Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tavern slouched at the edge of Văduva’s Hollow, its charred beams sagging as if the land had tired of bearing them. Muddy roads veined through the village, flanked by shacks of rotted wood and crumbling stone. Smoke drifted from thinning chimneys beneath a lone church on the hill — silent, watchful, and worn.

At a battered table beneath the shredded remains of an awning, two men sat. One bore the stillness of quiet faith. The other twitched like a marionette of madness, pulled by strings no one else could see.

“I tell you, angel,” the old man rasped, spittle glinting in his beard, “you don’t see the cracks in the soil, nor the blood in the wells… but it stirs. It stirs below.”

The missionary, youthful in face but heavy in spirit, folded his hands calmly atop the table. His cassock was worn, but clean — a relic of the order he once served, now out of place in this land forgotten by time.

“I’m no angel, elder,” he replied gently, the Romanian lilt curling around his words. “Only a man. I came to listen. So speak, if you must.”

The old man leaned forward, eyes jaundiced and wild, flickering like candlelight caught in a storm. “You are a sign. The old ones knew — strangers in white will come before the storm. They shall be the light before the slaughter. Then the earth breaks… and from it, he shall rise...the keeper beneath the tombs.”

“A creature?”

“No, a hunger ,” the old man whispered. “This land was never ours. Not truly. It belonged to him. Buried beneath root and rock. They say—before kings, before the bishops built their stone idols—this place was a feeding ground. His garden.”

“A prophecy?” the missionary offered, careful not to sneer.

The old man let out a jagged laugh. “Aye. And a curse. They sealed it long ago — fed it gold, blood, and sweet sins, and buried it deep. But he feeds still. War after war. Famine after famine. He wakes in pieces. And now? Even the angels weep. And you’ve come.”

“We bear no omens,” the missionary said softly. “We’re not messengers. We fled violence. The abbeys in the north are red with blood — rebels striking at the heart of faith. We seek only shelter.”

The old man’s face twisted. “That is the omen, boy. You’re not escaping. You’re being driven. Herded. The thing chasing you — that is his hand. He’s rounding up the lambs for the final pasture.”

“But these men... they’re not demons,” the missionary said, firm but not unkind. “They rebel against the king, not against God.”

The old man slammed his fist on the table, trembling with fury. “And what is a kingdom but a lie with a crown? You think the Devil only speaks through monsters? He rules through the righteous too! Through priests and kings and men in robes! Hope may be strong, but corruption is stronger. It drips into your soul sweet as honey, sharp as ash.”

The missionary’s jaw tensed, but he did not rise. “No darkness outruns the light, elder. Even now, it endures.”

But the old man had already risen. His voice cracked as he turned to the sky, trembling like a leaf before the storm. “It’s too late. Pray! Hide in your holes and cry while you can! When he comes — he won’t knock. He’ll devour. We need light. Fire, even. We need someone to burn him. We need the angels to descend!”

He turned on the village, voice ringing like a cracked bell. “Kneel! Pray! There’s no salvation left — only reckoning!”

“Enough!” barked a voice — the tavern’s owner, broad and weathered, pushed through the doorway. With a glance, he beckoned two men, who gently took the old prophet by the arms. The madman struggled only briefly, his rage giving way to tears, then murmurs — curses, prayers, or both.

“Forgive him, Father,” the owner said, eyes lowered. “He’s always spoken like this. But every winter, it gets worse.”

“No forgiveness is needed,” said the missionary, his fingers now lightly tapping the table. “He fears what he cannot fight. We all do.”

The tavern owner sighed, gesturing vaguely toward the hill. “He says there’s gold in the soil and devils in the air. I say there’s only mud. What brought you to Văduva’s Hollow, Father?”

The missionary rose slowly, his robes catching the chill wind. His gaze lifted to the lonely church on the hill.

“We seek the priest,” he said. “We hope he’ll open the monastery gates. My brethren are close behind. We need shelter... and a place to speak with God in silence.”

“Oh, then you must have come for Father Dimitrie.” The tavern owner nodded, unreadable. “He doesn’t say much. But he listens. Like stone listens to rain.”

From the edge of the muddy street, hidden by the shadow of a collapsed stable, someone watched.

A woman.

A shawl hung over her tangled, ash-colored hair — a threadbare thing, stained with soot and survival. Her face, if fed and scrubbed, might once have passed for beautiful. But time had carved deep hollows in her cheeks, left her mouth pale and silent, and turned her eyes into stones that remembered too much.

She had seen it all — the old man’s ravings, the missionary’s calm, the crowd’s discomfort.

And her eyes did not waver.

Some places in Romania lay so forgotten that even the wind brought no news. Văduva’s Hollow was one of them—a village curled between ash-gray hills and ancient forests, too frightened to move, too stubborn to vanish.

It wasn’t abundance that sustained the people, but prayer.

Here, hunger was common, but faith cost dearly. Villagers clutched rosaries bought with their last coin, begging heaven for miracles. It might’ve been laughable—if it weren’t so tragic. They lived like cattle waiting for rain they’d never seen—clinging to hope, to ritual, to superstition.

And where desperation thrived, so did generosity.

Especially for those in white—priests, nuns, missionaries. The villagers gave them bread, shelter, reverence. Some called it piety. Others called it survival.

Because their prayers weren’t just for mercy. They were insurance.

A prophecy whispered through the Hollow: the land was never theirs. A creature slept beneath it—ancient, buried, and vengeful. The tale went that a hidden treasure would awaken it, and when it rose, the land would burn and the people would pay.

So they prayed—not to be saved, but to be spared.

And when the missionaries came, especially in times of war, they were never turned away. They were welcomed. Protected.

Not everyone shared the same faith, though.

Not the woman wearing the shawl. 

The villagers were too enthralled with the missionary’s presence to notice her. Of course they were. They always fell to their knees at the first sight of a white robe, as if purity alone could banish the doom seeping into their soil.

She’d asked herself more than once: why not just leave? Walk away from the Hollow, from its cursed soil and its foolish devotion. Yet there she stood, watching. Still here.

Perhaps there were answers she hadn’t found yet.

After a while, the tavern keeper wiped his hands on his apron after engaging in such a lengthy conversation with the missionary regarding the war in the city. The missionary had introduced himself with no pomp—just quiet dignity and patient eyes.

“I don’t believe I caught your name, Father,” the tavern keeper said, settling opposite him.

“Father Petru,” the missionary replied, offering a faint but warm smile. “And you?”

“Nicolae,” the man grunted. “Nicolae Ghiță. Owner of this place, for what little that means.”

“You’ve shown kindness beyond measure, Nicolae. We expected resistance—maybe fear. But your people… they give so much.”

“Because we know what walks these lands, Father Petru,” Nicolae said darkly. “You don’t need to believe the stories, but the rest of us have seen too much not to.”

He stood then, brushing crumbs from his coat. “I’ll go fetch someone for you—Father Dimitrie, right? He’s the one you’ll want to speak to. Quiet man, but he knows the old prayers.”

Father Petru nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

Nicolae gave a wave and trudged toward the door.

And when he was gone, she stepped in.

She approached slowly, a shawl clutched around her tightly, as if to shrink herself into the smoke curling from the hearth. “Father?” Her voice was soft, tremulous. It held the timbre of someone unaccustomed to being heard.

Father Petru looked up, surprised—but not unkindly so. “Good evening, sister.”

She paused, then lowered her head in a small bow. “Forgive me. I… I saw you outside, and I… just wanted to say welcome.”

“That’s very kind,” he said. “And your name?”

“I… they call me Bela,” she replied. “Just Bela.”

He noticed then how her cheeks were sunken, how the sleeves of her dress hung loose at the arms. The shawl she wore couldn’t quite hide how thin she was. Malnourished, maybe ill. But her eyes held a glint of something more—curiosity, maybe even suspicion.

“You’re a missionary,” she said, sitting lightly on the edge of the bench across from him.

“I am,” he nodded. “We’ve come from the north. The war has turned even the churches to ash. There are people hunting us… not just rebels, but those who think we’ve outlived our use.”

Bela nodded slowly. “They told you to come here?”

“A man at the last village we passed. Said the people of Văduva’s Hollow would open their doors. And they have.”

“They always do,” Bela murmured. “Especially for men like you. They’d give their ribs if it meant buying another prayer.”

“You speak as though that’s foolish.”

“I think…” Bela hesitated, voice tightening. “I think they’re not praying to be saved. They’re praying for it to end.”

Petru studied her then. Her eyes didn’t look away. Her voice didn’t waver. He could see a fire beneath all that ash. “You don’t believe?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “I just… I don’t believe in lying to ourselves. But tell me, Father—your order. Does it work with others?”

His brows lifted. “What do you mean?”

“Other religious orders,” Bela said, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “If someone were to join you… would they have choices? Would there be other… paths?”

He tilted his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Do you mean to say you’ve considered taking the cloth, Bela?”

She flushed slightly, glancing down. “I’ve thought of it. I just… I want to know what I’m stepping into, if I do.”

He paused then, thoughtfully. His eyes, pale and perceptive, lingered on her face, half-hidden beneath the shawl. He was reading something deeper—lines of wear, pockets of grief, the kind of silence one doesn’t learn in a convent but in a world that forgets your name.

“Well,” he said at last, voice warm, “if you’re asking, I’d say that’s a good enough start.”

Bela had not spoken for a moment, and Father Petru had been patient with her silence. He recognized the look in her eyes: one of hunger, not merely of the body, but of purpose.

“You asked earlier,” he began softly, breaking the quiet, “about the religious orders. About how they work.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers still curled around the frayed edge of her shawl.

Father Petru leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “All the orders serve the Great Church—those loyal to His Holiness and to Rome. But as time wore on, the missionaries… we began organizing ourselves into separate groups. Not out of pride or division, mind you, but for function.”

“Function?” Bela echoed, her voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire.

“Aye. When one travels across regions like ours—through mountains, villages, even the war-torn cities—one must adapt. Some of the orders, like mine, are built for travel. We move lightly, with few possessions, and focus on bringing the Word to forgotten places. Others are rooted in towns, tending the poor or teaching the children.”

He paused to rub his palms together, as if warming them against the growing cold.

“Some groups… get involved in matters of politics—alliances with noble houses, even whisperings in court. They say it’s to protect the Church’s influence, but I’d wager many enjoy the taste of power. Others, by contrast, isolate themselves, tending only to prayer and scripture, wanting naught to do with worldly affairs.”

Bela’s brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. She looked younger, then—momentarily rid of the exhaustion she wore like armor.

“So… there’s many kinds,” she murmured.

“Dozens,” Father Petru replied. “And while each is devoted to the Holy Church, not all are fit for the same life. Some require rigorous learning—Latin, theology, the study of relics. Others prefer humble tasks: tending the sick, building chapels in the wild. But with war in the north and unrest even in the east…” he sighed, “this is not the best time to go seeking them.”

He tilted his head slightly, observing her. “If you were fortunate, one of the orders might come here. Might. And if so, they could offer to take you in. But that’s rare these days.”

“I see,” Bela said, her eyes lowering.

He gave a small smile. “You could join ours, if your heart leans that way. We take new sisters from time to time. It would be easier, safer. Especially now.”

She chewed her lower lip, silent again. The fire cracked. The wind brushed the windowpane.

“I was still wondering,” she said finally. “What are the orders in the city? If… if I ever got there.”

Father Petru’s brow lifted at that. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice touched with amusement. Then he straightened slightly, like a teacher preparing a lesson.

“Well, we belong to the Order of Saint Iacob. We focus on missionary work—traveling to villages like this one, living among the people, teaching, and protecting the Word. Many of us come from humble homes ourselves. We understand hunger. Suffering.”

Bela nodded, listening intently.

“There’s the Order of the Sacred Cup,” he continued. “They serve in cities mostly—monasteries, schools. They’ve deep ties to old noble families. If you’re drawn to books, they’d welcome you. But they can be strict. Very proper. Not kind to those who speak out of turn.”

She smiled faintly, a crooked sort of thing. “Not for me, then.”

“Then there’s the Order of the Lamb’s Blood,” he said more grimly. “They’re healers, but they take in the broken. War orphans. Widows. Those with nowhere else to go. They live among the sick and dying, often in plague towns. Saints, in their own way… but they walk with death more than light.”

Bela's face darkened.

“The Sisters of Divine Silence—they tend to cloisters. Sworn to silence and prayer. They don’t leave their convents. If you wanted peace from the world, they’d offer it.”

But Bela was still watching him, unmoved by any of these.

He was halfway through describing the Brotherhood of Saint Severin—an order known for training young priests as guards and scouts—when her eyes flicked, alert.

“You mentioned another,” she said, almost too quickly. “The one with… charity work? They used to come here.”

He stopped mid-thought, furrowing his brow. “Ah. Yes. That would be the Order of the Morning Star.”

She leaned forward, her hand briefly twitching at the hem of her skirt. “Tell me more of them.”

He smiled, surprised. “I’m fond of them, truly. Their leader, Father Lucien, used to serve beside my own mentor. We were all once part of the same root, before the Orders branched off. They traveled the South mostly, holding charity feasts, tending to famine-struck towns. Always cheerful. Always singing.”

“They came here?” Bela asked, her voice catching.

“Most likely,” he replied. “They passed through much of the region before the war. But when talk of violence rose in the north, they departed early. Headed southwest, I believe. Wanted to reach the edge of the Carpathians before things turned dire.”

Her fingers tightened against her knees.

“Do you know where exactly they went?” she asked quietly.

Father Petru shook his head with a gentleness that almost hurt. “I wish I did. They were never ones to chart their travels. They go where the Lord calls. Could be anywhere now.”

Bela stared into the fire, as if hoping the flames might point the way.

“You speak as if this Order matters deeply to you,” he said, after a moment. “Why this one? Ours isn’t so different.”

“I don’t wish to join them,” she answered carefully. “Not exactly.”

He raised a brow. “No? Then what is it you seek, Bela?”

She hesitated, choosing her words. Then:

“I was hoping they would return here. I needed to speak with someone among them. A friend of mine—he left with the Morning Star. I have… a message for him. From someone he once knew.”

“Someone from the Hollow?” Father Petru asked, suddenly attentive.

She nodded.

“What’s his name?” he asked. “I may know him. The Church is smaller than it seems, in truth.”

Bela lifted her eyes. There was pain behind them—old, quiet pain, sealed under layers of memory and dust. A hush had fallen over the hearth as Bela uttered the name.

“Father Athanasius.”

It hung in the air like a whispered psalm, echoing into the dark rafters above them. Father Petru stilled at the sound. His fingers, worn and calloused from long days on the road, moved to his chin, where he rubbed absently as though stirring old memories from the vault of his past.

Across from him, Bela leaned forward. Her shawl slipped just slightly from her shoulder, revealing a fragile frame tensed with expectation. Her eyes—once dulled by travel and grime—now sparked with cautious hope.

“Athanasius…” he murmured, his eyes narrowing with reflection. “Aye, I’ve known many a man by that name. It is a name much favoured by the pious—strong, devout, and old as the mountains.”

Bela’s heart beat like a sparrow’s wings.

“There are several from the Order of the Morning Star who bear it,” Petru went on. “But whether your Athanasius still dwells among them—or walks with the Lord now—I cannot say.”

Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line, and her brows furrowed with sorrow. That familiar ache began to settle again behind her ribs.

Petru saw the shift in her expression and, with gentle intent, offered a softer tone.

“Let me speak of the ones I recall,” he said. “Perhaps their likeness may stir something within you.”

She gave the faintest nod.

“The first is a younger man. Barely reaching thirty winters, I’d wager. Pale-haired. Quiet as a mouse in a stone chapel. I know little of him myself—only his name through friends in the capital. We never spoke. He came and went like mist.”

He paused, watching Bela closely. No sign. No flicker of recognition.

“Then there is another,” he continued, “Father Athanasius of greater years. Sixty, maybe more. White beard. Hands that tremble only slightly from age. He was once quite high in the hierarchy of their order—perhaps even close to the archimandrite. I have not met him personally, but I’ve heard his name sung in noble halls. The kind of man the gentry trusted. Or feared. There are many stories. But none that say where he is now.”

He leaned back, letting the thought settle like dust on the table.

Bela said nothing, but her mind raced.

The older one. 

It had to be him. 

Her mother had never spoken his name, not aloud. Only ever in shrouded whispers and half-glances. But she had mentioned the Order of the Morning Star once, long ago—on a night when the wind howled so fiercely that even their candles had bowed.

Many missionaries had come and gone from Văduva’s Hollow. Some stayed long enough to bless a child or bury a widow. Others merely passed through, their feet never muddy, their hands always folded. But none had known of an Athanasius—not the way she sought. They all hailed from far-flung parishes, tucked between woods and ruins where men went only to die or repent.

This, now, was something. A sliver of light through rotted shutters.

She parted her lips to ask more, to inquire about the old priest’s movements, his manner, his eyes—but just then, the sound of bootsteps interrupted them.

Nicolae finally approached, smelling of ale and firewood. His apron was damp, his beard matted with the sheen of sweat. 

“Father Petru,” he said, nodding with stiff formality. “The escort from the monastery is ready. They’ll take ye to speak with Father Dimitrie.”

Petru rose, adjusting the weight of his cloak. “My thanks, Nicolae. You’ve shown us much kindness.”

He turned back to Bela. “Forgive me, Bela. We may continue our talk another time.”

But Nicolae’s eyes had landed sharply upon the woman in the shawl.

“Bela?” he said slowly, as though tasting a foul bitterness.

She flinched, instinctively pulling the shawl further over her face, shrinking into herself like a creature expecting a blow.

But it was too late.

“You,” he snarled, voice suddenly sharp as a blade drawn across flint. “You dare step into my tavern? To speak with a man of God?”

“Nicolae, please—” she began, voice small, barely audible.

“You think your presence does not foul the very air?” he spat, stepping forward. “You think he would be glad to speak with you —you who walks these streets in shame and sin?”

With a grunt, he shoved her—hard.

The blow landed squarely in her chest. She staggered and fell backward, her thin frame hitting the floor with a thud that silenced the room for a breathless moment.

Father Petru gasped. “By the saints! Nicolae—what in God’s name—”

“She means to taint you,” Nicolae growled. “To smear you with her filth. She does it with all who pass through—every missionary, every pilgrim. You don’t know her, Father. But we do. We know what she is.”

Bela, breath caught in her throat, pushed herself to her hands. Her lip bled. Her eyes burned—but not with tears. No, they had dried up years ago.

Petru moved to help her, but was held back by two rough hands from the crowd. Other patrons had risen now, their eyes narrowed with the dull cruelty of men too long starved of virtue.

“She’s not worth it, Father,” one of them muttered. “Not a soul like hers.”

“I don’t understand,” Petru said, baffled. “She only came to greet us. There is no harm in her.”

“No harm?” Nicolae barked a hollow laugh. “She poisons the very ground she walks on. You’ll see it soon enough. They all do.”

Still, Bela said nothing. No defense. No plea. Her silence was not submission—it was resignation. This was not the first time.

She tried to rise again. Another man kicked her shoulder, pushing her back down.

Nicolae’s voice sneered like the edge of a knife, “Tell me, Bela—will you spread your words like honey for him too? Will you wrap yourself in piety and beg for salvation, like you did for the last?”

Petru, scandalized, stepped forward—but others now blocked him. The tavern had become a cage of jeers and judgment.

Bela, trembling, spoke softly. “I’ll leave.”

“No,” Nicolae snapped. “You’ll be thrown .”

Before she could protest, strong arms seized her—one at each side.

“Stop,” she cried. “I can walk. I said—I can do it myself —!”

Her words were swallowed as she was dragged across the room. Her heels scraped against the splintered floor. The crowd opened to let her pass like water parting for filth.

The door was flung wide, and the cold, damp air rushed in.

With a grunt and no ceremony, the patrons flung her into the mud of the street. She landed hard, her shawl half-soaked, her knees stinging from stone and grit.

“Don’t come back,” Nicolae barked. “If you do—we’ll stone you.”

Then the door slammed shut.

Behind her, the light of the tavern vanished. Only muffled laughter and low voices remained.

Bela lay still in the muck. Her palms pressed into the mud. Her blood mixed with the earth.

Above, the stars flickered, unblinking.

She sat up slowly, her body aching, and looked back at the tavern’s locked door.

The words of Father Petru lingered in her mind, like a whisper carried on wind:

“Perhaps one day, we shall find him.”

But that night, the only thing that answered her was silence—cold, unfeeling—and the quiet grief of a soul too weary to weep.

—

Moments later 

The rain had not ceased.

It fell in cold silver sheets as Bela climbed the muddy hill toward the church. Mud clung to her dress like guilt to memory. Her lip throbbed, the cut dark with rain, and she dabbed it with her filthy shawl.

Each step was a silent prayer.

No lantern lit her way—only the monastery’s distant glow, veiled in mist. She knew the way by heart. But what was it that led her there tonight? The question lingered like incense in the wind, elusive and fragrant with irony. For this church—this holy house crowned with stone crosses and cloaked in sanctified silence—was her home .

An impossible thing, were it not true. You must be thinking: how could she belong to the same house whose patrons cursed her as a child of sin? How could stone sanctuaries shelter a soul so scorned? Did they believe in her salvation? Did they truly think she could be redeemed? 

Oh, if only the old prophets could see, they would tear their scrolls to ribbons and cry before God Himself.

She reached the monastery’s side wall at last, where an old, weather-swollen door hung slightly ajar. Few used it. Fewer remembered it existed. She slipped through like a hunted fox.

Inside, the chapel air was warm, thick with incense and the echo of fading liturgy. From behind a stone column, Bela watched Father Dimitrie—tall, thin, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the candlelight—speak with a group of travel-worn priests.

Among them were Father Petru and an older man whose presence seemed to bend the room around him. After a few murmured words, they followed Dimitrie toward the dining hall. Bela slipped the other way, silent and tight-breathed, heading toward the convent wing.

In her chamber, she peeled off her soaked dress and scrubbed off the dirt and blood from her skin with shaking hands. Her plain convent clothes hung on the door. She dressed quickly, hiding the soiled garments under the bed.

God forbid the Mother Superior found out she’d been out—especially for anything not sanctioned by duty in the coal mines.

When she unbolted the door and stepped into the corridor again, it felt like being born into a different world. She moved down the hall, quiet as fog, toward the kitchens—where she’d been told to scrub the floors before morning.

She fell to her knees, rag in hand, and began her work. The repetitive motion steadied her, but her thoughts wandered.

Father Petru’s words echoed.

Athanasius.

Not just a name now—but a path. She clung to the thought like a relic. Once the war ended, she wagered that the Order of Saint Iacob would return to the city. If they did, perhaps she could follow. And in the city… perhaps, just perhaps… the Order of the Morning Star could be found.

Even if she never found Athanasius, even if he was dead and buried beneath stone, the journey might mean something. She had no future here, only bloodied memories and closed doors. Perhaps Father Petru and his kind would be different.

She scrubbed harder, her fingers red with effort and soaked in soapy water, when suddenly she heard the soft but purposeful tread of footsteps behind her.

She didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to.

"Bela," came the voice, smooth as silk and twice as sharp.

She stood, turning slowly, clutching the rag like a child clutches a ribbon. "Sister Veritas," she said, bowing her head just enough.

Sister Veritas stood like a statue carved of storm clouds—her face calm, her lips gently parted in a ghost of a smile, but her eyes… oh, her eyes. They gleamed like daggers hidden beneath velvet.

"My dear child," she began, tone pleasant, clipped, almost warm. "You work with such… devotion."

Bela nodded. "Yes, Sister. The floor must be cleaned before dawn. I was behind in my duties."

Veritas tilted her head. "Mm. And how was your day, sweet one?"

A pause.

"Coal mine work," Bela replied, eyes fixed on the floor. "As assigned."

"Of course." Veritas clasped her hands together as though in prayer. Her fingers, pale and narrow, clenched a little tighter. "And did the coal treat you kindly today?"

"It did not bite me, Sister."

"How fortunate." A thin smile. "One does wonder sometimes… how soot can leave such curious marks on a girl’s lips."

Bela’s fingers tightened around the rag. She still did not look up.

"I… fell," she offered quietly.

"Mm." Another small pause, and the room felt colder.

"We are all bound to fall, are we not?" Veritas murmured. "But some…" she stepped closer, her voice just above a whisper now, "seem ever so practiced at it."

The silence between them thickened.

"I will work harder," Bela said.

They returned to silence. The cold stone of the convent floor pressed against Bela’s knees as she scrubbed, her fingers red and raw against the soapy rag.  She tried not to think about the sting in her lip where blood had dried, instead focusing on her task, her movements methodical and subdued.

The nun stood just a few paces away, cloaked in her usual cold serenity. Her face was calm, almost pleasant, but there was a glint behind her pale eyes—a glint that said the pleasantness was skin-thin and ready to tear.

“I see you are busy,” Veritas said lightly, taking a single step closer. “You work so diligently. Tell me, how was the coal mine today?”

