Origins : The Line of Selene

Troy, 1124 BCE
 

The wind rose fierce off the Aegean, casting dust across scorched fields once soaked with hero's blood. Kingdoms collapsed in the time it took for a mortal to blink. And amid the ruins of men’s empires, something older stirred—something not born of war, but of reckoning.

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Selene was not a queen. Not yet. Not then.

 

She was a girl hunted by shadows and haunted by light, born in the hills beyond Ilion to a family of seers whose tongues had long been silenced by men who feared what they could not control. Her beauty was quiet, austere, untouched by vanity but cloaked in something stranger—gravity, perhaps. She never wept, not even when her brothers were slain by temple guards. She only stared, as though waiting for an answer none dared ask.

 

The elders called her cursed.
 

The slaves called her holy.
 

And the gods—if they watched—did not speak.

 

But one night, when the sky cracked open and the sea trembled at its edges, a figure appeared in the olive grove where Selene prayed. It did not wear wings, nor gleam with divine light. It was cloaked in shadow, with eyes that burned without flame. She thought it was Evil—come to devour her flesh or seduce her will. But the thing only watched.

 

Then it spoke:

"You fear the dark, child. But it is in the dark that vision is born."

 

Selene, too proud to tremble, asked it plainly:

"What are you?"

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It did not answer. Instead, it reached forward and placed a cold hand to her heart. And when she screamed—not from pain, but from the flood of knowledge and hunger and eternity that rushed into her veins—it whispered:

"Every fifty years, you will see what no mortal should. You will remember what the world forgets. You will know them before they are born."

 

“How can I live that long?” she cried, gasping.

 

"You will not live. But you will endure."

 

What followed was exile. Her kin cast her out. Her skin grew pale as milk. Her pulse slowed. Her hunger... changed. It was not for bread or fruit or even flesh—it was for life itself. She could feel it in men’s blood, in their breath, in the warmth that fled their bodies when they died. But she resisted. She would not become what the darkness whispered she could be.

 

She wandered from Troy to Thebes, from Alexandria before its founding to ruins where gods had once walked. And always, every fifty years, the vision came—searing through her skull, leaving her breathless and blind for days.

Each vision revealed a woman—not yet born—each one destined to alter the balance between darkness and light. These were not saints. Nor were they demons. They were sovereigns of shadow, women who would rule not with crowns, but with fear, seduction, fire, steel, or silence.

 

She saw them—one by one:

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• The tactician who’d turn chaos into a throne.

• The seductress who’d make kingdoms bleed for love.

• The phantom queen of Constantinople who’d disappear with your soul.

• The moon-eyed matriarch weaving illusions like silk.

• The silent priestess whose gaze could unmake kings.

• The lioness of Abyssinia, who would rally the scattered.

• The raider of ice, who would break mountains for loyalty.

• The serpent queen of Deccan, justice in venomous skin.

• The wild card of the Celts, laughing in the flames of order.

• The long-gaming prophetess of Etruria, who sees all, speaks little.

 

And more—always more.

 

No one knows who the first undead was.
 

There are whispers—of a man, vanished before memory, before scripture. A shadow in older shadows. Perhaps myth. Perhaps god.
 

But among the Children of the Night, only one name echoes across centuries with certainty: Selene.
She is the oldest of them…
 

Yet she is not of them.
 

She is for them.
 

And for mankind.

 

She walks between destinies, not above them. She was their witness, their harbinger, their reminder that what they were could still matter.

 

Each vision led her to one of the matriarchs in time. She never forced, never lied. She offered glimpses—not answers. And each woman, hardened by her own journey, listened. Hungered. All asked the same question in veiled words:

 

“Am I the one? Will mine be the clan that unites the rest—under the Golden Light?”

 

Selene never confirmed. Never denied.

 

Because she didn’t know. Not yet. Perhaps never.

 

Those who followed her—those who sought the path not of conquest, but of calling—became her kin. Not vampires in the way men told tales, but something older. More exacting. Prophets. Seers. Messengers of balance.

The world called them White Vampires.
 

She called them her bloodless children.
 

Her Levi’im.
 

Her Watchers.

 

And still—she walks.

 

They say she appears at dusk in the places where kingdoms rot and empires are born again. That her eyes are the color of forgotten prayers. That her kiss burns like ice.

 

But mostly, they say she waits.
 

Because one vision has not yet come.

 

Welcome to the Line of Selene.