The Atheson Coven is among the oldest and most established vampire covens in Aegisguard, tracing its bloodline back to the 640s, when the Creator walked the Rhenovaalis frontier in pursuit of Diabolus cultists. It was during these years—long before the city of Atheson existed—that he came upon a quiet village tucked against the edge of wild, mist-covered forest. The land was cold, iron-rich, and laced with ley lines. It hummed with power.

The Creator, always two steps ahead of other non-human factions, sensed the strategic value of the place. If left unguarded, it would become a battleground—claimed by werewolves, demons, or worse. So he laid his claim not with bloodshed, but with foresight. He established a haven, one meant to last, and seeded it with purpose.

Among the first to be turned and trusted with its care was Eyra, one of the Creator’s earliest Fellkin. Fierce, ambitious, and unnervingly beautiful, she became Coven Master by his decree and remained so until her betrayal. With her, the Atheson Coven was formally born, a rooted force of structure, law, and secrecy.

Half a century later, during the chaos of the War of the Red Provinces [698(TG)-700(TG)], the Creator guided the coven; it made itself known again through mercy, not conquest. Wounded soldiers, abandoned by their comrades and left to die in the woods and on the moors surrounding Atheson, were taken in by Eyra and her Fellkin. Many were turned, and others were buried with dignity. At the time, the people of Atheson spoke of the vampires as saviours.

But memory is short, and fear is eternal.

As generations passed, and the war faded into history books and forgotten names, the truth was twisted. The vampires’ aid became a rumour, and their presence a threat. Whispers grew into prejudice, and reverence soured into resentment. Now, the coven exists in uneasy parallel with the city it helped save, hunted by some, ignored by others, but always watching.

Over the centuries, the Atheson Coven found itself under siege in slow, invisible ways. Hunters crept through the borders at night, laying traps in the old woods. Rogue werewolf packs tested the strength of the wards. Demons made quiet offers to the disillusioned, whispering promises of power to the desperate or angry. Every decade brought new enemies, some with silver, some with fire, others with charm and poisoned bargains.

Little by little, the coven thinned. And the city turned its back.

By the year 960(TG), the humans of Atheson City—now a sprawling industrial hub built atop the soil the coven had once defended—had all but forgotten the debt of centuries past. Superstition had curdled into fear. When livestock went missing, or a corpse surfaced without blood, blame found its way to the vampires, whether true or not.

So the city hired a solution. A professional hunter known only as The Silver Claw—a legend among monster-killers—was brought in through pooled funds raised by the city’s more prominent families. Ruthless, methodical, and equipped with tools not seen since the old wars, the Silver Claw began methodically stalking the Atheson Coven. Two Knights were killed not long after the hunter’s arrival.

In response, the Creator returned to the city in force.

By then, the Creator had begun forging uneasy alliances with werewolf packs under Greymore’s rule—an unprecedented move in a world where vampires and werewolves had stood on opposite sides of nearly every conflict. It was part diplomacy, part necessity. The world was changing, and so too did survival demand adaptation. To test the bounds of that fragile cooperation, the Duskroot Pack, known for their discipline and neutrality, were assigned to patrol and protect the Sanctum grounds—a gesture of faith the Creator hoped would begin to normalize the presence of werewolves among his kind.

Not all vampires welcomed it. Still, the Creator pressed forward. He began turning new vampires, not from distant lands, but from within Atheson itself; civilians, teachers, and workers. The idea was simple: turn those the city loved and trusted, and let that closeness reforge a bridge long since broken. If their sons and daughters became vampires, would they still raise a blade? Or would memory soften their hate? It was a risk, a quiet, hopeful gamble.

But one vampire fractured the plan before it could take root.

Eyra, the coven’s long-standing leader, and one of the Creator’s first and most trusted creations, had acted without his knowledge. Over the course of two decades, she had turned over seventy humans, not to strengthen the coven, but to serve her own ambitions. Many were turned without consent, and others were barely vetted. It was a flagrant violation of vampire law, one that jeopardized not only Atheson but the fragile coexistence of vampirekind across the continent.

When the Creator uncovered the truth, it enraged him. There could be no leniency, not even for her.

Eyra was brought to trial by the Vampire Council, found guilty, and sentenced to the rarest punishment of all: Unmaking. Her vampirism was stripped away through ancient rite, and she was returned to her mortal form—fragile, aging, and utterly human. She was then handed over to the families of those she had turned, left to the mercy of those she betrayed.

What became of her is not widely spoken of; some say she begged, others say she didn’t. What was certain, though, was that her name would be erased and overshadowed by Noctrel, Dignified to Coven Master on Saturday, Aprilis 1st, 960(TG), replacing Eyra, and trusted by the Creator to heal the wounds left in her wake.

Where Eyra had ruled through control and quiet defiance, Noctrel led with precision and poise. Elegant, enigmatic, and impossible to ignore, they brought a steadier hand to a coven still bleeding from betrayal. After the Silver Claw was finally killed—a coordinated effort between vampires, the Duskroot Pack, and demons of the Zenith’s Legion—Noctrel shifted the coven’s focus to something even more delicate: reconciliation.

The newly turned vampires, still tethered to their mortal roots in Atheson, became the first bridge. Noctrel assigned them to city outreach efforts—quiet protection, visible aid, conflict de-escalation. When Lilidian demons raided the lower wards, it was the coven who arrived first. When a child vanished near the south wall, it was a vampire who found her. These moments, small but undeniable, began to chip away at centuries of fear.

The alliance remains fragile, still whispered about in taverns, still debated in council halls, but it is no longer unthinkable. Under Noctrel’s leadership, the Atheson Coven walks the narrow line between myth and memory, trying, finally, to be seen as more than the monsters in the dark.