Bela nodded, her eyes trained on the stone tiles. “It was fine, Sister. I... I did my duties as assigned. Gathered coal. Hauled it. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Truly?” Sister Veritas tilted her head slightly, as though she were examining a peculiar insect. “And what about after work? Did you come straight back to the convent, my dear?”

“Yes, Sister,” Bela replied quickly, swallowing hard. “I tried to come back early, but the road was thick with mud... and the rain, it made the path hard to walk. Took longer than usual.”

Veritas seemed to accept that, at least on the surface. But then, with the same calculated grace as a prowling cat, she began to circle Bela.

“I see,” she murmured. “Well then, perhaps you haven’t heard. A new missionary order has arrived in the village. The Order of Saint Iacob. They’re dining with Father Dimitrie as we speak.”

Bela’s breath caught, but she kept her head low.

“You should know better than to show yourself to such guests,” Veritas continued smoothly. “It would be... unsettling for them. To find that the likes of you is being housed here, in this holy place. We wouldn’t want to disturb their sense of righteousness, would we?”

“No, Sister,” Bela whispered. Her fingers clenched slightly around the rag.

“There are things that must be kept away from the world,” Veritas said, voice almost wistful. “Not because we hate them. But because we must protect others from their... harm. That is the duty of the Church. To contain such threats.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Veritas leaned closer. “Tell me, child... It wouldn’t be that you knew of their arrival before we even did?”

Bela shook her head, trembling. “I did not, Sister. I swear it. I was only at the coal mine. I didn’t speak to anyone.”

“Mm,” Veritas hummed. “Strange. You seem quite aware of their presence. More so than others.”

“I heard it from you just now,” Bela insisted softly.

Veritas’s circling stopped. She folded her hands before her. “So you’re telling me you didn’t pass through town? Didn’t linger near the square? Didn’t peek into the tavern like you used to?”

“I didn’t,” Bela replied, firmer this time. “There wasn’t time. I worked. I came back.”

“No friendly faces along the path? No conversations?”

“No, Sister.”

Veritas stared at her for a long while, her face unreadable.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice still calm, but the air around her grew heavier.

“Yes, Sister,” Bela said, bowing her head. “I am done scrubbing the floor tiles now. I’d like to return to my room, if I may.”

“Very well.”

Bela bent to gather her things, her heart pounding against her ribs like a frantic prisoner. She stood slowly, careful not to make sudden movements. She turned toward the hallway.

Then, without warning, a sharp hand gripped her by the hair and yanked her backward. She cried out, the rag dropping from her fingers as she fell hard to the ground.

“You filthy little liar,” Sister Veritas hissed above her, her voice still low but now edged like a blade. “You think you can deceive the house of God with your breathless fables? Do you take me for a fool?”

Bela sat still upon the cold stone floor, her body aching from the sting of Sister Veritas’s blow, but not nearly as much as from the slow, blooming shame that wrapped itself around her bones like frost. She dared not weep—not here, not now. Her eyes burned, but the tears remained damned behind clenched lids. It did not matter anymore.

Veritas paced in slow, measured steps, her hands folded over each other like a statue of justice long since stripped of mercy. Her voice, calm as ever, was a steady knife pressed into soft flesh. 

"Did you truly believe, Bela, that I would not learn of your little... encounter?" she said softly, the mockery in her tone barely concealed beneath the lilt of pious decorum.

Bela did not speak. Her eyes stayed trained on the floor, on her pale, trembling hands still smeared with ash and soap.

"He mentioned you, you know," Veritas continued, taking a slow step closer. "Father Petru. He is not foolish. Nor is he blind. He spoke of the commotion at the tavern. The crowd. The bruises on your lip. Imagine our surprise at hearing your name from his lips while we supped with him at Father Dimitrie’s table."

Bela’s breath stilled in her throat.

Veritas leaned down ever so slightly, her shadow stretching long across the stone. "You stood there like a lamb before slaughter and painted yourself the victim. Have you no shame, child? The villagers were not chasing you—they were shielding a holy man from the likes of you."

Bela blinked, lips slightly parted, but said nothing. She wanted to speak. To deny. To explain. But what would be the point?

The moment Sister Veritas mentioned the Order of Saint Iacob, Bela knew—she knew —the old nun had somehow discovered she’d spoken to one of its missionaries. It always played out this way. Whether Bela confessed or stayed silent, the outcome never changed. 

Guilt wasn’t a matter of proof here; it was stitched into her name like a curse.

Even when she did nothing at all—even when she barely breathed— they still found a reason to punish her. A glance held too long. A voice raised in defense. It never took much. Their fury wasn’t born from her actions—it was born from her existence.

This had been their rhythm since the beginning. 

Since she was a child pacing those stone halls in hand-me-down shoes. 

Since the day her mother died in the very convent that now housed her like an unwanted relic.

Veritas straightened and circled her slowly. "And then you had the gall to inquire about other orders from the city. Do you think you can simply climb your way out of this pit you were born in? That you can run from what you are?"

Bela's voice, when it came, was small. A whisper. "I only asked him about the Orders. That’s all."

Veritas stopped walking. Her gaze settled on her like a noose. "Is that truly all?"

"Yes, Sister," Bela said, her hands tightening around the rag she still held.

"You lie so sweetly… just like your mother," Sister Veritas said, almost wistful, almost fond—like cruelty dressed in velvet. "What else did you ask him, child? Speak plainly."

"Only about the city… if he knew anyone named Athanasius."

The name slipped into the air and clung there, heavy and damning, like a sin uttered during mass. Veritas stilled. Her head tilted. One brow arched with slow precision.

"Father Athanasius?"

A thin, humorless smile pulled at her lips. Then came the scoff—sharp as broken glass.

"Demented. That’s what you are." Her eyes narrowed, voice softening into something far crueler than rage: pity. "Still chasing ghosts and fantasies. How many times now? Every time a new priest steps foot in this godforsaken village, there you are, skulking in corners, whispering that name like it’s a magic spell. As if saying it often enough will summon him back from the dead."

Bela opened her mouth, but Veritas was not done.

"You think you can really find someone who does not wish to be found? And for what? Do you honestly think a man— a priest —would return to embrace the product of his greatest disgrace?"

Bela’s hands trembled. The tears she’d held back now threatened again, but she bit her lip until it bled anew.

"He never wanted you. No more than he wanted your mother. You were not born beneath angel’s wings, child—you were born in gutter water, dragged screaming into a world that didn’t want you. A reminder of lust, of weakness. Of failure."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And you—you bring rot wherever you tread. That tavern, that priest… you don’t seduce people, Bela. You contaminate them."

Bela’s throat tightened. Her breath came shallow. Still, she would not cry. Not now. Not here.

Veritas narrowed her eyes. "Tell me, what else did you ask him?"

"Nothing," Bela whispered.

"Nothing?"

"I swear, Sister. Nothing else."

Veritas took another step. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

" Are you certain? "

Bela just nodded her head, but Veritas stared at her with a disappointment carved deep into the lines of her face. The silence that followed was almost reverent, like a prayer about to turn bitter.

"Is that so?" she finally said, voice low and smooth, like oil on fire. 

Then, after a pause so long it felt like judgment:

"Goodness, what shall we do with you?" Her eyes swept over Bela in quiet revulsion. "You wear that shawl like it hides your shame. But it reeks of her. Her perfume. Her sin. And you—like her—will never be anything more than a scar this church must hide."

Yes. 

It was true.

Bela was indeed the daughter of a priest and an unmarried woman—a disgrace burned into the very bones of the village. They whispered that a demon, not a divine hand, had ushered her into this world. That she was a curse made flesh.

She was one of the few people in their village that serve as a living reminder that even holy places rot from within. That’s why the tavern doors slammed shut when she approached. Why patrons spat at her feet. Why they tore her from the priest’s side like her presence alone might drag him into damnation.

Now she works in the coal mines. Filthy, stifling tunnels far beneath the earth. She shared the darkness with the condemned—thieves, murderers, liars—all deemed unworthy by the village’s brittle, sacred rules. The church called it penance. A labor of repentance. A way to sweat sin out through blood and pain.

But Bela knew better. It wasn’t penance. It was banishment with a halo.

They believed those who worked down there were already cursed—just waiting for the sickness in their souls to fester and bloom. Like devil’s seeds planted in human skin.

Bela’s mother had died when she was a child. Her father— the Father Athanasius—she had never met. They said he fled, disgraced and terrified, leaving them both behind.

A priest. 

A coward. 

A ghost.

But her mother told a different story.

She said he hadn’t left by choice. He’d wanted to run away with her—run far, far away before the child was born. But the village found out. They chased him out like a rabid dog, and fear did what it does best: it kept him gone. 

After her mother’s death, Bela was taken in by nuns. With their cold hands and even colder hearts, they called her mother a liar, said the priest never meant to keep any promise. That she was just another woman dreaming of love where there was none.

Now, all Bela had left of him was a name. 

Bela lay on the cold stone floor, gasping, her face streaked with sweat, tears, and tangled hair. Grief shook her, but it was the silence—heavy and merciless—that truly crushed her. The stillness before judgment. The edge before the fall. Sister Veritas stepped back, her shadow cutting the light. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—but final, like nails sealing a coffin.

“You must learn, child. And you will.”

She turned, her robes whispering against the floor, but paused at the doorway. Just long enough for Bela’s heart to stop.

“The wine vault, then.”

The words pierced the air like a blade through silk.

Bela’s eyes flew open, wild with disbelief. The name alone stole the breath from her lungs, like a hand closing around her throat.

“No…” she whispered, the word brittle and dry, more air than sound.

“Yes.”

Her world narrowed. The room, the walls, even the cold—all of it disappeared beneath the weight of that single word. 

“No, Sister—please—please not the vault.” 

Her voice cracked as she lunged forward, hands trembling violently, clutching at the hem of Veritas’s habit like a drowning girl grasping a rope. 

“I’ll kneel in the gravel courtyard until my knees break. I’ll clean the latrines with my bare hands. I’ll fast for a month, two—but don’t put me there. Don’t make me go there again.”

Veritas didn’t flinch. Her eyes were cold steel, unmoved by tears.

“It is not your tongue I mistrust, child,” she said, voice cool and even. “It is your nature.”

“I won’t speak of him again. I swear it! I’ll never ask, never question—just—please.” Bela’s voice fell to a desperate whisper as she clung tighter. “Not the vault. Not the dark.”

The vault. 

Not the wine cellar used during feast days, where one could at least turn around or breathe. No. This was the old vault, buried beneath the east wing, beside the disused root cellar. Only a handful of sisters knew the path to it anymore. 

It was no longer a place for wine.

It was a place for punishment . 

Small. Claustrophobic. So low-roofed that even a child had to bend. The smell of mildew hung in the air, and the damp stone walls sweated as though weeping. There were no windows. No candles. Just stale air and pitch darkness. Bela remembered. 

She had been twelve the last time.

She had clawed at the door until her fingernails split. 

She had screamed until her throat bled. 

She had fainted from the panic, and awoken hours later in her own vomit, her limbs cramped from being curled like a corpse in a coffin.

“Please,” she whispered now, tears sliding down her cheeks as she clutched Veritas’s skirt. “Please, don’t do this to me again. I’m not lying, I’m not wicked—I’ll never ask about him again.”

Veritas’s mouth thinned. “Stand up.”

Bela’s head shook violently. “I can’t.”

“You will.”

“I can’t!” she shrieked. “Please—I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

“Your tears are wasted here,” Veritas said flatly, yanking her habit free of the girl’s grip.

“I’m sorry!” Bela cried, her voice rising into hysteria. “I’m sorry, Mama, please—”

The name slipped out like a wound splitting open, and for a moment, the entire world stopped.

Veritas froze.

Her lips curled back, no longer calm. Her voice came sharp and venomous.

“Your tantrums,” she hissed, “will wake the fucking Order of Saint Iacob!”

The profanity cracked through the room like thunder. Down the corridor, voices rose. Footsteps pounded. Doors flew open.

Three nuns burst in, pale with alarm—Sister Clemence, Sister Sanda, and Sister Irina.

“What is this racket?” Clemence demanded, eyes sweeping over Bela’s collapsed form.

“She’s hysterical again,” Veritas snapped. “Lock her in the vault.”

“No!” Bela screamed, lurching backward, heels skidding. Her nails scraped against the stone as she tried to crawl away. “I’ll go mad! Please, please, I’m sorry! I won’t speak his name again! I swear it on my soul!”

“She’s resisting,” Veritas growled. “Get the whips.”

Sanda hesitated. “But she’s—”

“She’s dangerous! She’ll poison the others with her delusions. Do it now, or would you prefer she starts shrieking her blasphemies during morning mass?”

Reluctantly, Sanda turned. The old cabinet groaned as it opened. The scent of oiled leather filled the room like a storm rolling in.

Snap.

The first lash landed across Bela’s back. Her scream tore the silence like paper.

Then another. And another. Her shawl shredded. Blood welled in fine red ribbons, soaking the cloth. Her body convulsed with each blow, mouth open in soundless agony.

“MOVE, you filth!” Irina roared, her voice cracking.

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” Bela howled. “MAMA, PLEASE DON’T LET THEM—”

No one came.

No one ever came.

Rough hands gripped her arms. Her fingernails left red trails on the stone as they dragged her through the hallway. Her legs flailed, feet scraping raw, leaving bloody streaks behind her like the trail of a dying animal.

“PLEASE!” she sobbed. “I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE, NOT THE DARK, NOT AGAIN—”

Whenever she kicked, the whip fell. Whenever she resisted, it burned across her skin. Her cries echoed off the stone walls, raw and shrill, until her voice broke. She coughed, choked, begged—for mercy, for light, for anyone to care.

But the convent never cared.

Down the corridor they dragged her. Stone steps descended into damp cold. The walls closed in like a throat, the air thick with mold and rot.

At the end stood a door—low, iron-bound, silent.

Her grave.

Still she screamed. Still she fought.

But the vault waited.

And the vault did not care.

Her body convulsed, slick with sweat, her voice shredded like cloth through fire. “Someone—please! Help me!” Her scream echoed, swallowed by the silence.

The vault door groaned as Sister Irina pulled it open. It yawned like a coffin, exhaling rot—mold, old wine, damp decay. The stench wrapped around her like memory, dragging up every nightmare buried in her bones.

Bela recoiled. “No—no, I’m begging you!” she sobbed. “Not again! Please, Sister Veritas—I’ll change, I swear—just not the vault!”

Veritas stepped forward, calm as judgment. Her voice was low, every word precise. "You need to learn to kill this hope in you. Hope is not your salvation, Bela. It is your torment. Your obsession with finding this... phantom father will drag you down to hell with it."

She leaned down, her face mere inches from Bela’s. "You cannot be cleansed by prayer anymore. That luxury has long since passed. So we must resort to… alternatives. Hopefully, this one proves effective. If not—well, the next won’t be so kind."

Bela trembled violently, trying to back away on her elbows. "No, please, Sister, just this once—just this once, forgive me—"

"Enough," Veritas snapped, the finality in her voice silencing the chamber. She turned to the others. "Carry her. Bend her over if you must. Make her fit."

Three sisters advanced. Cold hands gripped her—arms, legs, shoulders—tight and merciless.

"No! Don’t touch me! Please, please, I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I swear it upon the Mother’s mercy!"

Red marks bloomed where their fingers dug into her skin. Bela writhed, let herself go limp, dead weight in their arms. Sweat soaked her shawl. Her sobs fractured into gasps, her chest convulsing.

“She’s possessed,” muttered Sister Clemence. “The devil rides her spine.”

“Hold her still!” Veritas snapped, patience fraying.

Bela only screamed louder.

“MAMA! MAMA, SAVE ME! PLEASE! MAMAAA!”

The name cut through the air like a blade—an old wound reopened.

Veritas growled, ripped a handkerchief from her sleeve, and shoved it over Bela’s mouth. “Enough. Cover her. No one should hear this—not with prayer in thirty minutes.”

Bela’s screams turned to muffled sobs. Tears soaked the cloth. Her body shook with each breath, lungs seizing with panic.

“This is wasteful,” Veritas muttered. “All this sin, just to contain a tantrum.”

“Put her in. Now.”

The sisters dragged her toward the open vault. Bela twisted, limbs thrashing, fighting for escape. The vault yawned wide, shadows reaching for her. Claustrophobia clamped around her lungs, stars bursting in her vision.

“No—I can’t—breathe—”

Then—

Heat.

A pulse beneath her skin.

Her hands began to glow.

Red.

It started faint—like candlelight—then blazed, a halo of crimson trembling in the air.

“What in God’s name—?” gasped Sister Irina.

“Step back!” Clemence shrieked.

But it was too late. A sudden, violent burst of energy erupted from Bela’s body. A red wave—pure force and rage and desperation—surged outward like an explosion, slamming against the stone walls.

It struck the three sisters holding her. All were thrown backward with cries of alarm. Their bodies hit the stone walls with heavy thuds, sliding down to the ground in groaning heaps.

Even Veritas stumbled back, her feet skidding, her body slamming into a bench with a grunt. She hit the floor, robes tangled around her legs, a rare crack in her composed armor.

Bela dropped to her knees, panting, trembling. The glow faded from her hands, leaving only the faint shimmer of what had been.

Around her, the sisters lay silent, staring in shock.

Even Veritas looked at Bela not with anger—

—but with fear.

And in the hush that followed, the only sound was Bela’s shaky breath—and the electric hum beneath her skin.

Something had awakened.

Something that had always been there.

Just waiting to be set free.

—

A day later 

“You took your time,” she said coldly.

Father Dimitrie huffed and slowed his stride. “Sister, I could scarcely relieve myself this morning without someone requesting a blessing. You forget the monastery is hosting pilgrims and visiting clergy. Eyes are everywhere. I cannot risk alarming anyone with covert meetings and whispers.”

“I’ve been watching you since mass,” Veritas snapped. “I sent three messages before breakfast. I waited at the chapel’s entrance. Still, you delay.”

“I delay because I must,” he retorted, voice curt but measured. “What would they think, Veritas? If I slunk off during midday vespers to visit a convent renowned for... unfortunate events? The villagers talk. The new guests listen. I must protect the image of our parish.”

“Then perhaps you should have shielded it sooner,” she said, stepping back. “Because we have a problem.”

Veritas exhaled slowly. Her eyes flicked to the other sisters, each cloaked in the stillness of dread. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, nearly devout, but layered with something cold and ageless—like a hymn sung in a forgotten tongue.

“It’s about Bela.”

The name dropped like a stone into a pond, silencing the hall.

Dimitrie halted mid-step. He turned, his eyes narrowing with something between annoyance and foreboding.

“What about her this time?”

No one answered at once. Veritas merely looked ahead, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper than the candlelight could explain. Clemence’s mouth drew tight. Irina lowered her gaze, staring hard at the floor as though the flagstones might split open and drag her down.

Dimitrie's tone grew sardonic. “She ran off from the coal pits again? Frighten another poor stable boy half to death? Or is this about that little... performance at the tavern? The one Father Petru witnessed?” He clicked his tongue. “I told you before. The vault usually does the trick.”

But then his voice sharpened, lost its edge of sarcasm. “Did she escape? Did she hurt someone?”

Veritas shook her head. “No. She didn’t escape. And no one is hurt—at least, not in the way you’re thinking.”

Dimitrie’s jaw twitched. “Then what in God’s name is this about?”

She stepped aside, her gesture solemn. “Come inside. This is not a tale to be spoken under an open sky.”

They moved in silence, the cloister’s stone corridor yawning before them like the mouth of something ancient and patient. Candle sconces, long since gone cold, clung to the walls like skeletal fingers. Shutters rattled faintly in the wind, letting in thin slivers of pale morning light. Dust danced in the gloom. Their footsteps echoed in a hollow rhythm.

When they reached the cloister garden, Veritas finally spoke again.

“It happened again. The powers—whatever twisted gift coils in her blood—manifested last night. But this time... it wasn’t like before.”

Dimitrie stopped. “Not like before, how?”

“It wasn’t just her hands glowing. Nor her eyes flickering crimson and sending the dogs barking. This wasn’t the usual spectacle.”

Veritas turned to him fully. Her face was carved from marble, all softness gone.

“This time... it struck us.”

For a heartbeat, there was only wind and the rustle of ivy on stone.

“It what?”

“It threw us,” came Sister Sanda’s voice, hushed and trembling. “Like a storm. A blast. It flung us across the chamber like rag dolls.”

“I hit the wall,” Irina said, her voice tight, her hand unconsciously gripping her wrist. “I blacked out. Woke up coughing blood.”

“She was screaming,” Clemence added. “Screaming so loud it rattled the hinges. We tried to restrain her. Her mouth was covered. Her limbs are bound. We dragged her toward the vault, and then—her hand lit up. Not like a candle. Like a star burning itself to death. And before we knew what was happening, we were on the floor. All of us.”

Dimitrie scanned their faces. No tremble of exaggeration. No furtive glances. Only bruises, quiet fury, and dread.

He exhaled, slowly. “Did you try the whips?”

“We did but before that, we had no time,” Veritas said. “And you forget—she’s grown. Taller. Stronger than she was at twelve.”

“She’s still a girl,” he muttered. “Barely eats. Sleeps like a corpse. That kind of power—it should tear her apart.”

Veritas met his gaze, her voice as flat and sharp as slate. “Apparently... it doesn’t.”

Dimitrie’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Then take me to her.”

They walked again, this time descending. The hallway narrowed into a spiral staircase, carved from rough stone and slick with moss. The scent of mildew clung to the air, mingled with iron and the faint tang of wine long since soured in barrels.

“She’s not in her room, I trust,” Dimitrie said.

“No,” Irina replied. “We took her to the basement. The old iron room. She’s chained—wrist, ankle, and neck. Triple-locked.”

“Good,” he said. “Last thing we need is her ghosting through town again. Folk are already whispering.”

“They’ve stopped whispering,” Clemence murmured. “Now they shout. 'Witch. Demon. Hellspawn.' We hear it even in prayer.”

The final stair creaked beneath their weight. The cold grew teeth.

“We still see it,” Irina added, almost afraid to say it. “The glow. Not bright, but... there. Her hands, like dying coals. Smoldering.”

They descended to the lowest corridor—the place sunlight had long forgotten, where the stone walls wept moisture and every breath felt borrowed. The air tasted of rust and regret. Dimitrie’s jaw tightened like a man bracing for storm winds.

“I need to see it with my own eyes,” he said, voice low and hard. “We cannot act on bruises and bedtime horrors.”

He turned to the sisters, eyes like flint. “But understand this—if what you say is true, then we are no longer harboring a wounded child. We are feeding something else. Something that grows teeth in the dark.”

Veritas didn’t flinch. Her voice was dust and iron. “A monster.”

The word clung to the silence like smoke from a funeral pyre—bitter, sacred, final. No one dared to disagree. So they kept walking, cautious as ghosts, deeper into the shadows—toward the locked iron door, toward Bela, toward the truth that throbbed behind it.

The basement beneath the convent was a mausoleum of forgotten things, carved deep into the bowels of a hill that remembered every scream. The flickering lantern in Sister Veritas' hand threw long, shivering shadows along the corridor walls—ghosts born of trembling fire.

It felt like descending into a wound in the world.

“The breath of God doesn’t reach this far,” Veritas whispered, her voice barely more than a tremor as she clutched her rosary tight. Finally, they reached the iron door. “She is inside.”

Dimitrie gave her a glance—half warning, half command. “Leave us.”

The nuns obeyed, backs straight, eyes averted, retreating as silently as shadows.

Dimitrie pressed a hand to the cold metal—it thrummed faintly, like it had a heartbeat. With a grunt, he unlatched the lock and pushed the door open.

Lantern light spilled in like an intruder.

There she was.

Bela.

A crumpled figure in a room of rot and silence. She lay curled on the filthy floor, chained and bruised, a collar cinched too tightly to be symbolic. Her hair, matted with sweat, dirt, and likely blood, hid her face. The air stank of iron, mildew—and despair.

She didn’t move, only flinched at the sound of boots. Dimitrie knelt beside her, robes trailing like shadow, studying her with that cold, unreadable stillness only priests or predators wore.

“Well,” he said at last, voice light, almost teasing. “You look like a fresco left too long to the weather.”

No reply.

“The sisters have truly outdone themselves this time,” he added, dry amusement threading through his tone. “Those marks could shame the Stations of the Cross.”

Still silence. She turned her face away, but not before he caught the wet shimmer at the corner of her swollen eye.

Then he saw it.

The glow.

Subtle, pulsing. Crimson like blood diluted in oil, flickering beneath the cracked skin of her fingertips. It wasn't merely light. It hummed, a silent thrum that teased the edge of hearing, as though the air itself was vibrating in response. It pulsed with an uncanny rhythm—alive, almost aware.

So the stories weren’t exaggerations after all.

Dimitrie tilted his head, drawn in despite himself. He reached out but stopped short, as though afraid to touch something holy—or cursed.

“I must confess,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, “I’ve seen many curiosities in my years. Men who bleed wine. Children who dream in dead tongues. But this... this is something else entirely.”

