The forest seemed alive, as if it had been holding its breath for centuries and was only now releasing it in long, heavy sighs through the whispering branches. Its emerald canopy hung thick above me, so dense that only narrow blades of sunlight broke through, cutting streaks of gold into the dimness. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of moss and earth. Beneath me, the mud was cold, soaking into my cloak, seeping into my bones like a slow, merciless poison. My body felt like a broken vessel, cracked and leaking life with every ragged breath I managed to draw.

"We don’t have much time, Lucien," I whispered, my voice hoarse and thin against the endless symphony of the forest. "Please, you have to do it now."

Lucien knelt beside me, his shadow falling across my failing body. His arms pulled me close, strong but trembling, a desperate attempt to hold me together. He buried his face against my neck, and when he spoke, his words were soaked in grief.

"I can’t," he said, choking on the admission. "I simply cannot."

"Why not?" my voice cracked, my strength stretched thin, but I forced the words out anyway. "Have you finally lost faith in me? After everything we’ve done, after all the battles, the scars, the nights we thought we wouldn’t see dawn—have you lost faith now?"

His head snapped up. His eyes, usually steady as the horizon, now burned with a storm of hurt and fury. "Don’t you dare say that," he growled, his voice breaking into rawness. "Don’t you understand the risk? If this ritual fails, if it consumes you—" his throat tightened, his hands gripping me harder. "If you vanish, how could I live with it? How could I live knowing I was the one who ended you?"

Despite the agony twisting through me, I reached up and touched his face. My fingers shook, but I managed to brush them along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. His eyes searched mine, torn between hope and dread.

"I’ll come back," I told him, my tone soft, but certain. "I swear it, Lucien. This isn’t the end, it can’t be. We’ve run out of roads, and this is the only path left, you know it as well as I do."

He let out a sound that was part sigh, part sob, defeat, reluctance. His embrace loosened, like he was afraid even his arms could shatter me further. Then, with trembling hands, he drew his sword. The polished steel caught what little sunlight trickled down through the trees, a cruel shard of brightness in the gloom. He raised the blade, holding its tip just above my heart. His entire frame shook, his jaw clenched tight as though he were holding himself back from collapsing entirely.

I gave him what little I had left—a smile, fragile and fleeting, but real. "Remember what I told you," I whispered. "This isn't our ending, I refuse to let it be."

"And if you’re wrong?" his voice was nothing but cracked glass. "If your promise breaks, I will never forgive myself, not in this life, not in any that follow."

The moment hung between us, unbearable in its silence. But then the world intruded. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the rhythmic pounding of hooves, horses. Many of them, drawing closer. My stomach turned cold.

"Now, Lucien!" my urgency cracked the quiet. "They’re coming—now!"

I grabbed his hand, his fingers clenched so tightly around the sword’s hilt that his knuckles had gone white. With what remained of my strength, I guided the blade. The steel pressed against me, and then, white-hot agony tore through my chest. It ripped my breath away, searing everything inside me. The forest spun, the sounds blurred and faded, swallowed by silence. Somewhere in the distance, I heard his cry—a sound too raw to be human, a sound that broke me in ways the sword never could. Then darkness closed in, vast and endless, and I was gone.

...•••...

...(650 years later)...

The first thing I felt was sunlight. Not warmth on my skin exactly, but a glow that slipped through my eyelids, tugging me awake. My eyes blinked open to find a golden stripe of morning cutting across my bedroom wall. The curtains hadn’t done their job, but I didn’t mind. I stretched, arms lifting high above my head, feeling a pleasant ache ripple through muscles still tired from the chaos of moving.

Cardboard boxes were stacked like crooked towers around the room, reminders of my unfinished business. I hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t bothered to arrange the little fragments of my life into this new space yet. The room was still strange, sterile, waiting to be claimed.

Swinging my legs over the bed, my feet touched the marble floor—cool, smooth, grounding. I padded across to the window, pushing it open wide. The city’s air rushed in, crisp and bright. Somewhere below, I heard traffic, voices, life buzzing forward.

Today was the day. My first day at university.

Excitement and loneliness tangled together in my chest. Independence was what I’d wanted, what I’d fought for. My parents had supported me without hesitation, cheering me on as I left home to chase the dream that had haunted me since childhood. Painting, specifically. It was in my bones. I’d bled for it on canvas more times than I could count. Now, at last, I had a place to nurture that passion properly.

Still, the ache of loneliness was real. A new city. No familiar faces. Just me, my brushes, my sketchbooks, and the fragile hope that this choice was the right one.

