Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

When Damian awoke the next morning, the first thing he did was look up at the sky through his window. The moon, still hanging in the sky, had begun to wane, its once-full glow fading into the soft, pale light of dawn. Though the night was fading, it lingered in the shadows of the room, casting an ethereal glow across the space. It was still early, a time when the world seemed to hold its breath before the day truly began. Yet, despite the stillness, Damian could hear faint sounds of movement downstairs—footsteps, quiet murmurs, the unmistakable signs of life stirring in the house.

Curious, he rose from his bed, the chill of the morning air brushing against his skin. He paused for a moment, allowing his senses to settle into the rhythm of the house, before making his way downstairs. The old wooden floors creaked underfoot as he descended, each step muffled by the quiet of the morning. The house was large, sprawling in its own ancient way, and each room seemed to carry its own stories—silent witnesses to the passing of time. The dim light from the hallway flickered as he walked, casting long shadows that danced along the walls like forgotten memories.

When Damian reached the bottom of the stairs, he found his father sitting at the dining table, his figure perfectly poised, as always. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit, dark and sleek, the fabric gleaming faintly in the soft glow of the morning light. His appearance was immaculate, the sharp lines of his clothing mirroring the sharpness in his gaze. A magazine was laid open before him, but his eyes rarely strayed to the pages. They seemed lost somewhere distant, far beyond the reach of the printed words. His fingers lightly traced the rim of the glass in his hand—a glass of deep red wine, the liquid swirling gently as he raised it to his lips, sipping slowly, savoring the moment.

Every now and then, his father would glance up, his eyes catching Damian's for a fleeting second before returning to the glass in his hand. There was a stillness in the room, a quiet that seemed almost unnatural, as if the world outside had ceased to exist for the moment.

His mother, on the other hand, was already in the kitchen. She wore a simple apron, a stark contrast to her husband's pristine suit, but there was something undeniably graceful about her as she moved about the kitchen. Her hands worked quickly, preparing the morning meal with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times. The scent of cooked food began to fill the room, the warm, comforting aromas of breakfast, rich and inviting. She was humming softly to herself, lost in the rhythm of the moment, the click of utensils against dishes the only sound breaking the silence.

When she turned and noticed Damian standing at the doorway, a soft smile curled at the corners of her lips. "Oh, sweetie, you're up early today," she said, her voice light, almost teasing. Her eyes studied him for a moment, a brief pause that felt as though she were trying to gauge something about him, but she didn't ask. Instead, she moved back to the stove, her hands continuing their work.

"Yeah, I don't even know why," Damian muttered, taking a seat at the table, his tone more contemplative than anything else. The questions that had been on his mind the night before—what was happening, why he was feeling the way he did—still lingered in his thoughts. But for now, he pushed them aside. There was something more pressing that needed his attention. "Are you going somewhere, Dad?"

His father looked up from the table, his eyes meeting Damian's with an unreadable expression. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady and calm. "I need to be in Rome by 10 a.m. today." His words were simple, direct, but the weight of them hung in the air, as though there was more to the story that wasn't being said.

Damian didn't ask why. There was no point. If it was something he needed to know, someone would have told him. For now, it was enough to simply hear it and let it settle in his mind, like another piece of the puzzle he was trying to put together. Instead, he focused on the steady rhythm of his mother's cooking, the way she moved so effortlessly, as if nothing could disturb her peace.

Mrs. Vlad soon finished cooking, and the aroma of the meal grew stronger. The plates were carefully filled, each dish placed with precision, as if the act of serving was an art in itself. She dished the food out for all of them, the clink of plates against the table sounding in the otherwise quiet room. There was something almost ritualistic in the way she worked, a quiet elegance to her every movement.

Damian ate, his senses caught between the food and the thoughts that raced through his mind. The taste was rich, satisfying, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind wandered to the school day ahead—what would happen when he stepped through the gates? Would things be the same as before, or was something about to change? Half of him relished the warmth of the meal, the comfort it offered, while the other half churned with unease. There was a storm brewing just beyond the horizon, and he could feel it in his bones.

After finishing his meal, he retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower, the hot water soothing his tense muscles. He dried off quickly, the soft towel against his skin a welcome relief from the cool air that greeted him as he stepped out. He moved to the wardrobe, scanning the rows of clothing hanging neatly inside. His fingers hovered over the choices, each garment a reflection of the different lives he could lead, the different faces he could wear. In the end, he chose a simple black top, tight enough to cling to his body and showcase the muscles he had grown accustomed to, and a pair of blue jeans. It was nothing extravagant, nothing too flashy, but on him, it looked like it had been made for a supermodel.

When he was dressed, he made his way downstairs. His mother was already waiting for him, her eyes briefly lifting from her phone as he approached. There was something about her that made Damian wonder if she had an infinite reservoir of energy. She never seemed to tire, always ready, always poised.

"I'm ready, Mom," he called as he descended the stairs, his voice calm but carrying the weight of the morning's events.

"Okay, son," she replied, looking up at him with a small nod. She put her phone down, got up from her seat, and together they headed outside, the cool morning air greeting them as they stepped into the world beyond the house, leaving the stillness of the morning behind.