Finally, she turned her face toward him. Her eyes locked onto his, and in that gaze he saw no hatred, no fear—only sorrow. Deep, ancient, bone-deep sorrow. The kind that didn’t scream. The kind that endured.

It made him recoil inwardly. So he smiled instead.

“Tell me, Bela,” he said, faux casual, “was it really worth sneaking off again? The mines? The Order of Saint Iacob? Was it for your father?”

A dry, cracked nod.

He sighed as if she’d disappointed him in something minor—forgetting a prayer, spilling wine. “I thought your last lesson might have curbed this rebellious streak.”

Her gaze fell to the stone.

“There, there,” he said softly, crouching further. “You must understand, my dear, that this—” he gestured broadly to her cell, the chains, her wounds “—is not cruelty. It is a correction. The world is built on it. Actions have consequences. Obedience keeps the chaos at bay.”

Still, she said nothing. But her silence was loud.

His eyes flicked to her glowing hands once more.

“This... this blight,” he muttered. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

He leaned in. “Louder.”

She swallowed. “I’ve had it since I was six. I didn’t summon it. It comes when I’m hurt. When I’m scared. It burns.”

He frowned. “When did it first appear?”

Her voice was a thread. “When they starved me. Two days. I cried. My hands lit up. Then again, when they made me kneel on seeds. My knees split open. My eyes burned. The sisters screamed.”

Dimitrie was silent.

This was no miracle. No divine grace. No infernal mark. It was something older. Wilder.

He reached out again, stopping just shy of her glowing skin. The warmth coming off it was unnatural—neither fever nor flame. It breathed .

“I believe you,” he said, and for a moment, he meant it.

Her eyes lit with the faintest spark of hope.

Then he rose.

“But you must stay,” he said, turning away.

Panic bloomed. “No. Please—don’t leave me here.”

“You need time,” he replied, pulling the lantern closer. “Time to understand. Time to learn.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt them,” she said quickly. “I never wanted this.”

He paused at the door. “And yet, here you are.”

“Father, please—!”

“This is for your own good.”

The door groaned shut with agonizing slowness and darkness finally closed in like a fist.

Only the faint, crimson light of her hands remained—like bleeding stars in a sky that no longer saw her.

Father Dimitrie emerged from the chill of the basement, breath misting as he climbed into the torchlit corridor. Ahead, the convent hallway stretched cold and drafty, and at its end, the sisters waited—Veritas at the front, arms crossed, gaze sharp; Clemence beside her, lips tight; Sanda and Irina behind, clutching trembling rosaries, whispering prayers.

As Dimitrie stepped into view, the air seemed to hold its breath.

“Well?” Veritas demanded. “What did you see?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand rose to his chin, fingertips brushing the silver fringe of his beard. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—measured, but heavy with implication.

“You were right,” he said. “The glow persists. Crimson. Unwavering. And it… moves. As though it lives.”

A rustle of unease passed through the group. Sanda reflexively crossed herself, her fingers trembling.

Veritas narrowed her eyes. “Even now? She hasn’t eaten, hasn’t drunk a drop. And still it clings to her?”

Dimitrie nodded. “Not just clings—it pulses. Like a heartbeat. It hasn't faded. If anything, it’s stronger than before. She had no food, no light, no comfort… yet the glow is undiminished. That is not an illusion. That is not madness.”

“She bit Sister Irina,” Clemence cut in, voice taut with indignation. “When we tried to drag her to the vault, she fought like a cornered animal. Scratched, kicked, screamed. No prayer could soothe her.”

Irina paled, tugging her sleeve down over the bandage on her wrist.

“She did fight,” Dimitrie allowed, beginning to pace. His boots echoed with solemn finality on the stone. “But let me ask you this—wouldn’t you fight, if you were dragged into darkness without reason or mercy?”

Veritas shifted uncomfortably. The others exchanged glances, as if daring each other to disagree.

“She did not blaspheme. Did not foam at the mouth. Her limbs did not twist, her eyes were not blackened. She spoke clearly. Her eyes were lucid. Her voice calm. Almost… reasonable .”

“Then what is she?” Sanda asked, voice barely more than breath. “A demon child? A changeling?”

Dimitrie stopped pacing. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But that glow? It hurled four sisters off their feet— without intent . That power surged out of her like a reflex. Imagine if she learned to wield it deliberately .”

A silence fell, thick as fog.

Veritas was the first to break it. “You think she can control it?”

“I think she’s beginning to,” Dimitrie said. “She told me it comes when she’s hurt. When she’s punished. The first time it flared, she said, was during a starvation beating. Then again, when forced to kneel on husks until her knees bled. Each time, the same—pain. Humiliation. Fear. And then… light.”

He looked to the heavens as if searching for understanding, arms spread in silent question.

“I think it’s a defense. Something ancient. Buried. In her bloodline, perhaps. If it is rage that fuels it, pain that calls it… and she learns to summon it…”

He let the thought hang, unspoken.

“Then we’re not sheltering an orphan,” Clemence said grimly. “We’re housing a weapon.”

“And if she already knows what she is?” Irina asked, voice quaking.

Dimitrie’s expression flickered—faith and fear warring behind his eyes.

“Then we must make her forget.”

Veritas’s brows furrowed. “And how do you propose we do that? How do you hide power from the one who holds it?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Keep her broken,” he said softly. “Keep her small. Starve her belief in herself. Make her fear it— as much as we do .”

The words struck like ice water.

“I must go,” he added after a beat. “The novices await for evening prayer.”

“But what of the girl?” Veritas stepped after him, her voice hard.

Dimitrie paused at the archway, framed in firelight. The hem of his robe caught the torchlight, black and red like a dying flame.

“She stays where she is,” he said. “The iron will hold. Give her bread. Water. No more.”

The sisters flinched.

“You’d feed that thing?” Clemence spat. “When she glows like a brand and no lash humbles her?”

Sanda’s voice turned cold. “Her mother was a harlot. Her father—a priest . That alone should have damned her soul.”

“They must’ve conceived her during some unholy rite,” Irina muttered, almost to herself. “A blood moon, no doubt…”

Dimitrie turned on his heel. His voice, when it came, was sharp as a blade.

“I don’t care if her mother danced naked through graves,” he snapped. “I don’t care what scandal brought her into the world. What I care about is the truth: the girl lives. The girl glows . And the girl is dangerous .”

He stepped forward, and the sisters recoiled as one.

“But if she’s watched. If she’s chained. If we feed her just enough to keep her breathing… she cannot harm us. Not yet. And if this is a miracle , if God has truly sent us this child… then perhaps we are not cursed, but chosen .”

He softened, barely. His voice took on the quiet conviction of a priest clinging to hope.

“If we endure this trial—if we survive her—then we may yet claim triumph over the Devil himself.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the corridor, his silhouette swallowed by the gold-lit gloom.

The sisters stood still as gravestones.

“A waste of bread,” Clemence muttered. “She should be buried in salt and ash.”

“She should be exorcised,” Sanda hissed. “Not pitied.”

But Veritas only stared after Dimitrie, her jaw set hard.

“For now…” she murmured. “We obey.”

Their shadows twisted across the stone walls—long, angry, afraid.

And far below, in the bowels of the earth, the girl in chains wept without sound—her hands glowing faintly in the dark, like embers that refused to die.

—

Days later

Days had lost meaning. Whether it was the third or fifth, Bela no longer knew—nor cared. Time had blurred into a stagnant haze of pain. She lay crumpled on the cold floor, chained and starving, her body numb, lips cracked, wrists raw. The red glow that once lit her hands was gone, as if it had never been.

Still, her lips moved. Barely. A breath, a whisper. Sometimes the words made sense. Sometimes they didn’t. If death was escape, let it come quietly. Let it take her where her mother had gone.

Her thoughts were broken by the sudden screech of rusted hinges.

The iron door creaked open.

The cold air shifted.

She blinked against the faint torchlight spilling in, barely able to lift her head. A figure stepped inside.

Sister Irina.

She stood rigid at the threshold, a tray in her hands. Her nose wrinkled in distaste as her eyes landed on the huddled, chained form of Bela. Her expression was more than contempt—it was revulsion.

“Tch,” Irina hissed. “Still alive.”

She strode forward, her boots loud and purposeful. She didn’t kneel, didn’t speak with compassion. She merely dropped the tray with such force that half the porridge sloshed out, pooling into the grime and straw at Bela’s feet.

“Eat,” she muttered. “If you still remember how.”

Bela didn’t move at first. She stared at the tray as if unsure it was real. A lump of grey porridge—cold, congealed—sat in a chipped bowl beside a tin cup of water. Some of the meal had already mixed with the dirt.

Irina stepped back, folding her arms.

“Well? You’re not fasting, are you, demon-child?”

Only then did Bela slowly, shakily crawl toward the tray, her knees scraping the stone. The chains rattled behind her. She reached the bowl with both hands and hungrily brought it to her lips, her trembling fingers clutching at its rim. She didn’t care that it was cold. Didn’t care that it tasted of iron and dust. She was starving.

“You look worse than a gutter rat,” Irina sneered. “Pitiful. You even eat like one.”

Bela ignored her. She kept eating, slow and desperate, licking at what little she could, the porridge sticking to her fingers.

Irina circled her like a vulture. Her eyes narrowed. “Hmm. So the red is gone now. How convenient.”

Bela didn’t look up. She didn’t speak. She had learned, by now, that silence sometimes spared her more than honesty did.

“I suppose the Devil's gone shy,” Irina continued, voice dripping with venom. “Or maybe he left you. Even Hell must be ashamed of what you are.”

Still, no reply. Only the soft sound of hunger.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Born from sin. Spawn of a harlot and a blaspheming priest. What ritual brought you into this world, I wonder? Did they bleed a lamb on the altar? Drink from each other’s palms while the moon bled red?” She leaned closer, her mouth curling. “You are a curse. A blemish. You should have died with your whore of a mother.”

Bela froze.

But only for a second.

She continued eating, eyes low, lips stained with grain and dirt.

The sight seemed to enrage Irina.

“Disgusting,” she spat. “Even your silence is impudent.”

In a sudden burst of rage, Irina kicked the bowl from Bela’s hands. It clattered against the wall, porridge splattering like wet ash. Bela gasped—not in pain, but in quiet loss. The food was gone. She looked up, eyes hollow, face streaked with grime and tears. No defiance—only the dull ache of someone too broken to protest.

“Oh? Now you look at me?” Irina mocked. “Why don’t you glow, little devil? Why don’t you strike me down like you did the others?”

Bela said nothing.

Irina stepped closer, crouching down to face her. “Is it pain you need? Hurt, to call your fire?”

Still nothing.

She raised a hand and slapped Bela hard across the cheek. The sound cracked in the small room. Bela’s head jerked to the side, a fresh bruise already blooming under her skin.

“Come on,” Irina hissed. “Call your magic. Burn me. Show me what you are.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Bela whispered.

“Liar!”

This time, she grabbed Bela by the hair and yanked her upward. Bela cried out, her cry hoarse, her body too frail to resist. Irina struck her again. And again. Until her knuckles turned red and Bela sobbed against her sleeve.

“Mama...” Bela whispered. “Mama, please. I want to go home...”

Irina stopped.

The silence that followed was thick, cruel.

“Your mother’s dead, filth,” she whispered coldly. “And if you had any kindness in you, you’d have joined her long ago.”

She released Bela with a shove, sending her crumpling against the wall.

Then, with a hiss of disgust, Irina turned, gathered what was left of the tray, and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut with a thunderous boom.

Darkness returned.

And in the silence, Bela wept.

Not from pain—

But from the certainty no one would come.

Not her mother.

Not anyone.

Not even God.

Only the cold remained.

And prayers that were never answered.

The door had slammed shut—hours, minutes, maybe days ago. Time dissolved in the vault’s blackness. No sun, no moon. Just the stink of rust, piss, and old blood. The air was thick, unmoving. The stones whispered of madness.

Bela curled into the farthest corner, where damp crept like mold. She hugged her knees to her chest, face buried, tears soaking the ragged hem of her shift.

She stank—of sweat, iron, and filth. Her skin clung to bone, ribs sharp, stomach hollow.

She was starving. Exhausted.

Alone.

Why won’t they just let me die…?

The thought came not in anger, but in a deep, marrow-deep weariness.

Her voice, barely a breath, broke the silence.

“Please…”

She lifted her head and stared into the pitch, eyes bloodshot and wide. She wasn’t speaking to anyone she could see. There was no one to see. Only the dark, and her own reflection in the puddle beneath her—eyes like a ghost’s, face smudged with bruises and soot.

“Please,” she whispered again. Her fingers gripped her knees tighter. “If there is something out there… anything… hear me.”

She paused, and then, like a soul reciting the rites of her own funeral, she began to pray. “O Light beyond the firmament. O Flame that hides within the folds of night… angel, demon, star-born wraith—I care not the name you bear. Only that you hear me.”

Her hands trembled as she folded them tight, as though prayer alone might hold her bones together. “They say I am sin-made, that my blood is black with blasphemy, that my very breath is a stain upon the wind. But tell me—what sin is birth? What crime is it to be born unloved?”

She curled in tighter, ribs aching beneath the phantom weight of judgment and silence.

“I do not beg for miracles,” she said, the words barely more than breath, “nor vengeance on the lips of fire. I ask only this: be near me. Stand beside me, if only for a breath. Let me not vanish unheard.”

Her voice grew thinner, more fragile, as if sorrow might hollow her into silence. “Let me feel warmth untouched by iron, a hand that does not bind or bruise. Let me know I am not the last voice still echoing in this endless dark.”

A silence followed, long and cavernous, before her voice rose again—hoarse and breaking.

“I do not ask to be saved,” she confessed, “only seen. Not to be spared the fire, but not to burn unseen. Let my agony be witnessed. Let someone remember that I was here.”

She broke then, utterly, her words dissolving into sobs.

“If this curse is mine to bear, then let me not bear it nameless and alone. If I must fall into flame… let someone hold my hand as I do.”

And then, her final cry tore through the hush like a prayer flung into the void:

“Please… please… whatever you are—wake. Rise. Come to me.”

Her words faded into the quiet. No response came—only the slow, sad drip of water from the ceiling and the rattle of chains when she moved. But even so, her prayer lingered, suspended in the air like breath on a cold morning, waiting to be taken in.

And elsewhere —in a place long buried, beneath the black roots of an ancient forest, beneath crypts forgotten by men and untouched by light— something stirred.

At first, only dust moved. A shiver in the stillness.

Then the stone cracked.

And beneath a veil of silence more profound than death, a figure opened its eyes.

They glowed faintly—pale gold, like flame behind ice.

It inhaled, the sound hollow and ancient. Not air, but essence. Something deeper.

It had heard.

Across land and shadow, it had heard her. The weeping girl in the iron room.

It rose, slow and solemn, wrapped in linen and rot, in power long buried.

Not quite an angel.

Not quite a demon.

But answer.

Chapter Text

“We’ve delayed this long enough,” he said, voice thin but unwavering. “The Order cannot keep crawling forward without a leader. We’re slipping. You all know it.”

There was a moment of quiet, followed by the soft clink of goblets and shifting robes.

“We’re not leaderless,” Lord Dreven muttered without looking up from his wine. “We have a Sire. Whether he’s here or not doesn’t change that.”

Vargan’s lips thinned. “He hasn’t been here, Dreven. Not in body, not in voice, not in will. And it’s been over fifty years.”

“He has his reasons.”

“Sure,” Lady Ysabet said coolly. She crossed her legs, her golden-threaded robe whispering against the floor. “But in the meantime, we’ve been running this Order ourselves. The infiltration is moving. The church is rotting from the inside, just like we planned. And yet here we are—still bickering about who’s allowed to steer the ship.”

Dreven set his goblet down, hard. “Because steering a ship into holy war without a blessed Sire at the helm is suicide.”

Ysabet tilted her head. “No. It's a strategy. Delayed leadership is still a failure, my lord. You can wrap it in divine will all you want, but the results are the same: indecision, stagnation, risk. Our enemies are organizing. Our allies are restless. The humans we control are starting to ask questions.”

Ralic, slouched at the end of the table, twirled a ring around his finger. “And let’s not forget,” he said lazily, “a few of our field agents were nearly exposed last month in Vienna. The clergy’s on to us. We’re balancing on a blade’s edge here.”

“And replacing the Count without his blessing will break that blade clean in half,” said Malveras, rising slowly from his chair. His joints cracked with the sound of age, but his presence was still iron-strong. “You would crown a new Sire without void sanction? That is heresy. We are not kings. We are stewards. And stewards do not choose the monarch.”

“No one’s choosing a monarch,” Ysabet replied. “We’re choosing survival.”

Vargan nodded. “A Sire is not a god. He is a leader. And we need one—now. Before we take our next step, before we move into the public arena, we must have structure. Otherwise, the humans in our pocket will start calling us frauds. Or worse—abandoning us for other powers.”

Dreven turned to him. “You want to call a vote. As if this is some noble council. You think divinity can be earned by majority rule?”

“No,” Vargan said. “I think divinity is silent, and we are drowning in the quiet.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then a soft voice cut through the tension like a knife through silk.

“What would the Count say,” whispered a vampire named Lucette, barely audible from her corner of the room, “if he returned and saw we’d replaced him? What would he do ?”

Malveras’ expression tightened. “He would see betrayal. He would see children gnawing on the bones of their father’s feast, mistaking themselves for kings.”

“He hasn’t been seen in half a century,” Ralic said, sitting up at last. “You really think he’s going to drag himself out of whatever crypt he crawled into just to lecture us?”

“Maybe,” Ysabet said. “Or maybe he’s truly gone. Either way, we’ve been in charge without the title. We’ve done the work. We’ve taken the hits. All in his name.”

“And if he returns?” Dreven asked, voice cold. “Find someone sitting in his chair?”

The wind howled again, loud enough to rattle the stained glass. Candles guttered. Across the room, the great portrait of the Count—oil on canvas, faded and peeling—seemed to watch them with a gaze that knew too much. Seer Altheira finally looked up. Her clouded eyes stared into nothing, or perhaps into something none of them could see.

“Then send the summons,” she said quietly. “One final call. Not to the winds or the void—but to him . Let him answer. Let him show us he still lives. And if he does not…”

She paused.

“Then the throne must be filled. Not out of ambition—but necessity.”

No one responded.

The fire popped in the hearth. Vargan slowly sat back down.

“All in favor of sending the summons?” he asked.

A few hands raised.

“And if he does not come?”

A beat passed. Then more hands rose.

Not all of them—but enough.

The council chamber buzzed with low conversation after the vote. A few councilors were still whispering over what the summoning might entail, others already scribbling down names, early strategies, fragments of ambition. No one had spoken of the empty throne in such finality before—and the echo of that choice still hung thick in the air.

Vargan cleared his throat, ready to move on. “Now, then. Before we proceed with the next order—”

The heavy double doors creaked open with a low groan.

A gust of cold air swept into the chamber, licking at candles, pulling shadows across the long black table. Every head turned in unison. Some stood, instinctively reaching for hidden weapons beneath their cloaks.

From the hallway beyond, nothing came. No steps, no whisper. Just the open mouth of darkness.

Then, from the gloom, emerged not a threat—but a servant. Thin, plainly dressed, his brow slick with sweat, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Dreven scoffed. “By the void, man. You scared the blood from our veins.”

Ysabet raised an eyebrow. “If this is about the wine stores again, I swear —”

The servant stumbled forward, breathless, his hands twitching at his sides. “My lords,” he panted. “Forgive me. I… I had not meant to interrupt so—so dramatically…”

“Yet you did,” Ralic muttered. “So unless the palace is on fire or the Pope’s in the courtyard, you’d best make it good.”

The servant swallowed, trembling. “He… he has returned.”

There was a pause.

“ Who ?” Malveras demanded, standing.

The servant’s voice cracked as he said it.

“The Count.”

Silence.

A strange, sinking cold rippled through the chamber—not wind, not shadow, but something older. Something forgotten. Twelve eyes met twelve more, a roomful of ageless predators suddenly reduced to startled children.

“Impossible,” Vargan whispered. “He hasn’t—he can’t—”

“He’s here?” Dreven’s voice was low, disbelieving. “Now? In the palace?”

The page nodded once, wide-eyed. “Walked right through the main hall, he did. Didn’t say a word. The guards didn’t stop him—they wouldn’t dare . He’s coming.”

The room erupted in hushed whispers and anxious glances.

“ How —?”

“Who summoned him?”

“Impossible. The rites failed last time—he didn’t stir—”

“He was dead . We all agreed he was!”

Then came the footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Echoing down the corridor like the toll of distant, funeral drums.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The candles shivered. The air tightened, thickening with an ancient, unseen weight that pressed against the lungs and silenced the tongue.

And then, he entered.

Count Orlok.

He did not walk so much as emerge from the dark itself—a silhouette stitched from shadow and draped in mourning. Tall and skeletal, he moved with unnerving grace, each step an eerie contradiction: elegance in decay, regality in ruin. Dressed in black, his high-collared hunting coat clung to his emaciated frame, dark trousers whispering with movement, heeled shoes clicking like blades on marble. A sable cloak billowed behind him, its heavy fur trailing like a funeral shroud.

His skin was a pale, papery gray, stretched tight over a face carved in death. Hollow cheeks, a beaked nose, and a mouth frozen in perpetual disdain gave him the look of something half-forgotten and unburied. One side of his skull was bald and gleaming; the other clung to greasy strands of black hair, combed stiffly over like a parody of vanity. A stubborn mustache curled beneath his lip—absurd in its determination to endure.

No eyebrows. No softness.

Only those glassy, yellow-tinged eyes—ancient, unblinking, and utterly inhuman.

And his hands—

Gods above, the hands .

Gnarled, elongated fingers tipped in claw-like nails, twitching faintly, as if aching to peel something.

Something vital.

As he crossed the threshold, his fingers flexed once.

Several council members flinched. One spilled wine.

Chairs scraped. Goblets quivered.

One by one, they rose.

“Count…” someone whispered, a prayer caught between awe and terror.

Orlok stopped just inside the chamber.

He said nothing.

His gaze swept the room.

Not like a man assessing a gathering.

Like a scythe .

And then, finally, that voice—

Low, slow, and grating.

Like rusted metal dragging through wet stone.

“Ah. Still alive… most of you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. A suggestion of humor. Nothing more.

“Be seated.”

They obeyed.

All of them. Even Ysabet.

Orlok glided forward, his sable coat trailing behind him like smoke, and settled at the head of the table. The chair groaned beneath his weight, the sound oddly human in the silence.

He folded his clawed hands. Like a man settling in for conversation.

A grotesque parody of civility.

“I have been gone a long time,” he said, almost conversationally. “And yet—I watched. Even in sleep. I listened. Like a dream I could not wake from. I know your voices. Your names. Your fears. Especially those.”

Ysabet, bold no longer, lowered her gaze.

“I left because I had to,” Orlok continued. “There are truths that cannot be seen from a throne. Things buried deep. Beneath this earth. Older than it. You wouldn’t understand. You’re preoccupied with your little games—empires, politics, puppetry.”

A beat passed. His eyes scanned the table again, colder now.

“So,” he said, “what have you all been doing… while I slept?”

A tense moment passed before Ralic, of all people, broke the silence. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, tone sheepish.

“The infiltration, my lord. We’ve placed assets within the clergy. Quietly, carefully. Dozens of cathedrals across the continent. Our reach has doubled.”

Ysabet picked up from him, more carefully now. “We have begun aligning with political movements. Faithful groups with influence. Once compromised, we can reroute their funding—filter laws, manipulate narrative…”

Dreven added, “And the human sects under our control continue to expand. They worship a god, but they obey us . We’ve spent decades refining their doctrine.”

The Count listened, unmoving. No nods. No smiles.

Just silence.

When they had finished, he finally blinked.

“You have been busy,” he said.

There was no praise in his tone. No approval. But also—no condemnation.

Then—finally—it came.

The question.

It spilled from Lady Ysabet’s lips before she could stop herself.

“My lord… forgive the bluntness, but… how are you here? Now? We tried everything—every rite, every summoning. The tomb remained cold. It’s been almost a century. What… woke you?”

Orlok looked at her. Not cruelly. But the way an avalanche might look at a hiker.

He leaned slightly forward.

“There are truths buried beneath death,” he murmured, voice like velvet over broken glass. “Older than blood. More ancient than the void’s first breath.”

His tone sank into a hush, weighty and cold. “Some things sleep. Others… keep watch from behind the veil.”

A slow smile curved his lips, like the bloom of frost on a grave. “And some… wait. With teeth bared in the dark.”

He intertwined his fingers in front of him, a shadow cloaked in purpose. “I’ve returned, drawn by the summons I stitched into the fabric of my own restless slumber. I have gathered my strength, refined what was once scattered. And now…”

His eyes gleamed like moons reflected in still water.

“I will take what was always meant to be mine.”

And with that, silence returned.

A silence of realignment.

Of memories returning to their proper places.

Of power, once scattered, coiling back into form.

The council sat still—but their eyes gave them away, flicking from face to face, seeking cues, reassurance, meaning. They traded glances like contraband: cautious, discreet, heavy with guilt. The Count’s words were never just words. They were riddles—thorns in silk, metaphors wrapped in bone. Still, each member nodded along, feigning understanding like priests before a god they feared more than followed.