At my desk, I flipped open my laptop. The glow of the screen lit my face, pulling me fully into the present. My schedule was there, neat and official. Everything was in order. Relief trickled through me. I transferred the documents to my phone—better safe than sorry—before shutting the laptop and heading to get ready.

I dressed carefully. Not fancy, but deliberate. Jeans, a fitted top, a jacket that suggested confidence even if I didn’t fully feel it yet. My hair fell in loose waves, brushed out until it caught the light. A light spritz of perfume—the floral kind I always wore—was the last step, a small anchor that reminded me of home.

The university was a twenty-minute walk away, the city unfolding around me as I went. My heart beat fast, but not from nerves alone. There was a sense of standing at the edge of something vast, unknown.

...•••...

The university’s main corridor was chaos. Students streamed through it in every direction, voices rising and falling in an ocean of noise. Bags swung over shoulders, laughter burst from clusters of friends, papers fluttered.

I clutched my phone, the university map open like a lifeline, and navigated carefully through the crowd.

Eyes followed me as I moved. I felt them, sharp and lingering, heard the hushed comments that trailed behind. "She’s stunning," someone whispered. It wasn’t new. I’d grown used to stares, to the odd comments, to beauty being noticed more than anything else about me. It was never something I took pride in. If anything, it was exhausting. Beauty was skin-deep, and skin was fragile.

I found my locker easily. Cool metal beneath my hand, relief. But when I glanced to the side, someone was already standing there.

A girl with a wide, toothy smile stared straight at me, eyes sparkling like she’d been waiting just for me. I gave her a cautious smile in return, polite but uncertain. Her grin somehow grew wider.

"Hi!" she said brightly, thrusting out her hand. "I’m Sasha. You are absolutely gorgeous. Are you new here?"

Her energy was like a sunbeam I hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid. I shook her hand, caught off guard by the firm grip, and before I could say anything, she pulled me into a hug. Quick, but warm.

I stiffened at first. Strangers didn’t hug me. But oddly, I didn’t hate it.

"I’m Elara," I said once I’d regained my composure. My voice sounded quieter than usual. "Yes, I’m new. Fine Arts."

Her gasp was dramatic. "No way. Same! Well, sort of. I’m more into photography than painting, but still uh, arts. That means we’re stuck together, okay?"

I laughed under my breath, a sound that surprised me with how natural it felt. She really was a whirlwind.

While I arranged my sketchbooks and paints inside the locker, she lingered beside me, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Do you paint too sometimes?" I asked, partly curious, partly trying to redirect her boundless energy.

Her smile faltered for the first time, just a flicker. "Not really. Like I said, I’m more of a photography person. Old buildings, sunsets, vintage vibes—stuff like that. Oh, but you?" her grin returned, mischievous. "You’re basically aesthetic personified," she winked.

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. "You just met me and you’re already dropping lines like that?"

"Don’t worry, don’t worry," she laughed, hands raised as if to surrender. "I’m strictly into guys. I just have an appreciation for beauty, that’s all. Occupational hazard of being an artist."

She winked again, and I shook my head, unable to stop the chuckle that slipped out.

With my bag packed, I slung it over my shoulder. Sasha immediately fell into step beside me as I made my way toward the lecture hall. She chattered non-stop, her words bouncing with excitement, filling the silence I hadn’t realized was weighing on me.

And maybe, just maybe, I thought as I listened, this new beginning wouldn’t be so lonely after all.

My first day of classes went better than I could have hoped. Sasha was everything—loud, bubbly, practically magnetic—and it wasn’t long before she had a whole group of students laughing around her like she’d known them forever. She had that effect on people, drawing them in with an ease I couldn’t even fake.

I, on the other hand, had the opposite reaction. By the time lunch rolled around, I could feel the cold glares from half the girls in the room. I didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were thinking. It wasn’t the first time I’d walked into a new place and immediately been labeled as the competitor. Apparently, just existing was enough to make me their enemy.

It wasn’t my fault. If my face was too much for them, well, they’d just have to deal with it.

After the final lecture, I was sliding my books into my bag, eager to slip out unnoticed, when Sasha swooped in with that irrepressible grin of hers.

"Where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re heading straight home. It’s barely noon!"

I leaned back against the desk, tired already. "What else would I do? I’m completely new to this city. It’s not like I know where to go."

