Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1613  An Old Tale

"..." Quinlan let his arms hang loose at his sides. "Well. You lured one quick. Why do you need a primordial?"

Archduke Vasilen went still, shriveled hands settling on the armrests. And for the first time since his eyes had opened, the desiccated features shifted.

Weariness. The kind that lived in the soul, not just the body.

"Because primordials," the Archduke said at long last, "are my final hope."

"Why?"

The Archduke's red gaze drifted toward the ceiling, toward something far beyond the vaulted stone.

"My wife died."

Quinlan waited.

"She grew arrogant in her strength and attempted to conquer a nearby nation by herself. She failed."

'By herself?'

Quinlan's expression didn't change, but internally he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about vampire society.

"I was overcome with sorrow." The Archduke's voice flattened. "I handed my throne to my daughter and departed on a journey. I traveled from continent to continent, and for the first time in my existence..." He paused, as if the words themselves confused him. "I did not feel bloodthirsty. So many weak nations. So many ripe for conquest. And I did not take a single city."

"..."

"Eventually, I arrived here." The dry cadence softened a fraction. "I found a location that suited my needs and carved this tomb to house my mementos. For a few thousand years, I simply... existed. Sat. Remembered."

"But time has a way of dulling even the sharpest grief. Eventually, I found myself appreciating this continent. Its forests. Its people. Their fragile little lives, flickering like candles." The Archduke's fingers curled against the armrest. "So I decided I would conquer it, make it mine. Declare a new dominion and connect it to my ancestral lands."

'Huh?'

"But then." The vampire's voice changed. Warmth crept into it, faint but unmistakable. "A young elf girl wandered into my tomb. She had eyes so large and so filled with curiosity that I wondered how she had survived long enough to find me. Natural selection should have claimed her thrice over."

Quinlan felt Isveth go rigid beside him.

"She was not afraid of me. She asked me questions. Endless questions. What was I? Where did I come from? Why did I look so sad? Did I want to see her drawings?" A dry sound escaped the Archduke's throat. "I intended to drain her and turn her into my first thrall on this land. But for a reason I still don't understand, I answered her questions. And then I answered more. And more still."

The elders had gone silent. Even their weeping had stopped.

"Her name was Mirethiel."

The silence shattered.

"Mirethiel?!" one of the elders gasped.

"The Holy Daughter?!"

"She was a saint-"

"She loved an undead?! No way I'll believe such blatant lies!"

The Archduke ignored them.

"She showed me joy," he said. "Filled the void my late wife had left behind. I lost all desire for conquest. For centuries, we simply... lived. We explored the forests together. She taught me to draw. I listened to her sing."

A pause came. "She had a terrible talent for singing. Back home, I would've executed her for daring to hurt my ears. But here… I loved it. I asked her to sing for me, over and over again."

Quinlan said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"But then the Suppression occurred."

The warmth vanished.

"The entire continent became veiled in a field that limited all power to the seventy-fourth threshold. Many who stood above it were crippled on the spot, dying within minutes, suffocated by their own cores. I was powerful enough to survive, but..." His lip curled back, exposing fangs. "I required blood to sustain my strength."

Contempt hardened every word.

"Me. An Archduke. Forced to consume blood like some common peasant." His fangs bared fully, ivory-white against the desiccated ruin of his face. "I could barely even walk beneath the sun!"

He gestured at himself with one hand.

"Mirethiel offered me her blood."

The elders inhaled sharply.

"With extreme self-loathing, I accepted."

"He killed the Holy Daughter!" one of the elders wailed.

The Archduke's gaze snapped to her.

"I did not kill her, you incessantly screeching, ignorant child." Cold contempt froze every word. "I drank only what I required to sustain myself. Mirethiel died of old age. She refused to leave me, even as her body failed. She insisted this tomb would be her final resting place."

Quinlan nodded slowly.

The legend made sense now. She'd been protecting her husband from discovery.

"What a tale…" he said quietly.

He meant it.

The grief in that shriveled corpse was something Quinlan understood. He had women he loved more than life itself. If Ayame died in his arms, if Blossom's light went out, if any of them…

He didn't know what he'd do.

Sitting in a dark tomb for epochs and brooding in misery sounded about right.

"Why did you not turn her?"

The words left his mouth, curious.

The Archduke's eyes blazed.

"Turn her?" His voice dropped, dangerous. "Turn my noble wife into a thrall?"

"Wouldn't that have been better than losing her?"

"No!"

The word cracked through the chamber.

"By letting her die, I lost her but I retained her memory. Her warmth. Her voice, grating on the ears as it was." The Archduke's hands gripped the armrests hard enough that the ancient stone groaned. "If I had turned her, only a sad husk would have remained. A puppet wearing her face. I would have defiled everything she was."

Quinlan nodded his head.

"It was just a question. I meant no disrespect."

The rage drained from the Archduke as quickly as it had come. He settled back against the throne, and when he spoke again, his voice had returned to that dry, ancient cadence.

"I am aware. I apologize for lashing out. That was... unbecoming of me."

"No worries, gramps." Quinlan let his posture relax. "So Mirethiel succumbed to the cruel passage of time. What then?"

"Nothing."

The vampire stared at him with hollow red eyes.

"I have barely moved an inch since I laid her body to rest. The only time I traveled more than a few meters from this throne was when I delivered the elixirs to that merchant."

"You didn't even drink blood to sustain yourself?"

"None." The red eyes dimmed. "I lost my will to live. I wanted to die. Hence my current state. Too powerful to perish from the Suppression, but lacking the motivation to do anything other than sit and... wait. For an eternity."

Quinlan looked at him for a long moment.

"What a fate." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, old man. So what did you need a primordial for?"

"The only reason I am still here," the Archduke said, "the only reason I did not end my existence after laying her to rest, is because Mirethiel asked something of me before she passed."

His hand reached into his robes.

When it emerged, it held a small vessel.

Quinlan's eyes went wide.

The artifact pulsed with energy so pure it made his primordial blood sing. Drops of liquid that looked like water, radiating a warmth that had no place in this cold tomb.

"This is…"

"A Mother's Weeping Requiem," the Archduke finished for him. "Housing the tears of her mother, Primordial Luminara."