Then the Count moved.

Just a tilt of the head.

But it was enough.

“I know what you are thinking,” Orlok murmured, voice smooth and unnervingly calm. “That fifty years… perhaps even sixty… is a dreadfully long time for a master to sleep while his realm murmurs, shifts, evolves.”

He raised one long, skeletal hand and curled his fingers into a loose cradle.

“You wonder how I know anything at all. If I was truly absent. Or merely… elsewhere.”

No one spoke. Orlok let the silence stretch before continuing, more quietly now, more intimately—as though letting them in on a secret none were worthy of.

“You see,” he said, “though my body lay still beneath stone and sigil, I was never wholly unaware. My strength… returns slowly. But as it does—so, too, does my perception.”

He raised his hand slightly higher.

“And perception… is a curious thing. It reaches. Tastes. Feels the ripple of blood across great distances. And when a bloodline born of mine tangles with another—particularly one stained with treachery or foreign poison—I feel it. Like a drop of ink in still water.”

“Some of you,” his eyes flicked toward a few faces, “may have wished for a leader. Others… bolder ones… perhaps fancied themselves as one.”

No one moved.

No one dared speak.

He let that idea hang, rotting in the stillness.

Then, he smiled.

“A funny notion,” he mused. “Replacing me. Hosting an election. It almost sounds… democratic .” The way he said the word, it was like he’d bitten into something sour.

His voice lightened, mock-curious.

“Tell me—what noble minds among you first breathed life into this idea?”

A pause.

A deadly pause.

Then: “Vargan,” he said, turning his gaze. “You first.”

Vargan swallowed. The tips of his fingers whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.

“My lord,” he began, voice just shy of shaking, “we—we merely believed that in your absence, it would be prudent to… solidify leadership. To prevent chaos. Without your direction, the outer factions began asking questions. We needed to reassure them.”

Orlok nodded slowly, as if considering a fine wine.

“Reassurance. Yes. Of course.”

He turned his gaze.

“Lady Ysabet?”

She straightened her gown, cleared her throat. “It was never meant as a slight, my lord. We believed only that structure was necessary. With no voice at the helm, decisions have been slow, scattered. There was fear we might lose momentum.”

“A tragedy,” Orlok whispered, lips barely moving. “Momentum is… precious.”

Next.

“Altheira.”

The gaunt, hunched vampire blinked several times and gave a wheezing sigh. “We thought— I thought, perhaps—our enemies watch for weakness. When the Sire is gone for so long, rumors begin. We wanted to act. To seem united. Strong.”

Orlok didn’t nod this time. Just stared. Altheira looked away.

Then the Count looked to the end of the table.

“Ralic.”

Ah. Ralic . The tall, pale-eyed noble who hadn’t looked away once since the Count had entered. Younger than most on the council—by vampire standards—but possessed of ambition like a fever.

Ralic didn’t stammer.

“My lord,” he said, cool and composed. “I believe every kingdom, every order, every reign, requires continuity. Whether divine or appointed by blade, the people—our forces—need a figure to follow. You were gone. Not for a month, or a year, but an era . We acted not to offend, but to preserve. To protect what you built.”

Orlok gave a small nod, fingers tapping gently on the armrest.

“A commendable answer,” he murmured. “You speak with reason. Strength. Even a touch of passion. One might almost believe it came from a place of loyalty.”

Ralic allowed a faint smile to pass his lips. “It does, my lord.”

Orlok smiled too. His was… different.

“Tell me, Ralic…..when you held your private meeting in the Black Chapel beneath the ruined monastery last solstice, was that before or after you began forging letters with my seal?”

The room froze.

Ralic didn’t blink. But his breath caught. Just once. A quick inhale through the nose.

“…I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Orlok did not raise his voice. His tone remained level—icy and smooth.

“Oh, come now. The false letters you sent to the Eastern burgomasters, claiming my ‘silent blessing.’ The promises of land, of titles. Quite bold of you. But not original.”

He paused, cocking his head with something like sympathy.

“You always did want a crown.”

Silence. A beat.

“How—how would you know that?” Ralic managed. “You were dead. You were in the crypt—sealed. I… we tried to wake you for years. We—”

“You tried to awaken what you believed was no longer a threat,” Orlok said gently. “But I am no mere lord. My essence is tethered to every drop of blood this Order has spilled. And when you whispered betrayal into the ears of your brothers, Ralic….. I heard it. ”

He rose from his chair. Slowly. Gracefully. Shadows clung to him like they feared being left behind.

“Do not mistake sleep for blindness.”

Ralic sat motionless. Pale. His fingers curled around the hilt of his ceremonial dagger beneath the table—but did not move.

Orlok’s voice dropped to a soft rasp.

“There are no elections. There is no replacement. There is only the will… of the blood. ”

He turned from Ralic and looked across the room again.

“Shall we continue the meeting?”

And the chamber, trembling and breathless, answered with silence.

The rest of the meeting resumed as though death hadn’t just walked into the room.

They spoke of border tensions with the Eastern clans, the wavering loyalty of the Southern brood, and a troubling rise in faith-driven resistance nearby. Papers rustled, candles guttered, and hesitant voices gradually steadied, dulled by the numbing routine of bureaucracy. 

Count Orlok sat motionless, silent but attentive, his skeletal fingers faintly drumming on the armrest. He neither questioned nor objected—only listened, the way a grave listens to eulogies.

The council dared not press further. Ralic most of all, who kept his gaze locked on the ink pot before him, pretending not to feel the Count's earlier words clawing up the back of his spine like a cold wind. And for a moment, they all thought they’d been spared .

But the dead are patient.

And patience, like rot, seeps quietly.

It was just hours later before sunrise when chaos struck.

The palace echoed with hurried footsteps, breathless cries, and the sound of iron heels against marble. Servants, spawns, and guards swarmed the east wing—Count Orlok’s quarter for his subordinates—where none but his most trusted dared to tread. But it wasn’t the Count that summoned them.

It was a scream.

Ralic was found sprawled on the cold stone of his chamber floor, just outside his coffin, as if he’d tried to flee. His throat torn open, heart missing, fingers bent backward in a grotesque mimicry of pleading. His expression was frozen in a horrid mix of disbelief and recognition, like someone who had seen a ghost just before meeting it.

There were no signs of forced entry.

No broken locks.

No blood trail.

Only one thing was certain: he was dead.

To the palace workers—lowly thralls and night-cleaners—the headline was simple. The Count… had awakened . And death was bound to follow.

But to the High Council?

This wasn’t news.

This was a message .

The Count was not just alive.

He was watching .

He had heard Ralic’s whispers. And he had answered.

And so, too, would he hear any others.

And if even a drop of their blood tilted toward the enemy—if even a sliver of loyalty strayed—they’d die just like Ralic. 

Swiftly. 

Quietly. 

Without mercy.

Meanwhile, the sea stretched black and endless beyond the tall windows of the western wing, where the Count stood cloaked in shadow.

The glass reflected nothing. Not the chandeliers. Not the room. Not even the man. Behind him, the crackle of an ancient fireplace. Faint. Barely warm. Enough to chase off the chill for lesser beings, but Count Orlok was long beyond the reach of warmth. He stared at the waves below. No movement to his form. Just a silhouette against the void, frozen in thought.

A figure entered the room—stiff-backed, clad in black—one of the few with permission to disturb him. It was Cadrevan, the butler. A vampire old enough to remember the Count’s first conquest. Loyal. Discreet.

“My lord,” he said, with a respectful incline of his head, “the body has been removed. None outside the council and inner staff shall know the truth. As far as they’re told… the poor lad collapsed from grief.”

The Count said nothing.

Cadrevan tried again. “Shall I have someone watched, my lord? Or perhaps… silenced? If you wish it, I—”

“No,” Orlok interrupted, voice flat as lake water under the moon. “There is no need.”

The butler stiffened. “Of course, my lord.”

Silence again.

Then the Count exhaled. A slow, unnatural thing, like breath remembering how to be air.

“In my sleep… there was nothing,” he murmured. “Only the void. Cold. Familiar. I heard the prayers of a thousand who feared me. The curses of a thousand more who had forgotten me. They were nothing. Just wind across a dead plain.”

Cadrevan said nothing. He had heard strange things before in his long years of service—but this felt different.

“But then,” Orlok went on, his voice softening into something almost thoughtful, “there was a dream.”

The butler’s gaze flicked up.

“A dream, my lord?”

Orlok didn’t answer immediately. He stared out at the sea, his lips parted slightly, as if tasting the edges of a memory too delicate to hold.

“There was a voice,” he said at last. “A girl.”

Cadrevan blinked. “A girl? You heard her prayers?”

“No,” Orlok said, turning just enough for the firelight to brush the sharp angles of his corpse-pale face. “Not a prayer.”

He paused. The silence stretched.

“A girl… in an iron room. I heard her.”

Then he turned fully, facing the butler, his eyes catching the fire’s dim glow like twin, frozen moons.

“And she… heard me back.”

—

Days later

"Come to me..."

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, wrapping around her like a wet shroud in the cold. Deep and ancient, its tone resonated with the decay of centuries, a whisper of grave-dirt and forgotten crypts. It was not a voice meant to be heard by the living—it was a murmur belonging to mausoleums and haunted cathedrals.

"Speak to me, little dove... come to me..."

Bela twitched in her sleep, her body writhing under the weight of invisible chains. In her dream—or was it a dream?—she lay motionless in a void so black it seemed to drink in the light. Her limbs would not move. Her lips parted but made no sound. Sleep paralysis, perhaps. Yet this was worse. Much worse.

She sensed it before she saw it.

Clawed fingers, impossibly cold, traced her legs, ribs, chest—then hovered near her face, never touching. The void pulsed with her fear.

"I await thee, beloved..."

Her lips parted. She fought to speak, to push back against the weight on her chest, to acknowledge whatever entity held her hostage.

"I... I—who are you..." she whispered, her voice threadbare.

And then—

SPLASH!

A gasp tore from Bela's throat as she jolted awake, her body seizing in the shock of freezing water. She blinked rapidly while a dark-robed figure loomed above her, scowl carved into a face already seasoned with bitterness.

Sister Irina.

“You lazy little wretch,” hissed Sister Irina, standing over her with an empty tin bucket, her face pinched in frustration. “I've been calling you for ten minutes. I should have dumped this on you sooner.”

Sister Irina knelt with a sigh, drawing a thick iron key from beneath her robe and unlocking the shackles with brisk, calloused fingers. Bela said nothing, expecting either food or punishment—down here, it was always one or the other, lost in a haze of screams and silence. 

But this time felt different.

“You’re being brought up,” Irina said curtly, not meeting her eyes.

Bela’s cracked lips parted. “What?”

“You heard me. Get up. You’re being dressed.”

“For what?” Bela’s voice was rough, barely more than a whisper.

Irina scowled and stood again. “Not my place to answer. All I know is that the Abbot sent word. They want you presentable.”

Bela didn’t move. Not at first. She stayed curled on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, too weak or too mistrustful to rise.

Irina’s boot connected with her ribs. Not hard enough to break anything—but hard enough to make a point.

“I said get up. Now.”

Bela groaned, pushing herself upright with trembling arms. Her body screamed in protest. The bruises along her spine flared. Her shoulders were raw where the chains had rubbed her flesh to a pulp. Her once-beautiful features were pale, sickly, sunken from hunger. Her dress hung off her thin frame like a rag on a ghost.

Irina turned toward the door. Another nun stood waiting outside. There were no words of kindness. No sympathy. Just the scrape of keys, the shift of fabric, the weight of silence.

But behind all of it—behind the waking world—Bela still heard it.

That voice.

"Come to me..."

It wasn’t finished with her yet. It echoed—not in her ears, but in her bones. And though the shackles were gone from her limbs, something far older, far darker, had only just begun to tighten its grip.

Bela’s bare feet padded softly along the cold stone corridor, each step echoing as if the chains still clung to her. Her wrists were red and raw, her breath shallow, the memory of the iron room heavy on her skin.  She expected to be led back to the coal chambers, but Bela’s brow furrowed as the path veered away from the mines and toward the east wing of the monastery.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly, though she knew she’d get no answer.

Irina didn’t even glance back.

At the end of the hall, the scent of lye and lavender soap told Bela where they were—the bathing chamber. She feared it was a cruel mistake. But waiting there, cold and unmoving as carved stone, stood Sister Veritas.  Bela bowed her head slightly, a gesture of respect beaten into her years ago.

“…Mother Superior,” she said, her voice hoarse. “What… is happening?”

Veritas answered with her usual frost.

“You are to bathe. Then you will dress. Something that covers the filth on your skin and the marks you’ve earned.”

Bela blinked slowly. “Why?”

“Because,” Veritas replied curtly, “Father Petru has inquired about you.”

At that name, Bela’s shoulders tensed. Father Petru was no ordinary priest—he was a man from the Order of Saint Iacob and unlike the rest, he had been kind to her. 

The Mother Superior continued, her voice laced with disdain. “While you wasted away in that cell of yours—he and the Order have been feeding the poor, hunting for meat, repairing roofs, and strengthening the faith of the village. Their presence has given the people hope. They believe the prophecy is upon us, and the Order may be their salvation.”

Bela’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. They still believe in that? she thought bitterly. That old tale of blood and fire and false redemption?

But she said nothing.

Veritas didn’t stop.

“During a gathering held by the monastery, Father Petru noticed your absence. He remembered you,” she added with an expression that made the word taste foul. “No doubt due to the disgrace you caused at the tavern some weeks back.”

Bela flinched. She hated that incident—the shouting and the shameful way everyone had looked at her. Even now, the memory was a wound that hadn’t healed.

“Father Dimitrie couldn’t admit where you were,” Veritas went on, as if explaining a minor inconvenience. “He cannot afford to offend the Order. Not when the villagers now see them as divine saviors. So instead, he’s asked you be presentable , so you might speak to Father Petru directly.”

A beat passed.

“You are to tell him that you care nothing for the Church,” Veritas said sharply. “Tell him you want no part in salvation, that you are beyond redemption. Let him think it is your choice . That we tried.”

Bela stood in silence, her jaw slack.

She was to lie. Lie for them. To protect the reputation of a monastery that had beaten her, starved her, locked her in iron for weeks. To make herself the villain so they could remain the martyrs.

It was laughable. Stupid, even.

But the bruises along her ribs still throbbed. Her wrists still burned.

So she just nodded.

Veritas turned her head toward the door. “Then do as you’re told. Bathe. And dress. Your meeting will come soon.”

The doors creaked open, and Bela stepped inside.

The bath had been plain—no oils, no luxury, just water. She scrubbed until her skin stung, trying to wash the dungeon from her body. Her fingers grazed old and new scars, but she didn’t dwell. A simple gray dress awaited her in the cell—long-sleeved, ankle-length, like mourning.

She dressed slowly, wincing as fabric brushed bruises. At the mirror above the basin, her reflection stared back: hollow eyes, pale skin, and a flicker of something that refused to die. She untied her hair, letting it fall around her face. It softened her—just enough. She didn’t look well but at least she looked alive.

Outside, dawn's cold breeze curled around her ankles. Below, Văduva’s Hollow stirred, chimney smoke curling into the pale sky. Her dress fluttered, sleeves brushing half-healed wounds as she moved ghostlike among stone paths and wilted roses.

Father Petru sat beneath the withered arbor, watching the waking village. Young for a priest, calm and composed, he wore the look of a man who had read every terrible page—and still believed in the ending.

Bela stopped a few steps away and bowed her head.

“Father Petru,” she said, softly.

He turned, his face lighting up with a familiar politeness.

“Miss Bela,” he greeted, rising from the bench to give a slight bow of his own. “You look… well.”

She gave a small nod. “I look dressed. That’s good enough.”

Petru smiled, faintly, and gestured for her to sit beside him. She obeyed, though carefully, sitting just at the edge of the bench, hands folded tightly in her lap.

“I had asked about you a few times,” he said, watching the smoke trail from the houses below. “You’ve been gone for a while. Most of the villagers have been attending the sermons, the rituals, the candle prayers… yet you, it seems, have vanished from all of it.”

Bela blinked slowly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“I was at the coal mines,” she said.

Petru turned toward her, brows raised in quiet surprise. “Coal mines? But—those are for criminals, are they not? Thieves, mistresses, frauds. You don’t strike me as any of those.”

She gave a soft laugh, hollow at the edges.

“I’m not,” she said, “but the work suits me. It’s quiet down there. Nobody talks. Nobody expects anything. I get paid a little—enough to leave, if I ever choose to.”

That caught his interest. He folded his hands on his lap, leaning slightly toward her.

“So… you still think of leaving Văduva?” he asked, though his tone bore no judgment. “To find someone, perhaps? Or maybe to join a religious order? I remember you once asked about that, did you not?”

She turned her face toward him, her eyes steady but tired.

“I never wanted to join an order,” she said plainly. “I was curious, that’s all. The way a child might look at the stars and wonder what burns up there. And as for finding someone…” She hesitated, a shadow passing through her face. “I don’t know anymore.”

He studied her quietly, respectfully.

She continued.

“Athanasius… he’s been gone so long. No letters. No sign. I think… it may be time to stop wondering. Some people vanish. Some people mean to.”

Petru gave a small sigh, then nodded, his eyes falling to the dirt path ahead.

“You’re different now,” he said gently. “When we met at the tavern, you had a spark about you. You even dared to speak to strangers like me. You looked people in the eyes. But now…” He trailed off.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

He shifted. “Tell me, why the change of heart? Why avoid the church’s events—even the ones held on days of rest? Were you not once a devoted child of the faith?”

There was a long silence. The wind rustled the trees above, and somewhere a crow cawed once, sharp and lonely.

Bela finally spoke, slowly. “No,” she said. “I wasn’t.”

Petru’s head tilted. “Forgive me… but did Athanasius have something to do with this?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then why?”

A small, almost amused sound escaped her—half a laugh, half a breath. “I’ve prayed before,” she said, her voice quiet. “So many times. When my mother was dying. When I couldn’t find Athanasius. When I just wanted a place where I didn’t feel like… like a loose thread in someone else’s tapestry.”

She paused, her eyes suddenly brighter—but not with tears. With something heavier. “But nothing ever answered,” she said. “Not once. Not in whispers. Not in signs. Not even in silence.”

Petru didn’t interrupt. He only watched her.

“It’s hard to believe in something,” she paused for a while then continued, “when it never shows up."

She turned to look at him now—really look at him, eyes weary but sincere.

“I can only believe in it… once I see it.”

The priest was still for a moment, almost taken aback. Not offended, no—but moved in some quiet, unspoken way. He looked at her—not as a wayward lamb or a sinner to be guided—but as a person. Raw, wounded, and painfully honest.

“…You are braver than most,” he said softly.

Bela didn’t reply. She only looked back out at the village, hands still folded tightly, wind pulling strands of hair into her face. And for the first time that morning, the sun broke over the hills—soft, pale, and indifferent. Petru beside her looked thoughtful—too thoughtful for a man of faith who expected easy answers.

But then, his brow creased with reluctant curiosity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said softly, “but I heard something else. From Father Dimitrie.”

Bela turned to him slightly.

“He said the Church here had tried to pull you back to the path of God,” Petru continued. “Tried to bring you home, as it were—but you refused.”

He searched her face carefully. “Is that true?”

She didn’t speak for a moment. But then—remembering Veritas’ command, the game she had to play for the sake of appearances—she nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she murmured. “’Twas my choice.”

Petru’s lips pressed together in a solemn line. “But… why?” He tilted his head. “When a soul is tested, its faith ought to grow stronger, not wither. Surely you must still believe in redemption, do you not?”

That word— redemption —it stabbed somewhere deep. She almost laughed, but it came out dry, without any mirth.

In truth, the very hands that offered her ‘redemption’ had broken her skin open and left her bleeding on the stone floors of the iron room. But she could not say that. She had promised to play the villain for them—had agreed with her silence. So, she raised her head instead, expression neutral, voice soft.

“Tell me then, Father,” she said, turning her gaze toward the chapel’s spire, “what is the Church’s measure of one who is redeemable?”

Petru seemed caught off guard but intrigued. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands in his lap, choosing his words with care. “Well,” he began, “a redeemable soul is one that seeks to return. One who humbles themselves before the Lord, repents, and desires to right their wrongs. It is not perfection that makes a soul worthy—it is the yearning to be better, to be closer to the divine.”

Bela gave a small, almost sarcastic smile.

“And who says whether one is truly redeemed?” she asked. “Who names the sinner and who names the saint? When there is no voice from heaven, who speaks for Him? When none among us have stood in the fire or the glory of judgment, who decides?”

Petru blinked.

“Is it the priests?” Bela pressed. “The monks, the nuns? Those who’ve read the liturgy so many times they believe themselves to speak for God? If they say you are beyond saving, does it become true? And what then—if you begin to believe them?”

She turned back to him now, eyes full of fire, though her voice was soft. Petru had no answer ready. She could see it in the way he opened his mouth and closed it again, startled. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t crying. Her words were calm, deliberate. And that made them sharper than any accusation.

“Can one still be saved,” she continued, “when no one wants to save them? When the very people who preach mercy turn their backs? Where do you turn, Father? When God is not here to answer you Himself?”

He sat motionless, struck by the weight of her voice.

Bela looked down at her hands, her voice softening into something sadder now. “At the tavern,” she said, “when I merely spoke to you, they cast me out. The people. Like I was filth.”

Petru’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

Bela’s lips curved bitterly.

“It is because of who my mother was,” she said. “And who my father is.”

She turned away from him, ashamed not of the truth—but of the way it must sound.

“My mother bore a child with a priest… with Father Athanasius. The man I’ve been trying to find.” Her voice caught faintly. “That child was me.”

Father Petru was visibly stunned. His brows furrowed, and his body shifted with some instinct to reassure her, to reach out, to say something that could mend the damage that truth had caused.

“Bela…” he said gently. “That cannot be your fault. It is not a sin you committed. You were born from it, yes, but—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she interrupted softly, but firmly. “And that is why I cannot kneel before your God.”

Her eyes locked onto his again, steady and unyielding.

“I didn’t ask to be born from sin, Father. But I was. And now I carry it with me—on my face, in my name, in every glance I receive from those who know.”

And just then, the garden air shifted again—this time, not by wind.

“Ah! There you both are.”

A voice echoed from behind them, deep and firm, carrying the self-importance of a man who always expected to be obeyed.

Father Dimitrie, middle-aged and solemn, approached with an easy stride. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back neatly, his black robes perfectly in place. His eyes flicked from Bela to Petru with faint suspicion and feigned warmth.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Dimitrie said, offering a forced smile. “The Sisters have nearly finished preparing the chapel.”

Petru stood, straightening himself. Bela, slower, did the same, brushing dust from her skirt.

Dimitrie’s gaze lingered on her a moment too long.

“You look well,” he said, tone honeyed. “Much better than before.”

Bela offered him a thin smile. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose miracles happen.”

Petru looked between them, sensing the sudden tension like the cold before a storm. 

Father Dimitrie still wore that insufferable smile—tight at the edges, like a mask stitched too close to the skin. Bela, eyes cast low, let her gaze drift over the grass beneath her worn shoes, watching the blades sway in the morning breeze as though the wind were trying to coax her away.

At last, Dimitrie broke the silence with a chuckle that felt too rehearsed.

“Well,” he said, “it gladdens me to see you here, Father Petru. And with her, no less.” His hand clamped down on Bela’s shoulder, firm, almost proprietorial. “She’s always been a hardworking one, this girl. No wonder the townsfolk barely see her linger about.”

Bela didn’t even flinch. She just looked away.

Petru nodded, slowly. “Aye, that she is. Industrious and quiet.”

But something gnawed at him. The way Dimitrie’s hand remained, fingers spread too possessively across Bela’s thin shoulder. The girl didn’t even react. That was what disturbed him most.

“Well then,” Dimitrie said with feigned apology, “I do hate to interrupt your little talk, but I must excuse Miss Bela. There is something of import we must discuss. Private matter.”

Petru turned to Bela. “I see. Then I shan’t keep her. I ought to return to the chapel anyway. But,” he added with warmth, “I hope we might speak again, Bela.”

She glanced up at him, grateful despite herself. “Of course, Father. Whenever you wish.”

Dimitrie flashed a too-white smile and nodded. “Good, good. Fare thee well, Petru.”

With that, he guided Bela away—his hand still pressed to her shoulder, as though he feared she might vanish if he let go.

The wooden door shut behind them with a click, echoing in the dim stone corridor. They walked in silence until Dimitrie finally stopped near a corridor alcove, where the early light filtered through colored glass in slants of pale blue and red.

“What did he ask you?” Dimitrie demanded at once.

His voice had dropped the friendly cadence now—it was sharper, thinner, laced with suspicion.

Bela shrugged lightly, careful not to flinch. “He only asked how I fared. Why I haven’t been seen at sermons or rituals.”

“And your answer?” Dimitrie pressed.