Her eyes lit up instantly. "Well, that settles it. Since you’re the new girl, I'm officially your tour guide," she clasped her hands together like she’d just made a blood pact. "Besides, I need company for a little trip. Come with me, please? I’ll treat you to ice cream."

"I don’t like ice cream," my voice came out flat.

She blinked at me like I’d just confessed to murder. "Don’t lie. What girl on earth doesn’t like ice cream?"

"Me," I deadpanned.

Her mouth twisted as she tapped her chin theatrically. "Fine. Peanut butter sandwich, then?"

"I’m allergic to peanuts."

She groaned, throwing her head back. "You’re impossible! Okay, fine, let’s simplify this. I’ll treat you to lunch. I know a place with the absolute best grilled chicken in the city. You can’t say no to that."

A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "That actually sounds wonderful, all right."

Her grin widened in triumph. "Perfect, you’re going to thank me later."

We left together, weaving through the busy corridor. Male students passed us, some bold enough to stop me with offers of chocolate bars or roses. I accepted politely, mostly to avoid being rude. Sasha didn’t seem the least bit jealous or threatened, if anything, she looked amused, like she was watching a parade.

Once we reached the parking lot, she pulled a camera out of her bag—high quality, sleek, and heavy, the kind you saw in magazines. She fiddled with the lens while I watched.

"That’s a fantastic camera," I said honestly. The engraved strap caught my attention. "It even has your name on it."

Her hands stilled for a beat. "Yeah, my mom gave it to me before she passed away. It’s my treasure. My heirloom, I guess," her voice softened for just a moment before she shook it off. She opened her car door. "Anyway—hop in."

"What about my car?" I asked, gesturing toward my car I’d parked earlier.

"Someone will park it back to your apartment later. Just text me your address."

There was no arguing with her. She handled things with such ease it was almost irritating. I slid into the passenger seat and sent her my address while she started the engine.

...•••...

We drove farther than I expected, away from the busy city center into quieter, older streets. The buildings here were tall and grim, moss climbing up their damp stone walls. The air grew heavier, cooler, and for some reason my chest tightened.

When she finally parked, I stepped out, unsure where we were. She already had her camera raised, snapping photos of the place like she was in heaven.

In front of us stood a cluster of abandoned structures—grand once, maybe, but now fading under layers of neglect. The largest one loomed above the rest, its windows shattered, its doorway gaping like a mouth. The sight gave me goosebumps.

Driven by curiosity, I wandered closer.

"Wait," she called, grabbing my arm before I could linger too long outside. With surprising force, she tugged me through the doorway. Dust swirled around us as we entered. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of old wood and mildew.

"This is incredible," she whispered, clearly delighted. She wandered the cavernous room like it was her playground, snapping shot after shot. Then she brushed off the surface of a sturdy wooden table and motioned to me. "Sit there, just for one photo."

I hesitated. The shadows pressed close around us, and every creak of the old beams made me jump. "Are you sure this place isn’t haunted?"

She rolled her eyes as she set up her tripod. "Nope. I did my research. This building was a vanity project, built by some mayor for political gatherings but nobody came here anymore, he abandoned it. And even if ghosts do exist, they don’t clock in during daylight hours, unless—" her tone turned teasing. "You’re thinking vampires?"

"Vampires are supposed to be afraid of the sun," I said.

"You’ve been reading the wrong books," she countered, snapping the shutter with a smirk. "Garlic, crosses, sunlight—that’s all fairy tale nonsense. The real legends say something very different."

I shook my head. "I don’t believe in legends, or vampires."

She grinned, reviewing the photo. "Funny, you said you believed in ghosts."

I laughed despite myself. She handed me the camera, and I glanced down. The photo startled me. Somehow, in the frame, I looked different—beautiful, but also otherworldly. The cracked walls behind me suited me too well, as if I belonged in that place more than I belonged under the university’s bright lights.

"You’re incredible," I admitted. "Every shot you take looks like art."

She beamed.

True to her promise, she later drove us to the grilled chicken restaurant. The food was mouthwatering, smoky and tender, and for the first time since arriving in the city, I felt like maybe I belonged here.

...•••...

...(4 days later)...

My life had settled into a rhythm faster than I expected. University during the day. Sasha filling the spaces in between with her relentless energy. And at night, I painted.

That evening, I stood in the center of my living room, staring at a blank canvas. My apartment was still sparsely furnished, boxes shoved against walls, but the canvas made it feel alive. I picked up my brush and began without a plan, letting instinct guide me.

