He lay down in silence, arms folded behind his head, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The fire in the hearth had died to a dull ember. Outside, the wind had softened.
His eyelids lowered.
Sleep never truly came for creatures like him—but he welcomed the stillness when it found him.
A moment passed. Maybe two.
Then something shifted.
It began at his fingertips. A subtle numbness. As though the air around them had thickened. Heavy. Cold.
He exhaled—yet saw no mist.
Odd.
"He tried to blink. Nothing. Even his eyes defied him."
A blink wouldn't come.
His body was still—too still.
His breath, gone.
The room around him no longer held warmth. A gust of wind brushed across his cheek like frostbitten silk. Not from the window. Not from outside.
From nowhere.
Or everywhere.
He could feel it now—an ancient cold creeping over him, not just against his skin but beneath it. Through his veins. Into the marrow of his bones.
He summoned strength. Pushed with his mind. Willed his eyes to open.
Nothing.
Then… a sound.
Soft.
Subtle.
A whisper—not, a breath—that wasn't his.
It grazed past his ear like someone crouching beside the bed.
Then silence again.
Still paralyzed, he listened.
Another inhale—nearer now.
Then came a voice…"
Not loud. Not menacing.
Just…
Wrong.
"I see you now," it said.
Low.
And curious.
Like it had been trying to find him, and finally succeeded.
His heart—once long still—twitched.
Not from fear.
But from the memory of it.
"I see you, child of night," it whispered again, colder now, thick with something ancient.
Then it was gone.
The weight lifted.
His eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright, fists clenched, "Fangs bared, chest heaving with breath that wasn't his to claim anymore."
The room was just as he left it.
But he was not the same.
And somewhere, hidden in that unnatural wind…
Something else now knew he was watching.
The morning came too gently.
The wind that had stirred in the night was gone, leaving the village wrapped in a hush that felt deliberate.
"The iron in the air pulled at something old inside him. Not fresh… but not buried. It had left a scent—and a path. He had to follow."
No crows called. No leaves rustled. The kind of silence that arrived after something had passed through.
He sat at the edge of the bed, unmoving, fingertips grazing the wood grain of the nightstand as if grounding himself in something real.
The fire had burned to grey ash.
The shadows in the room felt longer than they should at dawn.
He blinked slowly, once.
No breath on his neck. No whispers.
But the chill lingered beneath his skin.
He stood.
Moved to the small basin by the window and poured water into his palms. It felt colder than usual. Not from the weather—unnatural.
His reflection shimmered in the water's surface. Pale. Ancient. Familiar.
But his eyes were not.
They held something else this morning—like they remembered something he hadn't lived.
He dressed slowly.
Pulled on the long black coat that had weathered centuries.
Lit the fire again, watching the first flame catch.
Then, with measured steps, he moved through the house.
It was quiet. Still. But different.
A scent in the air. Not of smoke or dust.
But of iron.
Old blood.
His brows furrowed, jaw tight.
Not fresh. Not nearby. But present—somewhere.
He opened the door and stepped outside.
The sun hung low, muted behind a thin veil of cloud. The grass was damp. A few villagers passed by in the distance, carrying baskets, nodding in greeting, unaware of what prowled beneath their peaceful morning.
He offered no nod back.
His eyes were scanning. Searching.
Not for Tilda. Not for ghosts.
But for the presence that spoke to him without voice. The one that whispered in wind and dream.
He walked toward the path that led into the forest, slow and silent.
The birds finally called again behind him.
But the silence ahead remained untouched.
Something had come through the night.
And it was still watching.
His boots met the earth with steady rhythm as he walked deep into the forest.
"The path narrowed, choked by creeping vines and roots that twisted like veins under skin. Trees hunched overhead, their leaves trembling not with wind, but with something else—something unseen.
The air was damp. Metallic.
He paused.
Lowered his gaze to the soil—undisturbed, save for a faint drag mark, almost like something had been pulled rather than walked. But it ended too soon. Vanished into nothing.
He crouched down, fingers brushing the dirt. Still cold.
Recent.
Yet it gave no scent, no trace of life.
He straightened, closed his eyes.
Listened.
Not with ears.
With something older.
Something beyond the senses of mortals.
And in that deep inner silence, he felt it again—a flicker like a flame held behind thick glass. Faint, distant. Not malevolent… yet not kind either. Watching. Hiding.
He turned his head slightly to the left. There.
A rustle. Barely audible.
But when he moved, it was gone.
He walked deeper.
The canopy grew darker.
Time seemed to slow. Trees pressed closer. The wind, when it returned, brushed against his skin like a whisper too close to be comfortable.
His hand grazed the handle of the dagger tucked beneath his coat. Silver-lined. Etched with spells from a century he hadn't revisited in decades.
Just in case.
Birds stopped singing again.
He stepped into a small clearing.
At the center, a stone.
Worn, moss-covered, yet the symbols carved into its surface were unmistakable—an ancient language, long dead, one even older than him.
He approached, brushing off the moss.
The markings were fresh.
Recently reawakened.
"He stood frozen before the moss-covered stone… and for the first time in years, a whisper of something old stirred within him. Not fear. But the memory of it."
his fingers still resting on the worn surface where ancient runes glimmered faintly beneath his touch.
The air around him had gone still—unnaturally so, as if the forest itself had stopped breathing.
"This isn't random," he thought, eyes narrowing. "This was left. For someone… or something."
A single crow called in the distance, then fell silent.
He ran his thumb over the freshly disturbed symbols. The carvings were deliberate—sharp, clean, too recent for a place so forgotten.
"Who would know this script?" His heart beat slower, quieter. "No one alive… and none I've turned."
A low hum buzzed at the edge of his hearing. Not a sound, exactly. A presence. Faint, like a whisper behind a closed door.
"You're not hiding because you're afraid," he told the silence. "You're watching. Studying me."
The trees around him leaned in, like an audience held in breathless anticipation.
He straightened, eyes scanning the edges of the clearing. Still no movement. No footsteps. Not even the usual trembling of leaves in wind.
"I should leave."
But he didn't move.
"Not yet."
A long breath escaped him as he closed his eyes. "It's not just evil… It's old. "Not merely evil… Older than the earth I walk on. Careful. Studying, like a predator who's already decided I'll run."
Then, quieter—like a thought hidden from even himself:
"Or it wants me to feel powerless."
The symbols glowed faintly under his touch again.
He flinched.
Cold bloomed from the stone like a pulse—like something beneath it had stirred.
He stepped back.
"Not today," he muttered aloud, eyes flicking to the treeline. "You won't draw me in just yet."
He turned away, leaving the clearing, his senses prickling with awareness that whatever had left that mark was still near.
Watching.Waiting.
"He pivoted slowly, eyes combing the shadows for movement that never came. but nothing followed. No footprints. No sound.
"Just a silence that seemed to breathe with him—patient, knowing, already one step ahead."