“I told him the truth.” Her voice was flat. “That I’ve been working in the coal mines. That religion was never truly my path.”

Just like Sister Veritas told her to say.

Dimitrie snorted. “Good.” He turned and began to pace, hands behind his back. “That priest… He ought to stay far away from you. Especially now that you’ve openly called yourself unredeemable. But I doubt he’ll take the hint.”

He glanced back at her. “Men like him… they see girls like you and think they’re a challenge. A miracle waiting to happen. Something they can fix. ”

Bela’s brow twitched.

There was something bitter in his tone. Possessive, even. What’s the matter, Dimitrie? she thought. Afraid someone might take away your little penance project? Rob you of your captive sin?

But aloud, she simply asked, with feigned confusion, “What do you mean?”

He stopped pacing. Slowly turned to face her.

“I mean,” he said, voice slow and deliberate, “you should stay away from him. Completely. Return to the coal mines. Go home late. Take the back alleys if you must. Just don’t let yourselves cross paths again.”

She raised a brow, lips slightly parted. “You’ve a bad feeling about him, then?”

“I do.” His gaze darkened. “He asks too many questions.”

Bold, she thought, from the man who locked me in an iron chamber and starved me for weeks, just to hear me cry out for salvation. But she said nothing. She only nodded, her face the picture of obedience.

Then came the silence.

Long.

Uncomfortable.

She noticed his eyes scanning her. From her sunken collarbones to her thin arms wrapped around herself. That gaze—it lingered too long. Intimately. Inappropriately.

Her skin crawled.

She lifted her chin slightly and broke the silence. “Was there… anything else you needed, Father?”

He blinked as though woken from a daze. Then, taking a step back, he shook his head and turned as if to leave. But before he rounded the corner, he paused.

“One last thing.”

Bela stiffened.

“After supper tonight, you’re to report to the confessional.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice more clipped than she meant.

“You’ve been gone quite some time,” he said without looking at her. “And I imagine you’ve cursed me and the rest of the Order more times than you can count. I’d say it’s time to confess, wouldn’t you?”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, his robes swaying behind him like a shadow that wouldn't let go.

—

Moments later

The door creaked shut behind her, echoing down the corridor like a lock turning for the last time. 

Bela exhaled.

The confession had been a performance—kneeling, reciting her usual sins, each one a carefully rehearsed lie or buried thought spoken aloud. Father Dimitrie never interrupted, never scolded or questioned. He just listened, silent as stone, until she stood and quietly left.

Then came something strange.

He stepped forward—closer than he ever had before. Too close. The stale scent of incense clung to him, sweet and cloying. He lifted his hand, gentle yet firm, and caught her chin between his fingers.

“You’re forgiven,” he whispered, his thumb brushing her cheek.

It was not the words themselves that unsettled her. It was the way he said them. Soft. Measured. Lingering like a lover’s benediction.

She hadn’t flinched. She didn’t dare. Instead, she gave a stiff nod, pulled away the moment his fingers loosened, and turned on her heel like a soldier dismissed.

Forgiven.

That was what he said.

But it felt like something else entirely.

Like a claim.

Bela slipped into her cell and shut the door with a soft click. Silence wrapped around her like a shroud. She staggered to the bed and the mattress crackled beneath her, reeking faintly of mildew and old blood. She lay flat, eyes tracing a crack in the ceiling—a wound the world had never bothered to heal. Pain pulsed beneath her skin, deep in her bones. Fresh welts burned across her back, old scars mapping her ribs. When she shifted, fire licked down her spine and she bit her lip.

But she didn’t cry.

Not anymore.

The iron room had stolen those tears—shed long ago in the dark, starving and trembling, begging for death.

Her eyes drooped.

Tomorrow’s the mines, she reminded herself. Just another day. Another round of bruises to count like stars.

Sleep came not gently, but like a trapdoor. One breath she was awake—

The next, gone.

There were no dreams. Just stillness.

A hush.

And then—

Something shifted.

Not a sound. Not a touch. Not anything she could name.

But something tore through the silence like a fingernail across glass.

Bela's eyes flew open. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

She was awake.

At least, it felt like waking.

But the air was wrong. The shadows didn’t sit where they should. The room was off, tilted on some axis she couldn’t see.

And half of it was gone.

Not broken or destroyed—just gone. The far wall, once holding the candle sconce, had vanished, replaced by a void. She turned her head; the wardrobe was only half there, its frame dissolving into nothing like an unfinished sketch. Cracks spidered across the floor, tiles splitting like frozen lightning, while pieces of stone and her bedframe hovered midair, as if gravity no longer remembered its purpose.

She rose from the mattress, every joint screaming in protest. The floor creaked under her weight—where it still existed. Beyond that? Nothing. Just the eerie hum of unreality.

“What… is this? Am I dreaming?”

She rubbed her eyes. Bit the inside of her cheek. Sharp pain bloomed across her tongue.

Poison, she thought suddenly. Maybe Sister Veritas put something in my stew.

But that didn’t explain the cold.

The room had grown cold—colder than stone, colder than winter air. It was a hollow kind of cold, one that seeped up from the very foundation, gnawing at her bones.

She stepped forward, cautiously. Her foot met solid stone… for now.

She reached for the door.

It flickered, like a flame dying in the wind.

Her hand passed through it once.

Then she pulled it open.

The hall waited on the other side—but it, too, had been undone.

Some bricks still clung to the world, slick with moss and damp. Others had vanished, devoured by the same strange emptiness that had consumed her room. Light warped around corners it had no right to bend across. Shadows pointed in directions that defied every rule of nature.

And the silence.

A silence so complete it pressed against her ears like pressure underwater.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked. Fragile. “Sister Veritas? Is anyone—?”

She pressed herself to the remnants of the wall, moving forward in slow, careful steps.

“Father Dimitrie?” she called, barely a whisper. She hated herself for saying it.

But there was no answer.

Only the weight of presence.

She felt it before she saw it.

Not a person. Not a figure. Just… a wrongness. As though something watched her from a place just beyond what the eye could reach.

Her spine stiffened.

“Who’s there?” she hissed, fists clenched at her sides.

Nothing.

She backed away, fingers trembling, eyes flicking toward the shifting, breathing shadows. The world itself seemed to pulse—quiet, steady. Like a creature inhaling in its sleep.

She didn’t know what lay further down that corridor.

Didn’t know if it was a corridor anymore.

But one truth settled cold and certain in her chest:

This was no dream.

And she was not alone.

Bela moved cautiously through the fragmented hall, one hand trailing along the warped edge of a wall that barely existed. The hallway twisted unnaturally—stairs curled like a snail’s shell, doors floated unhinged, and the floor groaned as if it dreamed. 

Pausing, she looked at her hands: pale, scarred, unchanged—except for a faint red shimmer pulsing beneath the skin, like dying embers beneath ash.

She curled her fingers into fists and whispered aloud, “What is wrong with me?”

Her voice echoed down the fractured corridor, caught in loops, returning to her in pieces. “What is—wrong with—me…?”

Desperation clung to her as tightly as sweat—first the red glow in her hands, then the whispering dreams, and now this twisted, impossible place. The hall bent like melted wax, the air trembled with fear, and nothing obeyed the rules of the world she once knew. Was she cursed? Possessed?  Or was this the final unraveling? The natural end for a girl locked away too long, starved of sun, spoken to only in prayers and punishments? 

Did this happen to all forgotten daughters… or only her?

She tilted her head back, throat tight, and cried out, “Sister Veritas! Sister Irina! Anyone—! Please, answer me!”

Her voice vanished into the broken space. She hugged herself, breath trembling, trying to hold her mind together. When her knees buckled and she fell against the wall, it gave beneath her touch. 

And then—

A voice.

Low. Deep. Velvet, yes—but velvet soaked in oil and blood, and something older than either. It didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It didn’t come from the room. It arrived —settled into the air like smoke curling beneath a door frame.

“Ah… so you have returned…”

Bela spun so fast her vision blurred. 

“Who—?!” she gasped.

Nothing. No shape. No figure. No trembling shadow in the dark. And yet… it had been right there. She felt it. The voice hadn’t spoken at her. It had spoken into her. As though the words had been placed directly into the hollow of her skull.

She turned in a slow, wary circle, every nerve screaming that she was not alone.

“Show yourself,” she said. Her voice cracked against the silence. “What are you?”

Stillness.

Her voice dipped to a murmur. “Are you a man?”

No reply.

“A demon…?”

The air remained breathless.

She pressed her back to the wall and whispered, “Surely… you are no angel. Heaven wouldn’t waste its miracles on the likes of me.”

A pause stretched long enough to feel like judgment.

And then—

A sound.

A rustle in the air, like wind threading its way through heavy trees. But there were no trees here. No leaves to stir. Just that awful noise—slow, circling, near .

Something was in the room with her.

And it was listening.

She straightened her spine, though her hands trembled at her sides. The girl who had survived hunger and silence, beatings and confessionals— that girl surfaced now. She laced her fear into her bones and forced her voice to steady.

“What are you?” she asked again. “And what business do you have with me?”

The thing—he—remained quiet.

So she tried a different question. Softer now. Vulnerable.

“And if not that… then at least tell me…” her voice broke like a fever, “why am I here?”

The voice returned. Amused. Pleased. Like a secret finally revealed.

“Oh, you tell me,” it drawled, every syllable curling around her spine. Smooth. Mocking. Intimate. “No one has ever been here before. No one can … except you.”

The words slid into her ears like venom—quiet, precise, and unquestioning. They didn’t seek belief; they expected it. Though she saw nothing, the air changed—thickening, coiling, bracing like a predator about to strike. Something was coming. Closer.

Her eyes darted across fractured stone and drifting shadow, but saw no intruder. Still, her mind whispered truth into her bones— footsteps. Slow. Patient. Calculated.

Him.

She spun sharply to her left, hair whipping across her face.

“What is this place?” she asked. “And how are you here, if no one else can be?”

He was moving again.

She felt it. Not with her ears, but with the electric tension in her skin. Somehow, his presence brushed past her left side. There was no wind. No sound. And yet her head turned to follow him instinctively, as if her body remembered the path he carved through the air even if her eyes did not.

It was like being circled by a thought that wasn’t hers.

“Are you walking in circles around me?”

Still no answer.

But the feeling lingered, sharpened. Like an animal stalking just beyond her peripheral vision. Something feral. Something intelligent. Something with teeth —and time.

Strangest of all?

She wasn’t entirely afraid.

Yes, there was fear. But laced through it—threaded like black silk in white cloth—was fascination.

Her voice dropped to something just above breath. “You walk as if you know me.”

He stopped.

She didn’t hear it.

She felt it—felt him halt directly behind her, so near she imagined she could hear the rustle of breath… if he even breathed. No footsteps. No rustling cloth. Just existence —so heavy and vast it pressed against the back of her skull like a gathering storm.

“I do not know you,” the voice murmured at last, so close it scraped across her spine. “But I have waited for you.”

Her lips parted, dry and trembling. “Waited…?”

“Aye,” he said softly. “For a long, long while.”

She took one tentative step forward, as if trying to escape gravity itself. Her knees threatened to collapse beneath her.

“Why me?”

She turned.

Still nothing. No form. No shadow. Only the hallway ahead, a stretch of darkness so deep it seemed to breathe—a mouth yawning wide, waiting to swallow her whole.

“Why… why only me?” Her voice rose, cracking like ice underfoot.

A pause.

Then—

“Because you opened the door.”

The words struck like a blow. She froze, eyes wide.

“I—I didn’t.”

“Did you not?” the voice purred, amused. “Your hands glowed with fire last moon’s eve. Your soul bleeds red where others shine white. And you dream even when waking.”

Her heartbeat thundered.

How did he know?

What was he?

“How… how do you know that?” she whispered, each word barely escaping her lips. “Who are you, to know what dwells inside me?”

The entity laughed.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was knowing —a soft, deliberate sound that curled in the corners of the room like smoke, amused by her ignorance.

“We are not so different, you and I.”

The words sent a shudder through her. She took a step back, as though distance could protect her from truths that had already embedded themselves beneath her skin.

“Not so different?” she murmured. “I'm just a girl and I can’t even see you—”

“And yet,” the voice interrupted gently, “you stand here. Where no mortal soul has ever tread.”

The weight of it crashed down on her, heavy as stone. The truth pressed into her like iron chains—hot, merciless. Whatever this place was… whatever she was… it unraveled everything she’d been taught to believe. In this fractured dreamscape where time bled sideways and shadows whispered her name, something ancient and unseen spoke to her as though she mattered. As though she belonged. But why? 

She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms.

“Am I dead?” she asked, barely breathing. “Is that it? Is that why I’m here?”

A pause.

The kind of pause that echoed—slow, cruel, deliberate.

“Not yet.”

Her legs gave out beneath her. She sank to the cracked floor, knees hitting stone like dropped porcelain. Her breath hitched in her throat. Too loud. Too fragile. The voice circled her again. She felt it—not footsteps, not motion, but a presence sweeping through the air like a cold wind beneath a locked door. Watching. Measuring. Studying.

“But you could be.”

A chill swept over her like black water pouring down her spine—ice, but alive. Heavy. Crushing.

“Unless,” he said, “you learn to command this place… before it devours you whole.”

She scrambled backward, palms scraping against the rough floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, fear sharpening her tone. “I don't even know how I got here in the first place. And I have absolutely no idea how you are here with me as well."

The laughter returned.

Not loud.

Not cruel.

Just… entertained.

“Ah, but child,” he said softly, “how could that be? I told you, you opened the door. I simply stepped through."

Bela rose from the floor like a drowned thing returning to air—slowly, painfully, her palms scraping against the fractured stone. She stared into the void ahead.

Empty—but not vacant.

Because she knew.

He was there.

And this time… larger.

Not merely present— imposing. As though some colossal cathedral had unfolded itself into the corridor, stone by groaning stone, shattering the boundaries of the physical world. The air trembled under the weight of him. Bela’s chin rose slightly, not in defiance but inevitability, her gaze fixed on the invisible monument looming before her.

“What do you mean,” she asked, voice low but clear, “saying I opened the door? I have no power over such thing.”

A silence answered—deep, slow, intentional.

Then:

A voice exhaled through the darkness like velvet smoke curling around a dagger’s edge.

“Oh… my sweet, splintered thing. Would you still deny what your soul already knows?”

“I deny nothing,” she said carefully, each syllable a stone laid across a chasm. “But I can’t lie about what I don’t understand.”

“And yet you stand here. With me. In this.”

There was a motion—a sweep in the unseen. Though she saw no limb, no figure, the air shifted before her like drapes pulled aside by fingers not made for flesh. She glanced again at the hallway behind her. But the voice remained a shadow. 

“Even my loyal ones,” the voice continued, voice soaked in lazy contempt, “those who crawl through tongues older than breath—they have never touched me so deeply. But you… you pulled me here with nothing but breath and bone.”

His presence pressed closer. She still saw nothing—but it touched her, a sensation like velvet stretched over barbed wire. Heavy. Decadent. Claustrophobic.

“You must have wanted something,” he murmured. “Else how could I come?”

“I didn’t summon you,” she said sharply, her voice rising. “I don’t want anything from you.”

A hum—a low, indulgent purr.

“No? And yet here you are. In a world shaped not by my will… but by yours.”

“That’s absurd,” she snapped, heat blooming beneath her skin. “This world? I didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t you?” he murmured, amused. “Then tell me, child: why do the walls fracture like your mind? Why do the echoes bleed your name? Why does every shadow carry your secrets like lovers?”

She froze.

His words gripped her throat—tight, cold, precise. But she forced herself to breathe, slow and steady.

“You’re playing tricks,” she whispered.

“Oh, I do,” he chuckled, low and delighted. “But never with lies.”

Her fists curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.

“Maybe it’s you who summoned me ,” she said suddenly, a new edge in her voice. “Maybe you’re the one who needs me .”

A pause.

Not empty— electric.

Then: laughter. Low at first, then building—a sound like tectonic plates grinding against bone. It rolled through the space around her, rich and cruel, ringing with something that wasn’t joy but mockery.

“Me? Need you?” he echoed, as if the idea itself were a taste he couldn’t quite spit out. “I want for nothing, girl. I’ve dined on the ruin of kings. I’ve sipped dreams from the lips of gods. What could I ever need from a peasant clothed in scars?”

She raised a brow—not in challenge, but in thought. Her voice was quiet, but unshaken.

“Then riddle me this, proud shadow,” she said, the title deliberate. “If you have everything… why do you dwell alone in this silence?”

A pause.

“Why am I the only one who can walk it?”

The air thickened around her, tasting suddenly of rust and thunderclouds. Bela’s heart beat harder, but she didn’t step back. Couldn’t.

Something inside him had shifted.

The next laugh was softer—no longer amused. It dragged along the edges of her nerves like a nail across stone.

“Oh… truly?” the voice drawled. “You think yourself a key? That your blood opens doors, your wounds shape paths?”

Then came a step—no footfall, only the suggestion of mass moving forward, immense and impossible. The air evacuated her lungs. Her skin turned to frost.

“You asked me once: Am I a man? Or a demon? Or an angel?”

A quiet gasp escaped her lips. She remembered saying it—curled in the dark, alone. She hadn’t known he was listening.

“Why do you speak to me so freely now, when you have not known what I truly am?” he continued. “Do your lips move so boldly because I wear no face? Do you think the faceless do not bite? Is your fear so blind?”

Cold spilled down her spine like melted ice.

But she did not retreat.

“No,” she said softly.

And she stepped forward.

Not out of defiance, but out of truth .

“I speak freely not because I cannot see you… but because I know now that whatever you are, you already know me.”

A beat of silence followed. He did not speak.

She continued, voice a low, steady thread.

“I don’t fear your image. I’ve seen worse horrors in daylight than in dreams. And you, for all your shadows and silvered speech, do not strike like a thing that wishes to kill.”

She lifted her chin.

“You strike like a thing that wishes to claim. ”

Stillness.

Too complete.

As if the very world had paused to listen.

Then his voice returned—quieter now. Almost reverent.

“Ahhh…” he sighed, close to her ear.

“The thorn… in the lamb’s coat.”

And then— it happened.

The shift.

Not in the space around her, but within him.

The darkness breathed. The floor trembled beneath her feet. Smoke laced the air, sweet and acrid, curling with the scent of ancient incense and scorched parchment. And she felt it now—the full, unfettered weight of the thing before her.

He was not a man.

Nor a demon.

Nor some divine messenger.

“You did summon me,” he said—no whisper now, but a voice stripped bare of illusion. “Whether in pain, in hunger, or in hate… I cannot say. But called, I was.”

Bela’s breath caught in her chest.

“And you should know, sweet girl…”

The space between his words closed. She could feel him, circling her like a thought she could never quite unthink.

“I am not a thing one calls lightly.”

Bela didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every instinct screamed that he was still there. Maybe not seen. But felt. Watching. Or worse— waiting .

Then she noticed it.

At first, the shadows looked ordinary. Stiff silhouettes cast by forgotten sconces—faded crosses, crooked candlesticks painted in dim light. But then… they moved.

Not like a shimmer of flame. Not like tricks of the eye.

They slithered.

A slow, dreadful crawl.

The darkness peeled away from the stone like shed skin, tendrils unraveling with slick, deliberate grace. They dragged themselves across the cold floor, inch by inch, as though savoring the moment. Not fast. Not frenzied. Patient.

Predatory.

Bela stumbled a step back, breath catching in her throat.

“What trick is this?” she whispered, barely audible. “What are you trying to do?”

Nothing answered.

For once, the voice—the presence —did not leap to reply. The pause stretched thin… until finally, it returned. Smooth. Unrushed. And uncomfortably close.

“I know now,” it said. “You were right.”

Her head snapped to the side. The hallway around her—narrow, half-collapsed, with walls stitched from rotting wood and blood-colored brick—felt less like a place and more like a memory. One not her own.

“There is something in you,” the voice continued, curling through the air like smoke, “that belongs to neither your world… nor mine.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“And yet, you walk freely between them.”

The shadows crept closer. She felt the chill they dragged with them—moist and heavy, like grave-soil after rain. The scent of old iron and decay followed in their wake.

“We share no blood,” the voice murmured, circling now, as if pacing behind her. “No breath. Yet something binds us. Something older than blood. A tether. Invisible… and ancient.”

Bela shivered. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“Why are you saying this?” she demanded.

The voice dropped, low and level, with just a flicker of something darker beneath.

“Because,” it said, “to share a trait with a beast does not make it kin. Sometimes… it makes it dangerous.”

Her breath caught.

“Threatening,” the voice hissed, as if correcting itself.

“What do you want from me?” she snapped. “If this is some warning—”

“Oh, no, no. Not a warning.” The voice was amused now. Almost fond. “A revelation.”

“You are new to your power. Unshaped. Still swaddled in the warmth of ignorance. And I?” it added, tone sharpening, “I stand on the brink of forever. My empire awakens. My name will etch itself across the bones of time.”

There was a beat. A silence that hit like thunder.

“I cannot allow a pest to flourish.”

The word struck like a lash.

Bela recoiled, as if slapped. “Pest? I’ve done nothing! I don’t even know how I got here!”

“Yet.” The voice sharpened to a dagger’s point. “But power… power is never still. It grows. It twists. It hungers. And those like you, once they taste strength—they begin to bite.”

A shadow reached her feet.

It touched her like frostbite.

She staggered backward.

“Forgive me,” the voice murmured, with something that almost passed for sincerity. “But I do not permit the seeds of trouble to take root. Not in men. Not in angels. Not in the so-called divine.”

A long pause. Final. Cold.

“And certainly not in a forgotten girl, standing where she does not belong.”

The first hand touched her ankle—cold, insubstantial, yet real in a way that made her soul shudder. Like ice molded in the shape of a memory.

Bela gasped, stumbling backward—but it was too late.

Others followed. Not two. Not ten. Dozens.

Slick, weightless limbs emerged from the darkness like worms from a grave, coiling up her legs with patient, unrelenting intent. They slithered over her calves, spiraled around her waist, across her back, her arms, her neck—each one tighter than the last. A living shroud of shadow.

“No—! Please, don’t— ” she cried, her voice cracking as she twisted and writhed, trying to escape the phantom bindings that wove themselves around her like cursed silk.

The voice answered—soft as silk and just as suffocating.

“Shh,” said the voice, drifting back into her mind with its maddening calm. “Don’t cry, my sweet.”

A beat. A breath.

“I’m doing you a favor.”

She dropped to her knees.

The stone beneath her offered no comfort. It was too old, too damp—like kneeling on bone. Her palms hit the floor, and the shadows shifted with her, coiling closer, tighter, hungrier.

“They didn’t want you in your world,” he said, voice like velvet laced with rot. “And you don’t belong in mine . You are a fracture. A thing between. Neither earthbound nor ethereal.”

“A whisper of one world,” he went on, circling her like smoke, “and an echo of another.”

He paused—thoughtful, almost wistful.

“And when such things are born… since the first spark of the first flame… they must be snuffed out.”

Bela writhed, clawing at her throat, fingers scrabbling through nothing and everything all at once. The shadows were not solid—but they suffocated like they were. They are constricted like memory. Like guilt.

“I—I didn’t ask for this!” she gasped, her voice hollow, nearly lost beneath the weight of silence pressing in.

“Nor do any monsters, ” came the reply, soft, almost sweet.

There was no rage in him. No hatred. That made it worse.

“But I cannot leave you be, child,” he said, with that same awful gentleness. “I do not suffer enemies. Not when they are born beneath my gaze. Not when they wear hunger like a crown. Not when they sleep with fire in their marrow.”

“You may plead,” he added, “you may weep and wail. But like weeds choking the roots of greatness, you must be cut.”

The shadows obeyed.

They surged up her neck, slid across her jaw, crept toward her mouth and eyes. Her face began to vanish beneath a curtain of black.

She couldn’t draw breath. Couldn’t think.

Only a thin thread of awareness remained—flickering like a candle guttering in the wind.

But within that haze of panic, something stirred.

Not a thought.

A sound.

A tolling, faint and distant—as though her bones remembered a bell she had never heard.

And then—it happened.

Light.

Not bright at first. A glow no stronger than a coal smoldering beneath ashes.

Red. Like garnet. Like blood in a chalice.

It pulsed from beneath her skin—slow and rhythmic. Not fire, but something deeper. Older. A breath she had never taken but always carried.

Her skin pulsed—not with heat, but with power. A molten shimmer bloomed beneath her flesh, tracing jagged, luminous paths along her collarbones, pouring like rivers of light into her arms, her fingers.

The shadows screeched —not with voices, but with recoil. A rippling flinch. They didn’t retreat, not entirely. But they shivered . As if something buried deep within them—some ancient memory—recognized her. And feared her.

She rose.

Not by choice. Not by control. Lifted, as if the very force now burning within her demanded to be seen. Red veins of raw magic crackled beneath her skin, like ruby lightning trapped in marble. The air around her shimmered, warping with unseen pressure. The shadows clung, still clutching her—but they no longer hurt her.

They couldn’t.

And somewhere, unseen—beyond the veil of shadow—he watched.

