"I was helping." Alucard gestured vaguely toward the east. "There are other horrors. The Forgemaster's disciples are digging up the graves of every battlefield from the Rhine to the Pyrenees. While you fight the queen, I fight the pawns. It is... undignified."
The rain stopped. Not faded—stopped. Mid-drop, the water hung suspended in the air like frozen tears. The temperature plummeted. The candlelit windows in the town behind them went dark, one by one, as if a giant hand was snuffing them out.
Alucard turned his head. For the first time, the mask of cold aristocracy cracked. Beneath it was something raw. "I know. I have outlived every friend I ever made. I will likely outlive you, too. And I am so tired of attending funerals for people who taught me how to feel."
Richter grinned—a sharp, desperate, stupidly brave grin. "No promises, vampire."
"My family is dead," Richter whispered.
Alucard sheathed his sword in one fluid motion and walked to the edge of the dock, standing beside Richter. For a long moment, they both stared into the black water.
He stood alone on the dock, the Morning Star coiled at his hip, heavy as a coiled serpent. Behind him, the city slept in terrified ignorance. A few candles flickered in windows. A dog barked somewhere in the dark. They didn't know that the sun was being unmade.
He didn't turn. He knew the voice. It was the whisper of steel on leather, the scent of old libraries and older blood.
"Try not to die before I do," Alucard said.
"You could have helped us in Machecoul," Richter said, the accusation flat, devoid of heat. He was too tired for anger.
Beside him, Alucard raised his sword. The last son of Dracula and the last heir of Belmont stood shoulder to shoulder on a dying wharf, facing an eclipse made flesh.
And the night screamed back.
"Let her come," Richter said, and for the first time that night, his voice did not shake. He cracked his whip, and the air itself screamed.
"Richter."