Hours slipped past unnoticed. When I finally stepped back, my heart thudded. On the canvas was an ancient castle, its towers half-lost in mist. I didn’t know where it had come from—only that it felt familiar, too familiar.

Shaking the unease away, I hung the painting on my wall. It looked perfect there, proud and haunting.

...•••...

The next morning was a free day. I called Sasha and invited her over, mostly because the silence in my apartment felt too heavy. She showed up in record time, practically bursting through the door.

"You live here?" she spun slowly in the center of the room, hands on hips. "Not bad. Definitely needs more furniture, though."

"I haven’t had time to shop," I said, dragging her to the sofa. "Sit. I’ll get drinks."

"Do you have orange juice?" she asked, flipping through channels on my TV like she owned the place.

I returned with juice and cookies. She reached for the glass, then her eyes caught on the painting.

"Whoa. Did you do that?"

"Yes," I said casually, though I felt a flicker of pride. "Finished it last night, paint might still be tacky."

"It’s breathtaking," she whispered, standing to look closer. "Your imagination blows mine out of the water."

"Don’t downplay your own work," I scolded gently.

She waved me off, still staring. "I’m serious, this is prize-winning stuff."

Then, without warning, she pulled out her phone. "Hey, there’s an art competition running this week. Winners get cash—perfect for sprucing up this apartment. Hold on, let me check the details—"

Before I could object, she snapped a photo of my painting then typing furiously.

"Sasha—"

"You’re in," she interrupted, grinning. "I registered you just now. I even submitted this painting."

I groaned, annoyed but too tired to argue. "You could have asked first."

The next morning, my phone buzzed with a notification. My painting had won. Out of thousands of entries, the judges had chosen mine. They praised the colors, the emotion, the vibe.

I sat on my bed in stunned silence, staring at the message. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I could win.

And yet—I had.

The victory should have felt sweet. Winning the university’s painting competition was supposed to be my crowning moment of the week, the kind of success that made every late night and every aching hand worth it. Instead, I couldn’t even savor it. The pride was there, but it was tangled up with irritation so sharp it left me almost trembling.

By the time my name lit up the main announcement board, the whole university already knew. And instead of simple congratulations, people decided to make it theatrical. Obnoxious, even.

When I reached my locker that morning, a strange dread curdled in my stomach. The metal door was slightly ajar, its lock gone. My lock, the one I’d always trusted.

Inside wasn’t my tidy little storage space anymore—it was a chaotic shrine. Flowers crammed the shelves, roses, tulips, daisies, all jammed together in garish bouquets that clashed violently. Their perfumes collided in the cramped space, creating an almost nauseatingly sweet fog. Stuck between the flowers were little food offerings—cookies in ribboned boxes, imported chocolates wrapped like they belonged in a jewelry store, even slices of cheesecake in plastic containers.

It wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t cute. It was invasive. Someone, no—multiple someones—had broken into my private space to dump their affection on me. My skin prickled with the violation of it.

I spent nearly an hour dismantling the shrine. Every flower, every sweet, every box went back to its sender with a neat, pointed little note.

Thank you for the thought, but breaking into my locker is not acceptable. Please respect my boundaries in the future.

I made sure they were polite enough to avoid sounding cruel, but clear enough to sting. I refused to let them think I was flattered by this nonsense.

By the time I finally walked into the lecture hall, I was fuming. The weight of my anger pressed down on me, making each step sharp and purposeful.

Sasha was already by the window, her face lit by the glow of her phone. Her thumbs flew over the screen like she was solving a national crisis via text. I dropped my bag beside my desk, hard enough that she glanced up.

Her brow furrowed immediately. "Shouldn’t you be, like, blissfully happy today?" she said, voice lilting with fake cheer. "You just won first place. What happened? Did a rat eat your painting overnight?"

I cracked open my Art History textbook, trying to bury myself in the dense lines about Romanesque architecture. "Don’t make me angrier than I already am."

Her eyes narrowed, she pushed her chair back and came to sit beside me, leaning in. "Okay, what’s wrong? Existential crisis about brushstrokes? Or did you just have a bad bowel movement? Because, honestly, when I get diarrhea, I—"

"Stop!" I snapped, slamming the book shut so loudly that half the class turned to look. "Just stop."

Before she could reply, a timid voice interrupted. I looked up to see a girl from another section clutching a small bottle of paint.

"I—heard you won the competition," she said nervously. "Congratulations, Elara. You really deserved it. I want to make a beautiful painting like yours too, do you still use this brand?" she held the paint out, palms shaking.