And for the first time, when he spoke, the silk of his voice had frayed.

Not with fear.

But with fascination.

“…How curious.”

Bela hung in the air like a lone star suspended in a void of pitch—untethered, luminous, impossibly still.

Shadows clung like funeral shrouds but no longer held her—instead, they recoiled from the red glow pulsing from her chest. Her head tilted back, eyes rolling into darkness, mouth parted not in pain but something stranger—half ecstasy, half revelation.

The voice watched, unseen but immense, pressing in from every corner of the chamber like a storm held behind glass. It reached for her—not with hands, but with will. Shadows moved sluggishly, obeying from habit, not faith. 

And when they touched her, they failed. 

Nothing he conjured, no force of his dread dominion, could hold her now.

Still, he did not speak. He stared.

Calm on the surface. Still as oil. But something underneath that stillness began to twist.

A wrongness. A disturbance not felt in centuries.

She should not exist.

For so long he had ruled.  He had folded gods into ruin. He had unmade kings with a whisper.

And now… resistance.

Not from a golden prophet. Not from some winged seraph burning with righteousness.

No.

From her.

Just a girl.

A slip of a thing—scarred, skeletal, shaped by suffering.

And yet—

She floated like a godling, moaning softly as that unnatural red aura pulsed through her, reshaping her as though invisible hands worked her body like clay on an altar.

She had not called to him.

Had not summoned. Had not begged.

She had simply been —and he had come.

And that alone was unbearable.

Worse still, he could not see her. Not truly. Her form warped before his gaze. One moment, a girl. The next, a cracked silhouette stitched together from fragments of things that never should have touched.

And the world around her— his world—shuddered in her presence. The walls buckled faintly. The air stuttered, fractured. The very fabric of his domain flickered like a candle drowning in its own wax.

It was not just she who was wrong.

The realm itself rejected her—and yet refused to let her go.

Was it memory?

Recognition?

Had he seen her before, in some far-flung fragment of time? A dream? A prophecy? A ruin not yet built?

He did not know.

And that…

…that infuriated him.

Meanwhile, in the waking world—

The convent of Văduva’s Hollow slept beneath a shroud of gloom. Silence lingered in the halls—not peaceful, but forsaken. The stone remembered too much and gave nothing back.

It was just before midnight.

Sister Calina moved through the eastern corridor with deliberate grace. Her candle flickered in one hand, a vial of blessed salt in the other. Routine patrol. Checking for loose shutters, spent tapers—night’s small mischiefs.

Then she stopped.

A sound.

Low. Breathless.

A moan.

Human—yes—but warped. Like a girl gagging on her own scream. Stifled. Wrong.

Calina froze, spine taut. The corridor ahead was shadowed, the oil lamps sputtering.

The sound came again. Closer.

She turned—drawn by dread—to a crooked door.

Bela’s door.

The moaning had changed. Softer. Rhythmic. Tipped with suggestion, a fevered edge of intimacy. It came in waves—each one stranger than the last. A whisper wound with need. With ache. Almost carnal.

Calina’s lip curled. A flicker of revulsion touched her eyes.

"Has the girl fallen to temptation?" she muttered. “In a house of God?”

Absurd. The convent was sealed. Warded. No man could enter unbidden.

Still, she stepped forward.

“Saints preserve us,” she whispered.

Her fingers, stiff with unease, closed around the iron doorknob. It was warm.

Another sound. A wet gasp. A choking rasp that twisted something deep in Calina’s stomach.

That was not pleasure. That was pain.

But not pain alone.

Something deeper. Wilder. As though her suffering had become a language spoken across dimensions.

She pushed the door open.

It creaked like a reluctant tomb.

And what she saw beyond was not lust.

It was blasphemy.

Damnation made flesh.

Bela floated above her narrow cot—her body suspended three feet in the air, bowed backward in a grotesque arc. Her limbs dangled limply, fingers twitching with some unseen rhythm. Her mouth hung open in a silent, broken scream. Her eyes were white orbs, rolled to the heavens—or perhaps to something beyond them.

Her skin glowed.

Not with health.

With power.

Crimson light pulsed beneath her skin, old scars now aglow like burning script. Above her, drifting like ink spilled into water, a mist of black roiled at the ceiling. It writhed—serpents slithering in reverse— crawling downward, then retreating, as if trying to claw their way back into her.

The air reeked of burnt copper and incense. Her moans deepened, two-toned. Inhuman.

Calina couldn’t move. The crucifix at her neck began to shake—softly at first, then harder, as though the metal itself feared the thing before her.

Bela arched again.

The red light flared.

Her moans turned guttural. As if her throat now served two masters—one human, the other not.

Calina screamed.

A sharp, slicing cry. It split the night like a blade of glass, rattling the windows in their frames, echoing off the ancient stone and into the sleeping quarters beyond.

Doors opened. Feet stirred. Voices called.

But Calina was already running.

Her sandals slapped against the cold tile, her veil billowing behind her like torn wings in a storm. Her prayers spilled from her mouth in shattered syllables.

And in the room she fled—

Bela remained.

Suspended. Radiant. Writhing not in torment, but in becoming.

The crimson light pulsed again, fracturing the air. A long, jagged crack split the plaster wall beside her like a wound torn through reality itself.

Then—

Her lips moved.

And from them—low, resonant, and ancient —came a voice not entirely her own.

“I did not call him…”

A whisper.

A truth.

A confession.

And then—nothing.

Only the wet sound of breath dragged through lungs and the thunder of her heart, hammering like a war drum in a world that suddenly had no place left for her.

And somewhere—between breath and broken time—

The girl no realm wanted…

Had become the storm that could tear through both.

Chapter Text

The sun crept over the Carpathians, casting gold across the mossy roofs of Văduva’s Hollow.  Life unfolded in its usual rhythm. Gregor hauled logs, Mirela arranged wildflowers, and the market creaked awake with quiet bartering and the scent of fish and cheese. At The Drunken Mare, grease sizzled, the cook cursed the smoke, and the barmaid sang off-key as she scrubbed tankards.

Everything was as it always was—predictable, comforting.

Until it wasn’t.

An old man staggered between two cottages, bent low beneath a thick cowl unsuited for spring. No one paid him much mind. Old men stumbled in Văduva’s Hollow all the time.

But then he stopped.

A wet, rattling cough broke the morning calm. People turned. He collapsed to his knees.

The crack of bone on stone silenced even the midwives. One hand clutched his belly, the other grasped at nothing. Blood struck the ground, sudden and violent. His mouth opened—spilling not just crimson, but words. Low. Rasping.

“It’s here... it’s coming... the pestilence is coming...”

Over and over, the same words. As if trapped in a loop of terror no man could escape. His eyes, wide and white with horror, stared not at the sky, but perhaps something buried deep below. Blood dripped from his lips like ink on parchment. The villagers froze—some retreating, others inching closer, caught between fear and pity.

The prophet—known as Ilie the Seer, or simply the Mad One—choked, then collapsed face-first, lifeless as a puppet with its strings cut. A gasp rippled through the crowd.

No one moved at first. A few knelt beside him. Someone fetched water. Another ran for Father Dimitrie. The rest hovered in a growing circle, unsure whether to pray, flee, or listen for more.

Whispers rose, soft as wind in the bell tower.

A bad omen…

Of course they thought so.

Ilie was no ordinary elder. He had spoken dreams before they happened—foretold a baron’s death, a barn’s fire, shadows in the chapel weeks ago. Now he lay dying—or dead—with blood and prophecy on his tongue.

Some clutched their crosses and whispered prayers, certain this was the beginning of something foul—the curse whispered around hearth fires for generations. Others, more rational, spoke of infection, illness, a frail old man meeting a natural end.

And yet—even they felt a chill at the base of their necks. A stillness. Ancient and waiting. No matter how tightly they clung to logic, unease crept through their thoughts like mist between the trees.

A man had fallen. 

A man had died. 

A man had warned them.

And whether he spoke madness or truth, one thing was certain—

Văduva’s Hollow would never again know a day that was just ordinary.

While the villagers whispered over a dead prophet, debating signs and omens, the true storm brewed in silence—behind stone walls and candlelight.

The parish had its answer long before panic struck the square. In the convent’s cold, grey halls, Sister Veritas had already tasted dread.

Morning had not yet broken when Sister Calina came running, breathless and wide-eyed, her rosary twisted tight around her wrist like chains.

“She’s floating,” she whispered. “Above her bed. Whispering madness… like a dead thing.”

Veritas didn’t flinch.

She broke inside.

Not because it was new—because it wasn’t.

She did not sleep that night. She watched the candle burn through the dark, wax dripping like blood onto her desk. Her knuckles clenched a crucifix she did not pray to. What were prayers to something older than sin?

At first light, she rose with a grim, unshakable purpose. Nuns glanced, curtsied, looked away. No one dared ask why her face looked like death had spoken.

She crossed the courtyard in a blur, the chapel’s spire looming like an unblinking eye. At the monastery wing, she didn’t knock. She slammed open Father Dimitrie’s door—books toppled, stone groaned—and locked it behind her with a metallic snap that echoed like a verdict.

Father Dimitrie jumped in his chair, robes rumpled, ink still drying on the sermon he’d been writing.

“Veritas?” he barked. “God’s wounds, woman, what in Heaven’s name—it's barely dawn!”

“No, Dimitrie,” she hissed, stalking toward his desk like a winter storm in flesh. “Do not speak of Heaven now. Do not act as though we are beneath its light.”

His brow furrowed. “What on earth are you speaking of?”

“This is your fault.” She jabbed a trembling finger toward him, every syllable sharp enough to cut parchment. “If you had listened to me when I first warned you about that creature—if you had only chosen to put her away when we had the chance—we would not be damned!”

Dimitrie blinked, mouth half-open. “Put her—Veritas, what are you saying? What has happened?”

She slammed both palms on his desk. “You knew what she was. From the beginning. From the night we found her in the forest with eyes like dying stars and skin colder than river water. We knew! You knew she was not meant to walk amongst us!”

“I did not know anything of the sort,” Dimitrie replied, voice growing firmer. “She was a child—”

“She is not a child!” Veritas screamed, the words trembling out of her throat. “Last night, she rose from her bed. Rose, Dimitrie! She hovered like the damned angels of Sodom, whispering into the void. Her body glowed red! Blood-red! And Calina—sweet, fragile Calina—saw it all!”

Dimitrie stood then, the chair screeching against the floor.

“Veritas,” he said sharply, “what are you talking about?”

She turned away, her hands clenching at her sides. Her voice was hoarse now, broken glass against her throat.

“It’s about Bela! It’s Bela goddammit! She was seen floating, glowing, possessed, and yet still—asleep. She doesn't even know what dwells within her, Father. This is beyond demons. This is beyond any exorcism I’ve witnessed. She is not haunted. She is the haunt. Hell is in her. It has carved out her soul like a hollow gourd and is wearing her, Dimitrie.”

Silence thundered in the room.

Father Dimitrie ran a hand over his jaw. The deep lines on his face twitched, the storm of disbelief battling with something deeper—something older than fear.

“Saints preserve us,” he muttered.

“They won’t,” Veritas said, cold as the stone around them. “Not from her.”

Outside the locked door, the first church bell began to ring. And with it, the village woke to a new day. One where prophets bled in the streets.

Dimitrie stood still for a moment, hand resting on his hip, the other pressing hard against his temple. His fingers moved in slow, frustrated circles as though he could knead clarity from the headache forming behind his brow.

At last, he asked, voice low, “Who else knows of this?”

Sister Veritas threw her arms up and scoffed, the sound heavy with scorn. “Is that truly thy concern now, Father?” She stepped toward him, her tone sharp and incredulous. “Whether the truth has escaped the convent walls? Whether our shame shall be whispered beyond these halls?”

Dimitrie gave her a look—tired, worn, searching.

Veritas continued, bitterly. “It matters not. Almost every sister was stirred last night by Calina’s shrieking. I had to spend near three hours convincing them to return to their beds, promising I would speak to you, as always, and that the matter would be handled with discretion. But I am done, Dimitrie. I have obeyed. Time and time again, I obeyed—when you said she deserved mercy, when you claimed her youth excused the darkness curling beneath her skin. I agreed we were no murderers. That it was not our place to end her life.”

Her voice trembled, not from sorrow—but from the weight of too much silence for too long. “But look where obedience has brought us. She floats now, like a spirit come to devour. She glows, Dimitrie. Like fire from Hell itself. No God I know would allow a creature of such power to walk among us, lest He wished to test the very bounds of our faith.”

Dimitrie remained silent, eyes narrowed, jaw taut. Veritas took his silence as permission to press harder.

“If we burn demons with holy fire, then what do we do with one born of it?” she asked, leaning over his desk. “Tell me, Father. If she is the vessel of something foul… what are we to do?”

After a long pause, Dimitrie asked, quieter now, “Where is she?”

Veritas stared at him. For a moment, she laughed—dry, humorless. “That is still what you care about? We should not be asking where she is. We should be asking how to rid ourselves of her. We should have a plan, Dimitrie. We cannot keep this secret much longer.”

She dropped her voice, leaned in, and hissed, “She works in the coal mines now, doesn’t she? That place is swarming with condemned men and murderers. We could pay one. Say nothing. Let her die by accident. Let the fire take her. No one would ask questions—no one cares for her, Dimitrie. This village already looks upon her like a curse. Why should we not fulfill that prophecy and finally end it?”

He turned away from her, shoulders rising, face stricken.

“You would… you would truly speak such things?” he said at last, voice quiet with disbelief. “You, a servant of God?”

“I speak of salvation!” Veritas barked. “Salvation for all of us!”

Her voice grew louder again, her words echoing in the tight space of the office. “We once told you of how she threw us against the wall with her powers, and that was when she barely understood what that thing inside her could do. And now she floats. Now she calls things in her sleep. What happens when she learns to control it, Father? What happens when she wants to?”

He still didn’t speak, so she kept going, her anger no longer restrained.

“You would have us wait for her to kill someone? For her to split a sister in half with that cursed glow, or tear open the convent roof? We sit in silence, knowing we live with something we cannot even name. And you… you! You sit with your books and prayers and pretend that we’re not already living inside a damnation!”

She took a breath, eyes blazing. “Tell me, Father—what is it you’re truly afraid of? That God will judge you for one sin? Is it murder if the thing we slay is no longer human? Or are you simply afraid because if you act, you’ll have to admit that this—this monster—was your mistake from the beginning?”

The words hit like stones thrown in a still pond. Dimitrie's face twisted with something raw—guilt, sorrow, maybe even shame. But then, slowly, he shook his head.

“Enough,” he said, voice firm now. 

She straightened, still seething. He looked her in the eye, voice heavy with quiet disappointment.

“We cannot kill her, Veritas. Not by our hands. Not by another’s. To plot the death of a child—whatever darkness clings to her—is not justice. It is abomination. And if we become that which we claim to fight, we are no better than the thing you fear.”

Silence hung between them.

“She is not a child anymore,” she whispered. “She is the storm that will drown this village. And you… you would have us wait until she learns how to wield it.”

Dimitrie turned his gaze to the crucifix on the wall, as though expecting Christ Himself to answer in his place.

But the silence that followed was no prayer.

It was the sound of a dam beginning to crack.

Dimitrie sighed—a tired, grave sound. His hand dropped from his temple as he stepped closer to Sister Veritas.

“I shall handle this myself,” he said, quiet but resolute. “You need not bear the weight of this any longer.”

Veritas recoiled like he’d struck her.

“You shall handle it?” she spat. “By yourself?” Her eyes flared, and the shadows cast by the office’s narrow windows seemed to darken with her fury. “And I am to sit calmly whilst she—that thing—broods in the iron room, discovering new ways to curse us? To end us?”

Dimitrie stepped forward again and placed both hands gently upon her shoulders. A rare gesture, especially for a man of the cloth who seldom offered such warmth.

“I will put an end to this,” he said, firm now. “By the end of the week, she shall vanish from Văduva’s Hollow. She will never harm another soul again.”

Veritas narrowed her eyes, disbelief clouding her face like a veil. Dimitrie softened his tone and asked, “Do you trust me, Sister?”

She stared at him, long and hard, as though peeling away the layers of his soul to find the boy she once mentored under this very roof. At length—albeit with great reluctance—she nodded.

Then, without another word, Dimitrie turned from her and adjusted his robes. “I must prepare the chapel,” he said. “The bells will toll soon.”

Like a ghost, he left—leaving Veritas alone in a silence colder than stone.

At the chapel, Father Dimitrie moved with quiet ritual: arranging the altar cloth, lighting beeswax candles, sprinkling holy water.

Time slipped by.

He glanced at the clock.

The pews were still empty.

Fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Still, no one came. He turned to the door, bewildered. "Where are they all?" he muttered under his breath. "This makes no sense…"

Dimitrie unlatched his outer robe and began to pace down the chapel aisle. "Perhaps I ought to fetch the sisters," he whispered to himself. "Maybe something has happened."

Just as he placed his hand on the door to exit, it burst open—slamming against the stone wall with a violent crack. A young man from the village stumbled in, face pale as ash, clothes muddied from the road, breath coming in sharp, gasping pulls.

“Father Dimitrie!”

The priest froze. “What in Heaven’s name—?”

The boy collapsed at his feet, gasping. Dimitrie knelt beside him.

“Are you mad? What’s happened? Where is everyone?”

The boy could barely speak, sobbing between gulps of air.

“I–It’s bad… Ilie—he was right…”

Dimitrie’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying? Has something happened in the village?”

The boy’s eyes met his—full of raw, nameless fear.

“The Seer… he warned us. Said a pestilence was coming. Kept saying it.”

Dimitrie’s voice dropped. “And… what happened?”

The boy trembled. “He’s dead. He died this morn with blood in his mouth, just like he said. His eyes turned black. And then… the wells… they… they—” His voice cracked. “The water turned red. All of them. All of them.”

“Red?” Dimitrie echoed.

“Like blood,” the boy whispered. “Crimson.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Dimitrie’s hands trembled. He turned toward the empty chapel—silent, abandoned.

“Good Lord,” he whispered. “What have we done?”

The boy looked up, eyes wet. “Is this the end, Father?”

Dimitrie stared toward the mist-veiled village… and beyond it, to the monastery’s depths, where a girl glowed red and whispered to things unseen.

Was she worse than he feared?

He had promised to contain it.

But now… perhaps it was containing them.

—

Moments later 

The air in the iron room reeked of rust and mildew—a metallic stench that clung to Bela’s throat like old blood. There were no windows. Only a narrow slit in the door where torchlight flickered faintly, like a dying flame.

And she—Bela—was bound again. 

She didn’t remember how she got here—only fragments. The last clear memory: lying in bed, sweat on her brow, whispering to the thing in her dreams. A voice like a serpent’s hiss. A form cloaked in writhing shadow.

She hadn’t feared it—at first.

Not until it tried to consume her.

The memory flashed—dark claws reaching, pressing into her skin. And then, light. Heat. A fire from within, made of blood, fury, and something alive. It burst outward, driving the darkness back.

After that, only fragments: pale, angry faces. Sister Veritas shouting. Hands dragging her across stone. Her body limp. Her voice lost. Her limbs unresponsive.

And then—darkness.

The clang of metal snapped her awake.

Bela’s eyes flew open. Her chest heaved. Cold. Damp. Familiar.

“No…” she whispered, staring at the chains. “No, no, no…”

She twisted, eyes darting through the shadows. “What—what is this?”

She had been in her bed. She remembered that.

How was she back here?

“Someone—hello?” she called, voice cracking. “Sister Calina? Anyone?”

Tears burned her eyes. She curled up as tightly as the chains allowed, trembling.  Too exhausted to scream, her thoughts drifted—to the dream. That presence. Shifting shadows and a voice like hunger. It had watched her like it knew her. Waited for her.

But something inside her had pushed it back. Fire. Warmth. Rage and blood and life.

Was it real? Or just another fevered illusion?

“Am I going mad?”

It was a stupid question. She knew that she was but she also knew better. Dreams don’t try to kill you. That thing did. And in her life, if it wanted her dead, it was real.  And whatever lived inside her—whatever power the sisters feared—it was growing.

She slumped against the wall, chains biting into her skin. Time here didn’t pass. It dragged, like rot, thick and slow. But maybe this was the church's plan: no blood, no mess—just slow, silent starvation.

Good.

Let them.

She didn’t want another day.

But torment, she’d learned, never lets go easily.

Just as Bela’s eyes began to close—

Click.

Her lids twitched.

Clack.

A key scraped the lock.

Her eyes snapped open.

No. Not now.

The iron door creaked open, groaning like a beast disturbed. Lantern light spilled in—golden, flickering, casting long shadows on the damp walls.

Framed in the doorway stood Father Dimitrie.

Her gut twisted—not from hunger this time, but from something darker.

Of all the monsters in Văduva’s Hollow, he wore the finest mask. His cassock was spotless, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly tied, and in his hands—a tray.

Food?

Not moldy bread or cloudy water. Real food. Warm broth. Soft bread. Pudding. A full glass of water.

It felt absurd. Cruel, even.

The door shut behind him with a final clink. He lingered in the silence, as if savoring it.

“Well now,” he said pleasantly, his voice as warm as wine by a hearth. “There you are.”

Bela said nothing. Her jaw clenched, her gaze hollow.

He stepped closer. “Not going to welcome your guest? After all, I come bearing gifts.”

Still, she was silent.

Dimitrie only chuckled softly, as though she were some amusing pet refusing to perform a trick. “How have you been, child?” 

She looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief, rage, and confusion. Dimitrie sighed, tilting his head as he lowered himself to her level. The flickering lantern behind him gave his face a golden hue, like a saint carved in stained glass. But his eyes—his eyes were not holy. Not remotely.

“Oh, come now,” he murmured. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll drive away your only friend in here.”

Her lips curled. Friend. A filthy word from his mouth.

Finally, through clenched teeth, she muttered, “Hello, Father.”

His smile widened, as if rewarded. “Now that’s better. Manners, even in chains—it shows character.”

He stood again, brushing imaginary dust from his robe, and gestured to the tray. “Eat. I do not know whether Sister Veritas has seen to your meals today—though I rather doubt it. This, I assure you, is still warm. I had it myself earlier.”

Bela eyed the tray. The smell was real—thyme, garlic, flour, sweetness. Her body leaned toward it involuntarily, hands trembling.

But it was him.

Always him.

“Is it poisoned?” she rasped.

Dimitrie laughed. “Good heavens, child. If I wished you dead, I wouldn’t have needed to lace your supper. I’d have simply handed you to the villagers and let them finish the tale.”

He gestured again. “Go on, now. Don’t make me force-feed you like some rebellious swine.”

Her stomach growled, loud and aching. Reluctantly, she reached for the bread—chains clinking—and tore off a piece. It was warm. Soft.

She paused, watching him.

He smiled, eyes gleaming. “Well?” he asked. “Isn’t it customary to thank the one who feeds you?”

Bela, lips pressed together, took a bite instead. But in her mind, one thought echoed like church bells in an empty steeple:

Is this really Father Dimitrie…?

Father Dimitrie leaned casually against the iron wall, one leg crossed, arms folded—at ease, untouched by suffering. He watched her eat with the smug satisfaction of a man feeding a chained dog—amused, curious, always aware of the leash in his hand.

“Remarkable,” he said, voice smooth as silk over a coffin. “A day and a half free, and already back here. You do love a spectacle.”

He stepped closer, boots echoing against the floor.

“Reports say you were glowing. Floating. Like a saint in rapture. Tell me, Bela—should I kneel next?”

Her eyes lifted—flat and dark.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” he chuckled. “I’m not here to interrogate. Tonight, I’m merely… admiring.”

He crouched to meet her eyes, voice dropping.

“Do you even know what you are?”

A pause.

“What do you mean?” she rasped.

His grin widened.

“The glow. The floating. The violence. If I were a betting man, I’d say there’s more. Maybe you’ll hear thoughts next.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “But you haven’t figured it out, have you?”

Her brow furrowed. He stood, hands clasped behind him like a sermonizer. “Tell me—did your mother ever whisper strange things at night? Bathe you in blood and salt, like the old rites?”

Bela flinched.

“Or maybe,” he mused, “she made you her vengeance. A daughter to strike back at a village that turned its back.”

Her hands clenched around the bread. “No,” she whispered. “She never did any of that.”

“No?” he echoed.

“She was kind,” Bela said, her voice rising. “She never harmed a soul. The village has hurt us more than we ever hurt them. And you—you sit here pretending to be confused? Has anyone ever confessed to you, Father, about what they did to us?”

For a moment, he blinked—surprised, even amused.

“My. Such fire. Where did this boldness come from? Is it the food?” he asked. “Once, you wouldn’t even meet my eyes. Now you challenge me in my monastery. Did you think...” He leaned close again. "...a warm meal makes me different from the rest?”

Her lips trembled—not with fear, but resolve.

“I’m not bold,” she said, voice low and cold. “I’m tired.”

She met his gaze.

“These aren’t the words of the brave. They’re the words of the dying. I’ve heard whispers—how prisoners get one good meal before they’re hanged. That’s why you’re here. Not to talk about floating or fire. You’ve come to kill me.”

