The screaming didn't stop. It changed—splitting and multiplying like shattered glass in the air.
Rael's first instinct was movement. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. He shoved through the stunned crowd, muscles tensed, eyes narrowed, heart hammering like a war drum in his ears.
From the northern ridge, smoke was rising—black smoke, too thick, too fast. Something was burning. No—several things.
A guard stumbled into the square, his throat missing, arms flailing like he was trying to swim through air. He collapsed a few feet from Rael, dead before he hit the ground.
The crowd erupted into panic.
Rael saw children disappear beneath stampeding legs. Someone dropped a torch. Another shrieked about shadows. But Rael's focus tunneled.
He ran.
By the time he reached the far end of the square, the village's northern outpost was already gone—just gone. Ash and splintered wood scattered across the dirt like confetti from a funeral. Three houses burned in eerie silence.
No crackling. No groaning timber. Just fire that whispered.
Rael darted behind a wall, peeking around.
What he saw stopped him cold.
Figures moved through the flames—pale and twisted, skin stretched tight over long limbs, their eyes glowing red but too wide, like they had no lids. Their mouths didn't just open—they split, from ear to cheek, revealing rows of jagged, needlelike teeth.
Vampires.
But not the noble bloods he'd read about in dusty texts. These were rogues—feral, unkept, evolved beyond civility. Their bodies flickered at the edges, like they couldn't decide whether they were made of smoke or flesh.
And they didn't speak.
One of them bent over a villager who had fallen. It didn't bite—it inhaled.
Rael could see the person's skin wither, collapse, implode like wet paper.
A second vampire appeared behind the first—then a third. One of them turned, tilting its head at an unnatural angle, sensing something.
Him.
Rael took off running.
He barreled through side alleys, dodging falling embers and screaming voices. His thoughts weren't clear—just instinct: find Uncle Dagen, get to the barn, help anyone still alive.
He reached the main lane just as a mother dragged her daughter out of a burning hut. A vampire dropped from the rooftop in front of them—like falling silk. It landed soundlessly, head cocked, tongue twitching like it was sniffing emotion.
Rael didn't stop.
He picked up a broken hoe and charged, swinging wide.
The vampire caught it with two fingers.
It looked at Rael. Not surprised. Not angry.
Amused.
Then it backhanded him.
Rael flew five feet, crashed into a cart of apples, and rolled.
His head spun. Everything was pain and flashing stars. But as the mother screamed, he forced himself up.
The vampire advanced.
Rael grabbed a lantern—smashed it against the creature's leg.
Flames burst up its side, and for the first time, it made a sound—a clicking hiss, like steam under pressure. It retreated, half-burned, disappearing into shadow.
Rael stumbled forward. "Move—now!" he barked at the woman.
She ran. Her daughter clung to her side.
Rael stood there panting, vision blurred, ears ringing.
That's when he saw it.
His house, On fire.
Rael sprinted—dodging falling beams, smoke biting his lungs. The door was open. Inside, the dining table was overturned. His uncle's axe lay in the middle of the room, snapped.
And in the corner—Dagen.
Pinned to the wall by a vampire's hand, which had pierced straight through his chest, fingers sprouting from the other side like black roots.
Blood poured down like red rain. Dagen's eyes locked on Rael's.
And he smiled.
"Thought I told you…" he coughed, blood running down his lip, "…too many potatoes."
Rael didn't scream.
He moved.
He didn't feel the heat, or the splinters, or the fresh vampire appearing behind him.
All he felt was the thrum—deep inside him, like a beast waking in his bones.
His vision blurred.
And somewhere beneath the floor of his soul, a voice whispered:
"Finally."