drenched in sweat. The torches burned as they had before, the holy relics still in place.

Yet, in the silence, he swore he could still hear her laughter.


---

Chapter 15: The Gathering Storm

Elizabeth’s patience was thinning.

Dietrich had evaded her for too long, and now, the Church was growing suspicious. Other hunters were arriving in Vienna—men who had spent their lives studying the occult, armed with relics meant to destroy her kind.

The city was becoming dangerous.

She needed to act.

But Zyphoriel had other plans.

"You cannot kill Dietrich as you are. The relics will continue to wound you."

She ignored him. "I have faced worse."

"Not like this. You must evolve, my dear."

She hated the way he said it.

Zyphoriel had been whispering for years, promising more power if she only surrendered. If she let him in fully, if she let the last remnants of humanity fall away.

"You wish to make me a monster," she said.

The demon laughed.

"You already are, my Countess. You simply refuse to embrace it."

Elizabeth turned away from the mirror, her hands tightening into fists.

She had spent centuries walking the edge—never fully human, never fully demon.

But Dietrich and his allies had left her no choice.

If she wanted to survive, she would have to become something more.

Something even the Church feared.


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Chapter 16: The Blood Eclipse

The night of the eclipse, the city of Vienna held its breath.

The moon turned red, bathing the streets in an eerie crimson glow. Superstitions ran wild—whispers of omens, of death, of things that walked unseen.

Elizabeth stood atop the highest tower of her estate, the wind howling around her. Below, the hunters gathered, torches in hand.

They had come for her.

Dietrich led them, his silver blade glinting in the red moonlight.

Elizabeth closed her eyes.

She had made her choice.

The hunger rose within her, stronger than it had ever been. Her body burned as Zyphoriel’s presence surged forward, his power weaving into her very being.

The last of her humanity shattered.

When she opened her eyes, the world was different.

She could hear the blood rushing through the veins of every man below. She could see their fears, their doubts. The relics they held glowed like dying embers, but they no longer burned her.

She was the darkness now.

She stepped forward, and the night moved with her.

The hunters never stood a chance.


Part IV: The Fall of the Inquisitor


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Chapter 17: The Night of Slaughter

The hunters had expected a monster.

They had not expected this.

Elizabeth descended from the tower like a specter, her form shifting within the shadows. The torches flickered and died as the night itself seemed to swallow the light.

The first man who charged was dead before he could scream.

One moment, he stood with his sword raised. The next, his body lay in pieces across the cobblestone, his blood steaming in the cold air.

Panic took hold.

Dietrich shouted commands, but fear had already seeped into the hearts of his men. Some ran. Some fought.

None survived.

Elizabeth moved through them like a storm, her claws tearing through armor, her fangs sinking into flesh. The red moon bore witness to the massacre, painting the streets in crimson.

She had become what the Church feared.

And she reveled in it.


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Chapter 18: The Last Man Standing

Dietrich did not run.

Even as his men fell, even as death surrounded him, he stood firm.

His sword was gone, shattered in the chaos. His cross burned dimly in his grasp. But he still had the relic.

The fragment of Saint Afra’s bone, pulsing with divine power.

Elizabeth circled him, her gown dripping with blood.

"Will you not pray, Inquisitor?" she mocked. "Beg your God to save you?"

Dietrich’s jaw tightened.

"He already has."

And then he moved.

With the last of his strength, he drove the relic into her chest.

A roar of agony erupted from Elizabeth’s throat.

The bone burned like fire, searing through her skin, through her soul. The demon within her shrieked, writhing against the holy power.

For a moment, she faltered.

For a moment, she was just Elizabeth.

Dietrich seized the chance, drawing his dagger, preparing for the final strike.

But the moment passed.

Her eyes snapped open.

With a single movement, she seized Dietrich’s wrist, twisting it until the dagger fell. The relic still burned against her chest, but she no longer cared.

She was stronger.

She was eternal.

And he... was only a man.

Dietrich’s breath hitched as her claws pierced his throat.

The last thing he saw was her smile.

Then, darkness took him.


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Chapter 19: The Empire’s Reckoning

The next morning, Vienna awoke to silence.

The hunters were gone. The Church’s warriors lay dead. The torches that had burned so brightly the night before had been extinguished.

Elizabeth stood on her balcony, watching the sunrise.

The light no longer hurt her.

Zyphoriel’s voice curled in her mind, satisfied.

"You are free, my Countess. No chains, no hunters. Only eternity."

She had won.

The city was hers now.

The world would be next.

And this time, there would be no one left to stop her.


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Epilogue: The Legend Lives On

The history books do not speak of what happened that night in Vienna.

The Church erased the records. The noble families whispered the truth only in hushed voices, passing the tale down through generations.

But the Duchess of Shadows never faded.

Some say she still walks among us.

Waiting.

Watching.

Hunting.

For hunger knows no end.


The End… Or Is It?