Dimitrie blinked. Then laughed—soft, delighted.

“Oh, is that what you think?” he said, hand to his chest in mock offense. “Delivering you to evil, like the prayers warn?”

He sighed theatrically.

“My, how could you accuse me so? After all I’ve done for you—brought you food, spared you a moment’s warmth... and this is how you repay me?”

He gave her a look of mock injury, one hand pressed to his heart. “Bela, Bela... you wound me.”

And then his expression changed—just slightly. The smile remained, but his eyes—his eyes—darkened, sharp as flint beneath candlelight.

“You think this is death, child?” he murmured, voice low and velvet-dark. “No. No, death is merciful. What awaits you is something far more useful.”

She no longer responded to Father Dimitrie’s musings. Let him preach. Let him unravel riddles wrapped in silk. She had no energy left to untangle the mind of a man who cloaked cruelty in calm.

With a hollow clatter, she pushed the tray forward.

I’m done.

Dimitrie, still lounging by the wall, stepped forward without a word and took the tray. For a moment, only candlelight and the scrape of wood filled the silence.

“So... we’re back to death, are we?”

His voice was casual. Almost bored.

“You were right, you know,” he continued, examining a crust left uneaten. “I did consider it. I still do. Everyone around me believes it to be the wisest course. Sister Veritas, most of all. She claims your very existence is a wound—raw, unhealing, and infectious.”

His gaze swept her—gaunt, bruised, exhausted.

“And perhaps,” he added, “she is not entirely wrong. You are strange. You glow, you float, and whether you mean to or not, you harm others. I have heard them speak of it in whispers—witchcraft, curses, devils in flesh. They believe it safer to end your story here before you become something worse.”

He leaned closer.

“And truth be told, it is the rational path. Remove the disease before it spreads. Kill the mystery, before the truth kill us all."

He smiled, faintly.

“Simple. Clean. Holy.”

Bela stared at him now, her frown deepening with each word.

“Well,” she said, voice low and grim, “why don’t you go ahead and just do it?”

Silence lanced between them. Dimitrie’s expression did not change, but his body leaned forward, closer, until they were nearly face to face.

“Because,” he said gently, “I am not going to be that kind of person.”

Bela raised a brow at him. “You’d be doing everyone a favor.”

“Perhaps.”

“If everyone says it’s alright,” she said, her voice dipping to something colder, bitterer, “then doesn’t it make it alright?”

Dimitrie chuckled softly, almost fondly, but his eyes—his eyes never left hers. “That,” he said, rising to his feet again, “is a tempting way to live. Let the crowd choose for you. Let them cast their stones so you won’t have to.”

He stepped away, toward the far wall, but spoke without turning.

“But I don’t think it’s alright.”

Bela’s eyes narrowed, her suspicion coiling like a serpent in her chest. “Why?” she asked at last, voice sharp as a blade unsheathed. “Why would you doubt this? Why would you choose to spare me, when everyone else thinks I am beyond redemption?”

She rose slightly, though her chains rattled and burned at her wrists. “No one stands with you in this choice. It only makes you a fool.”

Dimitrie froze. Then, after a breath, he turned his head back toward her.

“Maybe I am a fool.”

The words fell quiet, not defensive, not ashamed—just... true.

“I once heard someone say…” he began slowly, “when no one wants to save them, maybe they are not worthy to be saved. But what if—just what if—someone came along who did want to save that person? Even if no one else believed in them. Even if the whole world turned away.”

He stepped back into the candlelight, his face soft now. “Shouldn’t that bring hope?” he asked. “Even a little?”

Bela’s heart stopped.

She knew those words. She had spoken them once—weeks ago—to Father Petru, when he spoke to her after her imprisonment at the iron room. Not a soul should have heard it.

Except, perhaps… someone was listening.

She looked at Dimitrie, frown deepening.

“You—”

But he was already moving. The priest turned, walking toward the door without another word. The old iron hinges creaked as he opened it, the night’s cold wind curling through the opening like a sigh. 

Without facing her, Dimitrie said, “I hope you know, Bela... someone still stands beside you.”

He turned his head slightly, enough for his voice to carry, not enough for her to see his face.

“The nuns don’t believe so. But I do. I always did. And by the end of this week…”

He paused, a strange smile curling in his voice.

“I shall prove it.”

Bela’s brow furrowed. “What?”

But he said nothing more. The door creaked shut behind him. And once again, she was alone.

Only the candle remained—its flame small and wavering, but still burning.

—

A day after 

The air in the West Wing chambers hung thick with incense and shadow, heavy as death. Beneath a canopy of silk stood Count Orlok—gaunt, ageless, still as marble, and twice as cold. Two silent, shivering servants dressed him in forgotten finery.

One draped a crimson sash over his shoulder, stitched with the sigil of the Order of the First Fang—a serpent devouring a moon. The other fastened the clasp of his midnight cloak, hands trembling against his chill.

"You fasten that like a blind man folding letters," Orlok murmured, voice like rustling silk. A faint smile curved his lips. "Do take care. I’d hate to spill blood before supper."

The servant flinched, bowing low. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Watching nearby stood Lord Dreven—councilman, spawn, and prisoner of his own devotion. 

“My lord,” Dreven began, voice smooth but tight beneath the weight of duty, “if I may interrupt your dressing—there is much to attend to this eve. The Crimson Court grows restless. They await confirmation of your return. As do our allies in Baia, Vridhelm, and Alms Hollow.”

“You always are restless, no matter the occasion,” Count Orlok murmured, not turning from the mirror—a tall, polished thing that reflected nothing but the candlelight. 

Dreven cleared his throat but pressed on. “The Duchy of Vlaska has sent word. As has the Ashen Covenant. Even the Carpathian Wretches, reluctant as ever, now clamor for audience. Some say you're but a ghost conjured from myth and fear. Others... wonder if you still rule.”

“Did they believe I would stay buried forever? Gnawed by worms and old regrets?”

“No, my lord,” Dreven said quickly. “But your silence has unsettled many.”

“As it should,” Orlok replied, his voice like velvet over a blade.

“There are scrolls to seal. Rites to reaffirm. And Duke Mortren’s envoy awaits a private audience—they insist on beholding your presence with their own eyes, lest they throw their banners behind a shade. I assured them the Count of Orlok is no peasant’s tale.”

Orlok turned then, fully facing Dreven, now dressed in imperial black—threaded with silver bonework and crimson lining. Regal and terrible. A sovereign stitched from dusk and dominion.

“Shall I prepare the drawing hall?” Dreven offered, almost hopeful. “Lady Vilthea is particularly—”

“No.” The word struck the air like a guillotine's fall.

Dreven blinked. “My lord?”

“I shall not be attending their little pageant,” Orlok said, gloved fingers trailing along the carved edge of the wardrobe. “Let the Crimson Court weep into their goblets if they must. There are... other matters to pursue.”

He passed Dreven without another word, the hem of his cloak billowing like wings of smoke, shadow slipping from stone.

Dreven remained frozen. “Other matters…?” he echoed weakly. “Forgive me, my lord, but I was not informed—”

Orlok stepped past him. No farewell. No glance. Only the billow of his cloak like wings of smoke trailing behind. The servants froze like statues, their mouths sealed by fear and loyalty. Dreven stood for a heartbeat too long, baffled, mouth agape. Then, realization struck like lightning.

He turned and bolted from the chamber.

"My lord!" he called, chasing after him into the moonlit corridor. The hallway echoed with each strike of his boots against the marble. "My lord, please! Much has changed since you last walked these halls. Let me accompany you—lest you fall into traps woven by newer foes!"

But Orlok strode onward, silent, unbothered. A predator in his domain.

"I can speak to the Court!" Dreven tried again, adjusting his pace to match the Count’s long stride. "I shall tell them you are...otherwise engaged. Shall I offer them reassurance? Or perhaps a command, if you will it?"

Still no answer.

Dreven faltered, swallowing thickly. "Or perhaps you require something else? Spies dispatched? Someone found...?"

At that, Orlok stopped.

The word “found” hung in the air like incense.

He turned.

Dreven halted too, chest heaving, throat dry. "My lord...?"

The Count’s eyes bore into him—unreadable, slow-burning, fathomless. There was no emotion on that pale visage, yet Dreven felt the cold finger of judgment curl around his spine.

Then came the question, soft as frostbite.

“What did Cadrevan tell you?”

Dreven froze, color draining from his face. 

"My lord," he said slowly, carefully. "Cadrevan... he told me nothing. Only that your return must remain... purely ceremonial, until further instructions. He said nothing more, I swear it."

Orlok stared through him, as if peeling back the layers of Dreven’s soul in search of rot.

Some silences soothed—the hush of snowfall, a midnight prayer, the stillness of forgotten graves. But the silence between Count Orlok and Lord Dreven was not one of peace. It was the silence of held breath, of a storm tasting of ruin before it broke.

Dreven had nearly forgotten how terrifying the Count truly was. A century softened fear, made monsters seem smaller in memory. But now, walking behind that gliding figure, he remembered.

And how could he not?

There were many creatures in the world to fear. Vampires, of course, with their predatory grace and feverish hunger, were counted among the most fearsome. They were creatures of impulse and supremacy. Their kind were more composed than werewolves, perhaps—but only just. Most had tempers like kindled pitch. Their pride was a blade drawn too easily. They snapped when disrespected. Bit back when challenged.

But Count Orlok... he was different. It wasn’t the fangs, though they gleamed like promises of death. Nor his pallid skin, corpse-like and bloodless. It was the way he moved.

Every gesture, every glance, was deliberate. Controlled. He did not need to bare teeth to incite fear. He simply was, and that was enough to make your skin crawl and your heart stammer.

He savored it. The silence. The discomfort. The way it made men tremble without a word. And Dreven—though he had stood in blood-drenched courts and survived Orlok’s reign of plague and war—felt like a child again beneath that heavy gaze.

It was futile to pretend. 

"My lord... forgive me."

Orlok didn’t look away.

"I admit the Crimson Court asked after your condition. That's why I decided to interrogate Caldrevan for any strange observations on you. Not out of insult, but worry. They feared something had gone awry in your return—"

"They summoned me without a ritual," Orlok said flatly, voice like cold iron dragged over marble. "No blood. No rite. No consent."

"Yes... and that is precisely what troubled them." Dreven exhaled, gaze cast downward. "They feared the waking of your power without cause. That you would rise in madness. Or agony."

"Did they think I’d return as a beast foaming at the mouth?" Orlok’s tone held a flicker of something like amusement. Or disdain.

"No, my lord," Dreven said quickly. "Of course not. It was Cadrevan—he was the first to hear from the servants of your awakening. I questioned him... asked what he observed. He said little, save for..." He paused, licking his lips. "...a dream. One he heard you muttering in your rest. A girl."

At that, Orlok’s head turned slightly. Just enough.

"A girl," he echoed. "Yes. I do not know the name, nor did I ask. I presumed it was unwise. But if she is tied to... the old prophecy," Dreven continued, "then we might aid you in finding her. Should you wish for it."

The Count stopped walking. Dreven barely had a breath to collect before Orlok’s voice, cold and sharp, broke the silence again.

“Have you reported this to the Court?”

Dreven bit his lip. “…Yes, my lord. I did. I told them only what Cadrevan confessed. It meant well. Only that. We were worried. We did not summon you, yet you came. It is not right. What if... someone else had called you forth? Someone not aligned with us?”

Orlok tilted his head ever so slightly, as if listening for a sound only he could hear.

Then, with an exhale like wind over crypt stones, he spoke.

“Indeed. What if someone did summon me?” His voice dipped low, thoughtful. “And not a loyal hand, either. What would that mean?”

Dreven furrowed his brow. “I beg pardon, my lord? I don’t understand.”

Orlok chuckled softly—not from humor, but from the bitter amusement of revelation.  “Oh, Dreven,” he murmured, almost kindly. “How strange it would be, would it not? For someone to call forth a god of wrath and rot, knowing full well what follows in his wake.”

He turned slightly, eyes glowing dimly in the dark.

“Death, Dreven. Destruction. It comes in droves when I am summoned. And yet… someone dared to ring that bell. Why?”

Dreven said nothing. He didn’t know if he should know the answer.

“Unless…” Orlok’s voice dropped to a whisper, “…I was not summoned willingly.”

Dreven flinched. “Unwillingly? Are you saying you were summoned... unwillingly?"

"You understand nothing, Dreven. But you will."

"Be that as it may, you must prepare yourself. The Court... they will speak of the girl again. They are patient, but not forever so. And the Order... the cause... they are crumbling at the edges. They need you, my lord. We need you."

Orlok said nothing.

"At the very least," Dreven added, gentler now, "you must show yourself. Let them know you are alive. Still our leader. If you wait too long... they may begin to doubt. Or worse, act without you."

The Count drew in a breath through his nose, slow and deep. 

"Of course," he murmured. "Of course there would be those who wish to destroy the cause. I, for one... cannot wait to see the people this new era shall bring."

"My lord?"

Orlok stepped forward—closer now—and placed a hand upon his shoulder. The touch was light. Yet beneath it, Dreven felt the weight of the crypts. The centuries. The knowledge that his master could end him with a flick of the wrist.

“I shall meet with the Court,” Orlok said, “when I choose. Perhaps sooner… if they learn to stop pestering me like dogs begging scraps. Humans are impatient by nature. But if they are to deal with us, they must not forget something most grievous..."

He leaned in, whispering.

"Time bends for us, Dreven. It does not break us. It breaks them."

Then, without waiting for acknowledgement, he turned and strode down the corridor again, his cloak fluttering like the wings of some dreadful bird.

Dreven stood rooted. When the Count was nearly out of sight, he called after him, “I—I shall inform the Court of your will at once, my lord.”

No response came.

The echo of footsteps faded.

Dreven leaned against the stone wall, letting out a long, exhausted breath, his eyes staring up at the cracked ceiling above.

"How can one draw near to a god," he muttered, "when even his spawn are kept at sword’s length?"

And still, deep down, a chill remained—because somewhere in that darkness, Orlok was already several steps ahead. And Dreven wasn’t certain who the Count truly meant to find.

—

A day later 

The courtroom was draped in shadows.

At the long obsidian table that curled like a serpent, twelve seats stood occupied—some by the undead, others by humans who had long since sold their souls in exchange for proximity to power.

Tonight, the Crimson Court was in session. 

They spoke in hushed, deliberate tones of Ralic’s death—a murder dealt by the Count’s hand before the traitor could finalize his plot against the Order. Now, his premature demise had stirred unrest in the Eastern lands, igniting the embers of conflict.

"...It is betrayal, plain and bare!" hissed Vargan, slamming a pale fist upon the table. "Ralic promised lands he did not possess. Lands that were never his to offer! And now, the Eastern burgomasters grow restless and demand recompense!"

“Restless?” Malveras snorted, his fangs glinting beneath his waxed mustache. “They grow presumptuous. The mongrels were fed lies, yes—but who among us has not used deception to snare a fool? Ralic is dead. Let that be the end of it.”

"But they do not see it as a mere death, Malveras," said Seer Altheira, her voice soft as drifting snow yet no less sharp. “To them, it is a broken covenant. And with it, they threaten to ring the bell.”

A hush fell. Even the flames seemed to lower their tongues.

“They would warn the church orders?” whispered Ysabet, her tone lined with disbelief. “That is tantamount to war.”

“They know nothing of war,” spat Vargan. “Let me go to them. One glimpse of my fangs and they shall weep apologies before the hour ends.”

“And how long do you propose we keep striking fear without consequence?” snapped Ysabet. “Every time we reveal ourselves, we edge closer to exposure. To recklessness. You cannot keep frightening humans like lambs and expect them never to call the shepherd.”

“Then what would you have us do?” Malveras said, gesturing with a jeweled hand. “Bake them pies? Kiss their babies? Enough of this simpering! Fear is our gift. It is our birthright. Or have we grown ashamed of what we are?”

There was a beat of silence. A few nodded. Others exchanged glances. But the atmosphere shifted palpably when Altheira leaned forward and whispered:

“All this would be solved—all of it—if the Count would simply show himself.”

The words dropped like lead into the room.

“Ah, yes...” muttered Malveras, rubbing his brow. “And now we return to that.”

The mention of Count Orlok brought a new kind of tension. Not anger. Not contempt. But a deep-seated unrest.

“It has been days,” Ysabet murmured. “Days of silence and shadow. No word, no presence, no symbol of power. The gentry, the old families, even the lesser bishops of the underground Church—all grow uneasy.”

“They ask,” said Altheira, “and we give them answers we do not believe. We speak of the Sire’s grand return... but he himself has not confirmed when he will make it official. We speak on faith. On Dreven’s word.”

All heads turned. Dreven, who had thus far remained silent at the end of the table, looked up.

He sighed and slowly straightened his coat. “The Count is awake,” he said. “I have spoken to him with my own ears and made my observations. I’ve also interrogated everyone who has come past him, especially his butler. His strength has returned. His senses, sharp. But he is not one to be commanded, nor to be hurried.”

“You’re telling me he missed yesterday’s gathering because he was... what? Thinking?” Malveras sneered.

“He was deciding,” Dreven replied evenly. “And I, for one, would rather he take his time than arrive in wrath.”

“Time is what we do not have, Dreven,” Ysabet said, her voice rising slightly. “The burgomasters will give us a fortnight before they act. If they send word to the churches, we will have war on three fronts.”

“And still no Sire to lead us,” muttered someone from the shadows.

“That is the crux of it, is it not?” Altheira said softly. “Not hatred for him. But fear of what happens if he does not come forth.”

Malveras grunted. “They call him legend now. A bedtime story. The others, the humans who should tremble, do not. Because they have nothing to fear. They have not seen him.”

Dreven looked at the long table—the eyes, the doubt, the flickering candlelight in the vast chamber of stone. He ran a hand through his greying hair.

“He will come when he chooses,” he said. “But if I know him—and I do—it shall not be long. The more the world chatters, the more he listens.”

“You would stake our survival on patience?” Ysabet said, incredulous.

“I would stake our survival on not panicking like blind dogs,” Dreven growled. “If you want to walk into the Eastern lands and bare your fangs, be my guest. But if you wish to endure, then wait. The Count does not ignore the call of blood forever.”

Chancellor Vargan rose to his feet and broke it.

“This is madness,” he exclaimed, sweeping back his velvet cloak. “How long shall we dance around the Count’s absence like jesters around a phantom throne? He has had fifty years—more!—to consider his return. What further preparation must a creature of his stature require? A new coat? A trumpet song?”

But before Vargan could finish his scornful tirade—

Creeeaaak.

The heavy doors of the courtroom groaned open.

Every head turned at once.

A lone servant stepped through the threshold, a slim figure clad in black and crimson livery.

He bowed low and announced in a clear, unwavering tone:

“His Lordship, Count Orlok, Sire of the Crimson Court.”

The effect was immediate. Like clockwork, all twelve council members rose from their seats, the scrape of chair legs echoing like distant bones grinding in the dark.

Count Orlok entered with the poise of a man entirely unbothered by the world he was about to command. He did not speak. He did not look at any man or woman in particular. But his mere presence shifted the air—cooled it, quieted it. No crown rested upon his head, but he needed none. His stature, his silence—these were more than enough.

He strode with ghostly grace to the seat at the head of the table, the stone-backed throne none had dared occupy since his disappearance.

It was Dreven who recovered first.

“My lord,” he said, bowing with an earnestness that betrayed the tightness in his jaw, “how splendid it is to see you return to this chamber. All here have yearned for your counsel.”

He glanced sideways at his fellow councilmen, silently begging them to follow suit—and to mind their tongues. Quickly.

“Indeed, my lord,” Ysabet said smoothly, though her voice had stiffened. “Your presence is... most welcome.”

“A surprise,” added Malveras with a tight smile. “But a pleasant one, of course.”

Around the table, murmurs of “Welcome, my Lord,” and “An honor to have you, Count Orlok,” followed in a symphony of anxious diplomacy. The very walls seemed to listen.

And yet, in their minds… they all wondered the same thing:

Why does he always come like this? Unannounced. In silence. Does he enjoy watching us squirm like children caught at mischief?

Orlok stood in front of his throne, taking a long moment to survey the chamber without sitting.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“My arrival,” he said in a voice like velvet crushed under steel, “was rather abrupt, I confess.”

His words were calm but carried with them the weight of ancient stone and winter’s cold. The council dared not interrupt.

“I had no desire to trouble this court. But I have considered Dreven’s counsel most carefully—and have come to believe, perhaps, he is right. It may be time I joined your discussions.”

He finally seated himself.

“Settling here has proved… dull,” he added, crossing one leg with a lord’s elegance. “And my patience is thin. So, let us not waste what little night we have with ceremony. Speak now. State your concerns. Let us make decisions swiftly, and with teeth.”

A long pause.

The courtroom that had once raged with the heat of quarrel now seemed struck by frost. No one wished to be first.

Orlok’s gaze, slow and measured, swept the chamber like a scythe. Then it landed on Dreven. One eyebrow arched—not accusing, not angry—but sharply inquisitive. The meaning was clear: You said this would matter. Then speak. Or was it all sound and dust?

Dreven straightened with caution, fingers laced behind his back.

“Your Grace,” he began, “the council was engaged in discourse regarding the Eastern burgomasters. Since the death of Ralic, restlessness has brewed in their territories. Ralic… made promises to them. Promises of land—titles, honors. All lies. Lies he forged in your name. They feel betrayed. They claim they were fooled by the Order, and they now threaten to alert the Church orders of our existence if we do not fulfill those promises. They—speak of ringing the bell.”

Orlok’s expression did not change. He sat like a statue brought to life, his fingers steepled.

Lady Ysabet then took her chance, stepping forth. “We deemed it best to approach them with diplomacy,” she said cautiously. “A peaceful negotiation. But we fear, my Lord, that our efforts may fall on deaf ears. These men have grown bold… too bold. And in truth,”—she hesitated—“they have grown so because they have nothing to fear... especially with your absence."

She opened her mouth to continue—perhaps to explain, to justify—but Orlok raised one finger.

That single gesture—so effortless, so still—commanded more silence than any shout could have achieved.

Ysabet bowed her head and stepped back.

The Count’s hand lowered.

And now the chamber waited.

For what he would say.

For what he would do.

Like children, yes.

But not squirming out of shame.

Squirming because the shadow at the head of the table was real again. And it had just begun to speak.

He stood from his chair—not swiftly, but with the same solemn inevitability as dusk crawling over the sky—and began to walk, slowly, around the table.

“Do you know,” he began, “why I left this court fifty years ago?”

No one replied.

“You sit there, decade after decade, whispering theories like little children behind chapel walls, too afraid to name the devil in full daylight.” He cast a glance toward Malveras, who immediately dropped his gaze to the table. “I left because I knew what you were capable of. And I feared it would come to nothing.”

The Count paused at the far end of the chamber, one hand gliding across the back of Councilman Vargan’s chair. Vargan stiffened.

“You sit here now as if you are men. As if you must earn respect. But you—” Orlok turned, his voice rising in rhythm, “you are vampires. Immortal. Unyielding. Made not to beg for fear—but to be it.”

He circled back to the head of the table, speaking now with a smooth, dangerous lilt.

“Most of you come from my own blood. Not merely in name, but in spirit. And yet you forget that with every breath these creatures draw, they should remember us. Obey us. Dread us. And now I find you here, wringing your hands over negotiations?”

He sneered, the expression like a crack in marble.

“You speak of fear like it is something to ask for. But we are not here to ask.”

A beat passed. No one dared breathe too loud. Then the Count’s voice softened—just a shade—but grew heavier in tone.

“Do you know why I killed Ralic?”

No answer.

Of course not.

“Not merely because he betrayed us. Oh no. That would be too simple. Betrayal is a common sin. Almost boring, if I am honest.”

He returned to his throne, and this time he did not sit. He stood beside it, tall and unrelenting.

“I killed Ralic,” he said, “because he mistook noise for strength. Because his tongue worked faster than his mind. Because even though he bore my blood, he carried it as a fool wears a crown—loudly, arrogantly, and with no weight behind it.”

His eyes scanned the chamber again, sharper now, glowing faintly with that infernal glint unique to their kind.

“He made others believe he was bold. But boldness without thought is a butcher’s game. And worse, in the end, he was not even acting of his own accord. He bowed, willingly, to the will of humans. He let their schemes direct him. And for that, I took his life.”

Orlok’s voice dipped into steel.

“And yet I look around this table and I see shades of him in all of you.”

Malveras swallowed. Ysabet flinched.

“You talk of peace,” the Count continued, “as though it must be a balancing of scales. But peaceful negotiation? It is not submission. It is performance. It is the practiced grace of a predator stalking the lamb. You smile not because you are equal—but because you know the feast will follow.”

A flicker of firelight caught the glint of his fangs as he smiled, sharp and chilling.

“The mistake you’ve made is thinking you must lower yourselves. That both sides must gain. That we should wait and hope that these humans listen. Listen?” he laughed. “We are not here to persuade. We are here to command.”