For the first time all morning, my irritation cracked. Her gesture was simple, respectful and sweet. "Thank you," I said warmly. "But no, I don’t use that brand anymore. I prefer this one."

I pulled a tube of cadmium yellow oil paint from my bag and offered it to her. "Here, try this. It’s better."

Her eyes widened, lighting up like a child on Christmas. "Really? Oh, thank you! That’s so generous!" she held it close before scurrying back to her seat.

That moment—the genuine gratitude—actually soothed something raw in me. But Sasha, of course, leaned closer again, whispering. "Okay, fan club interaction aside, what’s actually going on?"

I sighed. "Some idiots broke into my locker and filled it with junk, flowers, chocolates. All of it."

Her mouth dropped open. "They what? That’s insane! You have to report it."

"I’m not reporting anyone," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "I’ve already dealt with it. But I’m still pissed."

Class started then, saving me from further interrogation. Professor Miles launched into his lecture with his usual calm enthusiasm, passing out printed fact sheets about Romanesque arches and Gothic cathedrals. His voice, steady and sure, slowly pulled me back into focus.

By the end of the day, when I returned to check my locker, something surprised me. The door was fixed. The lock was replaced, brand-new, sturdy as ever. And stuck to the front was a neon sticky note in Sasha’s loopy handwriting.

Fixed it. Hope this makes your day less crappy. See you tomorrow! XOXO.

For the first time since morning, I smiled.

...•••...

In the evening, I found myself wandering through a massive furniture store, the smell of varnish and polished wood filling the air. It reminded me of bookstores—new, clean, filled with possibilities. I picked out small things to brighten my apartment, sleek vases, simple picture frames, a modern wall clock. The cash prize had given me more freedom than I expected, though money had never been a pressing issue.

My parents, ever practical, had given me three rental apartments to manage before I moved here. Their way of ensuring I’d never go broke, and that I’d learn responsibility. It meant I didn’t need a part-time job. My bills were covered. My time belonged to me—and to my art.

By the time I got home, arms loaded with bags, I was tired but oddly satisfied. I spent hours rearranging my space, layering rugs, placing plants in corners, setting up the vases and frames. By nightfall, my apartment finally looked less like a temporary crash pad and more like a home.

Sasha called, wanting to celebrate, but I begged off, too exhausted. She didn’t push, just promised she had plans for us tomorrow.

I trusted her and always did. She was the kind of friend who fixed problems before I even finished complaining.

...•••...

Later that night, I lay on my sofa, the sky outside burning orange and violet as the sun slipped away. The room grew heavy with twilight shadows. That’s when it started—the thirst.

It wasn’t ordinary thirst. Not the kind solved with a glass of water. It was deeper, clawing at me from inside, urgent and wild.

I stumbled to the kitchen, draining water, juice, soda, anything I could find. Nothing worked. The thirst clung to me like a fever. My body broke into a cold sweat.

And then, as suddenly as it came, it vanished, gone. My breathing slowed. Relief trickled in, quickly replaced by fear. Something was wrong, very wrong.

I forced myself into a hot shower, trying to wash away the unease. I slipped into pajamas, curled on the sofa, half-watching some random streaming series while nibbling on apples and juice.

When sleep finally dragged me under, the dream was immediate.

He appeared out of darkness, tall, impossibly beautiful, hair like ink, features so sharp they looked carved by divine creatures. His eyes—gosh, his eyes. They shifted from warm to a blazing, terrifying red. His lips curved, revealing fangs.

Vampire.

The word pulsed in my mind like a warning.

"Elara," he whispered, his voice a low, velvet growl.

My name on his tongue was like a claim.

"Who are you? How do you know me?" my voice shook.

He didn’t answer. He only moved closer. Too fast, too smooth. When I tried to back away, he caught me, pulling me against his chest. His breath grazed my neck, hot and deliberate.

Then—pain, sharp, exquisite. His fangs sank deep.

I woke up screaming.

My living room swam into view, TV screen flickering silently. My hand shot to my neck—smooth. Untouched, no punctures.

But then my eyes landed on my painting.

The castle. The one that won.

It was different. The colors burned brighter, richer, alive. The stone looked sharper, almost three-dimensional. As if someone had come in just now and perfected it.

My blood froze.

I tore through my apartment, checking locks, windows, every corner. Nothing, no signs of intrusion.

Finally, shaking and exhausted, I crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over my head. Everything’s fine, I repeated to myself, a mantra against panic. Everything’s fine.