He stepped down from the dais and placed both hands flat on the table.

“They worry this Order lacks a face?” His tone rose like thunder. “Madness! My blood sits among you. I am in you."

The councilmen lowered their heads now, not in deference—but in shame. Vargan clenched his jaw. Dreven looked stricken. Even Ysabet, proud and cold, said nothing.

“Why do you fear their retaliation?” Orlok pressed, his voice now a whip. “Who are they? Farmers? Clergy? Drunk soldiers who cannot even keep their own borders? You are beings of the night. You do not age. You do not die. You were born with blades in your mouths, for God’s sake!”

Another pause.

“You wonder why they no longer tremble? Look in a mirror. Do you not recognize what you are?”

Then—silence. The final kind. The kind that settles when every truth has been laid bare.

At last, Orlok straightened.

“The negotiation with the eastern burgomasters shall continue,” he said. “But this time—give them an offer they cannot refuse.”

His eyes shimmered with command.

“And when I say cannot refuse, I mean use what you are. Do not hide it behind manners and titles. Let them feel the weight of what stands before them. No more hiding. No more waiting. Be what you are—fear itself.”

A hush followed like fog seeping into a graveyard.

The councilmen rose together and bowed low, their voices one.

“As the Count commands.”

And this time, they meant it.

With the flick of a tattered velvet sleeve, the Count reclined slowly into his throne once more. The councilmen—Vargan, Malveras, Dreven, Ysabet, and Altheira—returned to their seats with the quiet defeat of schoolchildren who’d been publicly reprimanded.

“I’ve no further wish to speak of the eastern burgomasters,” Count Orlok said, the disdain in his voice coiling like smoke. “Handle them. By the end of the week. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ysabet spoke first, spine stiff, voice practiced. “We shall deal with it at once.”

The Count did not nod in return. “Then continue,” he commanded. “Let this court earn the shadows it hides beneath.”

A beat passed.

The councilmen looked at each other. Who would speak? Vargan’s lips twitched, but it was Malveras who finally cleared his throat.

“If it pleases the Count,” Malveras began, voice clipped and cautious, “there is a matter that—though delicate—we feel requires your clarity.”

Orlok raised a brow, lounging back with one leg crossed over the other. “Then unweave the thread and let me see what spider lies at the end.”

Malveras gave a stiff nod. “Your… sudden awakening, my lord. From the crypt.”

The air shifted. Slightly colder. Slightly stiller.

He continued, albeit slower. “We do not wish to sound imploring. Truly. We are grateful—deeply grateful—for your return amidst the growing unrest within the Order. However, we must inquire…” He hesitated, then plunged onward. “Who summoned you, my lord? Do you know of them? You had told us… only the Order held the right to call you forth. And that it would be done when the hour was right. This—this hour is right, yes… but…”

“But it was not us who planned it,” Ysabet finished, hands folded tightly in her lap. “And that troubles us, my lord.”

Dreven leaned forward, lips pressed into a line. “We fear the ritual may not have been clean, my lord. Forgive our boldness—but what if it tied you to something else? A force, a curse—there are tales… of voodoo rites, parasitic bindings…”

“If you feel anything strange—anything at all—you must speak of it now,” Malveras urged, voice lowering. “We would stand by you, my lord. If aught dares move against you, it moves against all of us.”

There was a pause. Count Orlok’s expression did not shift. He studied them for a moment too long, as though weighing whether they deserved an answer at all. Then he exhaled through his nose—a dry, unimpressed sound.

“If I were bound to a curse,” he said dryly, “I would know.”

He tilted his head slightly, mock-thoughtful. “And believe me, if I were cursed, I’d have cast plague and fire upon this castle and all of your powdered wigs before you finished that tedious list of concerns.” Then—a blink. A twitch of a smile. “Alas, I feel no such impulse. At least, not yet.”

Silence returned, this time laced with reluctant relief and nervous amusement. Dreven opened his mouth to speak, when—

“I beg pardon,” said Seer Altheira, her voice cool and quiet. All turned to her at once. “Before we drift to another topic, I must ask… about the report. From Cadrevan.”

Count Orlok’s gaze sharpened—slightly.

“Is it true,” she asked carefully, “that the Sire dreamt of a girl?”

The room stilled. Eyes darted among the council. Then, from across the chamber, a voice broke the quiet.

“A girl?” One of the human councilmen, a thin-lipped man with a stiff collar, raised a brow. “What has that to do with anything?”

He was met with the room’s collective disapproval. Even Malveras shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.

Altheira’s mouth opened, then closed. She blinked, flustered. “Ah—yes. Forgive me. Not all present know of the… context.”

She cleared her throat and sat straighter. “Centuries ago—after the first recorded appearance of the blood moon—the scriptures spoke of a vision. A dream, visited upon the Sire in his crypt. A girl, faceless in the fire, who would speak to him when the time of unrest had come.”

She glanced again at the Count, whose expression was unreadable.

“We did not know when this vision would come. Only that it would be the herald of either salvation… or destruction.” Altheira's voice trembled faintly. “And now—if Cadrevan's report is true—you saw her. In your dream. Before you awoke.”

The human councilman frowned. “A prophecy? I was never made aware of such a—”

“Because you were not here when it was foretold,” snapped Ysabet, eyes flaring. “And it was not your kind’s place to know.”

Orlok raised a hand. The room went silent once more. He stared into the fire, fingers tapping once on the arm of his throne.

“A girl,” he murmured, voice barely above the crackle of the flames.

The air was taut, like a drawn bow. The council watched with unmoving anticipation, breaths shallow, waiting—hoping—for the Count to confirm what Altheira had only suggested.

That he had dreamt.

That the dream bore a girl.

At length, Count Orlok’s voice cut through the hush like the flick of a blade:

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I did dream of a girl,” he said, the words falling without weight, as though he spoke of rain upon glass. “It lingered in the dark before my waking. But do not obsess yourselves with it. It is a shadow. Nothing more.”

The silence that followed was shattered—not by fear or confusion, but by surprise. And not just surprise—delighted disbelief.

Vargan, eyes wide as his thin lips curled into something dangerously close to a grin, leaned forward at once. “My lord… is this true? Truly?”

He looked to Malveras. Then to Ysabet. Then back again, as if searching for confirmation in their equally stunned expressions.

“It is the prophecy,” Ysabet whispered, almost breathless. “By the old stones—it remains true.”

“The girl in crimson,” murmured Malveras, voice steeped in reverence. “Spoken in the tongue of the ancients. The vision carved into the crypt's vault, untouched for centuries…”

“—Awakened not by our rites,” Vargan finished, “but by her voice. Just as the scriptures said!”

The humans among them blinked in confusion, watching the subtle, suppressed exhilaration ripple across their undead colleagues like a rising fever. Their brows furrowed, their unease mounting with every shared glance and knowing look.

“What is this prophecy?” asked one of the human councilmen cautiously. “What of this girl? Why do you smile so, my lords?”

None answered him directly.

“It makes sense now,” said Ysabet, her tone like music stitched with steel. “The rites failed us. The Order tried for decades to summon him. Candles lit, blood spilled, stars aligned—and still, he slumbered.”

“But then came the Blood Moon,” Malveras breathed. “Not just the one from last winter—but the one from twenty-one years past. Two omens, precisely as foretold.”

“Two moons,” Vargan added with fervor, “and now, the girl.”

Dreven remained silent. His eyes flicked from face to face, watching the intoxication of prophecy sweep the chamber like wine spilled over a map.

He looked to the Count. Orlok was seated still, yet rigid now, his fingers curled ever so slightly tighter upon the carved throne. His eyes, once distracted and distant, were now fixed on the floor ahead, his jaw clenched in that deadly quiet way only a few of them recognized.

Dreven’s throat tightened.

“My lords,” he said carefully, voice breaking through their rising cheer. “Perhaps… perhaps we ought temper our joy. A dream is not a declaration. The Count himself said it bears no meaning.”

“But it does bear meaning!” protested Malveras, nearly rising to his feet. “The Blood Moon, the unfulfilled rites, the Church’s vulnerability—everything aligns! This woman—this vision—she is the bridge. With her, our kind may finally step past the veil of darkness and place our hand upon the spine of the divine!”

“And corrupt it,” Ysabet whispered, her smile radiant and cruel. “Yes. With her as the conduit… Orlok need not conquer the Church with blade and bone. He need only touch her heart.”

“You speak of conquest,” Dreven said tightly, “but do not mistake hope for truth. The Count has spoken, and he seemed…” His gaze flicked again to the throne. “…unwilling.”

“Oh, Dreven,” Vargan laughed lightly. “Ever the cautious one. But this is no coincidence. The old scriptures were clear. Not all prophecy is summoned. Some… arrive.”

"I can still practically remember it: 'She who appears in blood, but bears no mark of sin. She who walks in sunlight but speaks to shadows. She whose name shall bring the Sire to wake—not to war, but to reign.' The prophecy carved beneath our very feet,” Malveras added. “We still keep the stones in the lower crypts. This is the Order’s chance. Redemption. Salvation.”

One of the younger vampires clapped his hands together softly, eyes alight. “Then let us proclaim it now! Let us mark this moment—the dream is good news!”

“SILENCE.”

The voice that followed shattered the illusion like ice against glass.

The room froze.

Even the walls seemed to tense, drawing in a breath. All eyes turned to Count Orlok.

He sat motionless—but his gaze burned. No longer amused, only cold and impatient. A vein pulsed at his temple. His fingers clenched the throne’s arms. He said nothing more. He didn’t need to. The vampires bowed in silent apology. The humans followed, uncertain but quick to mimic. Only Dreven met the Count’s stare—an understanding passing between them like lightning in still air.

The message was clear: prophecy might stir the court, but only one will ruled it.

His.

The silence that followed was heavy—until the Count rose.

Slowly.

Terribly.

His hands slid from the throne, posture straight as judgment. Then came his voice—calm, composed… the kind of calm that made even fire pause.

“So,” he said, pacing once before his throne, “a single dream. Of a girl. And you wriggle like worms at the mention of it."

His crimson gaze passed over the room, cutting into each of them like a silvered dagger.

"Fools,” he spat. “I speak of a mere human—one without strength, without magic, without anything—and your immortal hides begin to squirm like children promised sweets.”

Malveras winced.

“You disgrace centuries of survival by acting as though God Himself has stepped down among us. By the shadows, you forget what you are. You are predators. Hunters of time. Not giggling imbeciles entertained by fairy tales carved in stone.”

Vargan opened his mouth as if to speak but quickly shut it. Ysabet lowered her eyes. Even Seer Altheira, ancient and half-mad with visions, bowed her head.

“When,” Orlok hissed, “when shall you finally outgrow the bodies you wear? You’ve walked through empires, outlasted plagues, crossed continents… and yet, a woman in a dream leaves you breathless. No wonder our human allies treat you like beasts in dress.”

Dreven alone kept his eyes on the Count, not with rebellion, but with quiet sorrow. He had known they should have tempered their joy. Contained their foolish chatter. But the others, caught in the heat of hope, had let the prophecy consume their reason.

“There is no prophecy,” Orlok said. “And even if there is some cursed scrap of ancient ink that points to this, it bears no tie to me.”

The words fell heavy, like hammer blows.

“You think a being such as I could ever be bound to a mortal soul? That the First Fang—your master—could be reduced to some fable’s pawn?” His voice was fire now. “This woman shall wither and fade like the rest. Time shall forget her. I shall forget her.”

He turned toward the towering doors.

“It is no wonder I’ve withheld my return,” he growled. “I refuse to become the face of an order whose own bloodline prances like fools at shadows. Imbeciles, the lot of you.”

The word cracked through the chamber like a lash. The vampires lowered their heads. Shame replaced the glee that once danced in their eyes.

With a final glance behind him, the Count narrowed his gaze.

“When the day comes that you cease to look like the failures of my cause and begin to act like my blood,” he said coldly, “then, and only then, shall I finalize my return.”

Count Orlok turned and swept from the courtroom. The grand doors shut behind him with a sullen boom, as if the castle itself exhaled. The court remained still, the weight of his fury settling like dust across the crimson chamber.

It was, without question, the most harrowing session they’d ever endured.

He stormed through the palace halls like a phantom cloaked in fire. His chambers opened at his arrival—his magic still crackling around him. Inside, he stood motionless. Cloak, gloves, brooch—all untouched. His jaw clenched, crimson eyes fixed on the marble floor.

The girl.

The dream.

That cursed face.

At the mere mention of her, he had lost his temper. He, who had endured centuries of torment, betrayal, hunger, silence, and war—he had snapped because of her. Because she lingered in his memory. Because—Gods below—in the dream… she resisted him.

And worse… he had failed to strike her down.

He clenched his fist. Fury wrapped around him like a vise.

This wasn’t in the scriptures. Not a word of her defiance. Not a whisper of his failure. If the prophecy was true, it lied. And if it lied, then everything his council believed in… was ash.

He turned abruptly and strode to the arched window. Night stretched beyond, a sea of black velvet pierced by silver stars. The snow-covered valley below lay still, unaware of the fire that blazed behind its Count’s eyes.

That was when his butler, Cadrevan, entered, moving soundlessly but with a cautious grace only centuries of servitude could teach.

“My lord,” he said gently, voice low. “Do you require anything… after the events of court?”

Orlok merely continued to brood by the window, eyes cast upon a world that had changed too much—and yet not enough to spare him her. For a time, he said nothing. Cadrevan stood at a respectful distance, gloved hands clasped, awaiting either command or dismissal. The silence stretched, heavy and precarious.

Then, at last, Orlok spoke, voice low and rough, as though dragged up from a well of ancient resentment.

“…You should not have told Dreven.”

Cadrevan blinked. “My lord?”

“The girl,” Orlok muttered, his gaze still fixed on the distant, snow-laden horizon. “In my dream. You should not have mentioned her to Dreven.”

The butler stiffened, careful not to appear startled. “I—” He paused, recalibrated, and dipped his head with a soft bow. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not believe it would stir such… unrest. The court only sought to understand the source of your awakening. They questioned everything you’ve uttered since you rose.”

Orlok turned from the window then, slow and deliberate. 

“And you believed it wise,” he said, voice calm but steeped in threat, “to include mention of a mortal girl who appeared in a dream?”

Cadrevan did not flinch. “It was not meant to cause offense, nor inspire prophecy. I feared it might have been a witch. Or worse—a godling’s trick. If a voice had heard you, my lord… I thought it best you not be blindsided.”

Orlok stepped forward.

He scanned Cadrevan’s face—eyes flicking across every twitch, every breath, every flicker of emotion. But there was no deceit. There never was with him. Cadrevan was too old, too seasoned, and above all, too smart to bother with manipulation.

No, Orlok thought, he's not loyal. He just knows when to shut his mouth. A rare, blessed virtue.

“Fine,” the Count muttered, wearied by it all. “Let it lie now. Let none speak of what I’ve said to you. Not again.”

“As you command, my lord,” Cadrevan said with a deep bow, stepping backward.

The doors creaked open, and with a final glance at his master—still shadowed by the window—Cadrevan exited, locking the door behind him.

And once more, Count Orlok was alone.

As always.

As he had been for fifty years—entombed in stone and silence, the crypt his only kingdom, haunted by the mutterings of the living above. A thousand voices—wailing, whispering, cursing. Until one night, one voice spoke back.

The memory made his jaw tighten. Eyes shut, he began the descent.

He moved through the catacombs of the palace like a shadow, his steps soundless over stone worn smooth with age. The deeper he went, the more the world above faded. By the time he reached the heart of the crypt, the cold had changed—no longer absence, but presence. Something old. Watching. Waiting.

And there it was.

The slab.

Carved from black stone, veined with threads of something older than marble—older than language. His stone cradle, where memory and meaning came to die.

He did not light a candle.

He did not speak.

He simply lay down, his body folding with familiar ritual. Arms crossed over his chest. Eyes closing to the dark. The silence rose up to meet him like an old lover, slipping over his skin, pressing against his ears until even the memory of sound was smothered.

And then, like falling beneath the surface of a frozen river, he let go.

He let his mind fall.

Deeper.

Darker.

The descent was quiet. A slow unraveling of self. Flesh became thought, thought became nothing. The world slipped away in layers, until only void remained. There was no gravity here. No time. No color. No edge. Only the weightless hum of oblivion.

Here, Count Orlok was not flesh or name. He did not walk—he drifted, a formless hunger adrift in silence. No face, no shadow. Only presence.

And yet… he belonged.

The void, for all its emptiness, welcomed him. Wrapped around him like a shroud spun from night. Here, he was not hunted. Not bound. Not broken. Here, he was still.

Until he heard it.

A voice.

Faint.

Exhausted.

Fragile.

Not a scream. Not a call.

Just breath. Ragged, human breath. Murmurs stitched together with sleep and suffering—a girl’s voice,  barely clinging to form. No words, only the ghost of intent. The soft ache of someone who did not know they were heard.

He followed it.

Through the weightless dark. Further. Deeper. Toward the source.

And there—at the edge of formlessness—she appeared.

A shimmer of life amidst endless death.

She lay curled upon something resembling a bed. The outlines of her body were blurred, fractured by the void’s resistance to her existence.

But she endured.

She was flickering, yes—but human.

Count Orlok stopped beside her.

And for a long while, he simply watched.

Her breath came in shallow intervals. Her chest barely rose beneath the fabric of whatever garment the dream had granted her. Her hair spilled across the ghost-bed like a tangle of black vines, obscuring part of her face. What features he could see were soft, fragile in that way only mortals could be.

He raised a hand.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Fingers brushed through her hair, and to his surprise, it felt real. Coarse. Tangled. Tangible.

His hand drifted downward.

To her cheek—smooth and cool beneath his touch.

To her jaw.

To her throat.

She was lying on her side, facing him, entirely unaware. Completely vulnerable. Didn’t sense the predator looming inches away.

And in that moment, Count Orlok became stillness incarnate.

His hand hovered over her throat.

Just close to her heart. 

Poised.

Ready.

A flick of pressure. A simple gesture. That was all it would take to end her. To extinguish the anomaly that had wandered into his sanctum.

This time, he would not fail.

But—

Her breath hitched.

A sigh escaped her lips—one of those involuntary, half-dreamed things, like a child turning in their sleep.

And Count Orlok recoiled.

Not from fear.

Not from mercy.

But hesitation.

A single moment. Barely the blink of thought. But in the void, where eternity reigned, hesitation was deafening. It rang louder than screams. Sharper than steel.

His hand froze in the air. His eyes—those endless eyes—remained fixed on her.

She shifted again, deeper into sleep, completely unaware of how close she had come to becoming nothing more than dust in the void.

And Count Orlok stood still. 

Haunted.

Captivated.

A shadow stunned by light.

It wasn’t just that she could hear him.

Or that she had wandered into this place, a realm no mortal soul should ever tread.

No, it went deeper than that.

Their heartbeats—impossibly—were beating in perfect unison.

And he had never felt a heartbeat in centuries. 

Count Orlok lingered near the bed—if one could call it that—his presence draped in silence, as patient as the grave. His hand—still poised from earlier—trembled at his side. He did not know what this meant anymore. The hesitation. The stillness. The weight in his chest that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with her.

He loathed not understanding.

But before he could step forward again—before his hand could resume its course—

She stirred.

With a sharp gasp, the girl jolted upright, her eyes flying open like shutters torn in a storm.

Panic.

It seized her like a chain around the throat.

Her head darted from side to side, frantically scanning the nothingness. 

“Where—where is this?” she whispered to no one. “No, not again…”

Orlok took a measured step back. Not from fear. Never that. But to observe.

She did not see him.

Even though he stood less than three paces away, cloaked in the same dark that now swallowed everything.

She reached out with a trembling hand to the surface she sat upon. Her fingers touched the bed—if it could be called that—but her face twisted in confusion. There was no texture. No grain. No sensation at all, like touching smoke shaped into something solid.

“What… is this place?” she murmured, and her voice cracked, the sound wobbling at the edges like a flame starved of air. Then, louder, “Is anyone here? Hello? Can anyone hear me?!”

The girl's heartbeat pounded—he could feel it, wild and frantic. His own heart echoed it, like two clocks wound to the same tempo. Curious. Disturbing.

“Please—if someone is there—say something!” she cried again.

Still, he gave her silence.

She swallowed a sob and swung her legs off the bed. Her toes hovered above the unseen floor. Even here, she feared what might lie beneath her feet. But she stepped down. Unsteady, arms raised like a blind girl feeling her way through a dream, she moved. Fragile, but unbroken. And he followed—soundless, a shadow trailing a flicker. Her light wavered; his darkness did not. She no longer glowed. No violent aura. No spark. The fire that once stopped him was gone.

Why?

Did it only spark when he tried to harm her?

Wasn't she immune to his will in this place?

Could he not harm her, even in real life?

He narrowed his eyes, watching her every trembling step.

“I don’t understand this…” she whispered. “This isn’t the monastery. I didn’t dream of it. I—I don’t even know how I got here.”

She stopped suddenly and turned, though not toward him. Her gaze swept the darkness, and she shivered.

“Someone is here. I can feel it.”

A long pause.

And then she called out again. Louder this time. Angrier.

“Show yourself! I know someone’s watching me!”

Still he said nothing.

Still she waited.

A few heartbeats more—and then—

He sighed.

A long, wearied exhale, like wind rattling through an empty tomb.

She heard it.

She spun around, arms flying up as though to shield herself.

“Who’s there?!”

Orlok said nothing at first, only stood in place, studying her heartbeat through the stillness. It fluttered like a trapped bird.

Then finally, he spoke, his voice like velvet frayed at the edges:

“Are you a fool?”

Her eyes widened. He could almost see the realization flood her—like a candle flaring before it’s snuffed out.

“There is nothing here but the void. If your eyes do not see, if your hands do not touch, then what hope have your cries to summon rescue? Look about you, girl. Does this realm look as though it harbors kindness?”

She gaped.

“M-my God,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

He raised a brow. “Come now, do not look so shocked. You’ve known I was here. You’ve always known. You were merely playing pretend.”

“I wasn’t!” she shouted, her fists trembling at her sides. “I swear, I didn’t summon you—I didn’t do anything! Look, we're not even at the monastery anymore. This place is wrong. There’s nothing. It’s all black! How could I see anyone?”

He watched her quietly, her excuses flung like stones at a statue that refused to fall.

Then he began to walk toward her.

One step.

Two.

His boots made no sound on the formless floor.

But she felt it.

She felt him.

“Stop!” she screamed, stepping back. “Don’t come any closer! Don’t you dare!”

He paused, one foot forward.

Her voice cut sharper than his knives.

“After what you did to me last time—how dare you—!”

He tilted his head, voice smooth as silk yet sharpened at the corners.

“What… pray tell… did I do?”

Her brow furrowed, breath ragged.

“Don’t play games with me. You know. You tried to kill me!”

A beat passed.

Then he chuckled.

A low, bitter sound. Amused but not warm.

“And to which,” he said dryly, “I failed.”

She flinched.

And Count Orlok, predator wrapped in a dream, moved once more. He did not walk—he prowled, circling her like a vulture considering when best to feast. 

Watching.

Waiting.

Wondering what else this strange girl would reveal—this girl whose name he did not yet know, but whose heartbeat he had memorized.

Bela stood motionless in the center of the black, her breath shallow, fists curled tight at her sides. Her eyes darted, seeking him. But she could not see him. But she felt it. 

"You may circle until the stars fall from the sky," she said at last, voice steady though her pulse betrayed her. “It won’t change anything.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh?” His voice slithered from the dark, smooth as spilled ink and just as black. “And what, pray tell, does it not change, little dreamer?”

She lifted her chin, defiant, though her spine felt made of glass.

“You failed before,” she spat. “And this… this is just another attempt, isn’t it? Another sordid little nightmare. Another summoning to kill me.”

He made no reply. Only continued to orbit her—an unseen moon to her unwilling earth.

“Attempt, is it?” he murmured finally, voice curling like smoke around a flame. “What an accusation. As though the dream were yours to interpret.”

Her gaze sliced through the void.

“Don’t play coy with me. I felt you. I know you meant to kill me again—your hand was at my throat not moments ago.”

A soft chuckle spilled out of the dark.

Low. Dark. Pleased.

“Ahh… so the lady admits it.” His voice dipped into a purr, wicked and velvet-rich. “You were awake. The whole time. Playing the lamb, when in truth you were the fox with eyes wide open. You must be a greater fool than I imagined,” the Count whispered. “To speak so boldly to one who could unmake you with a sigh.”

She whirled toward the sound, her voice cutting through the dark like a blade.

“Then do it!” she roared. “Strike me down if that’s your aim. If this cursed dream is my gallows, then let it swing! I am done pretending, done with waking up in chains, with pious hands of madwomen dressing as nuns dumping salt into my wounds and calling it salvation!”

The void held its breath.

Count Orlok stilled.

And for a moment, the dream twisted.

“What did you say?” His voice dropped, suddenly sharp. Not amused—interested. Alarmingly so.

Bela’s heart clenched. Her mouth dried.

“You heard me.”

“The nuns,” he said, more to himself than to her. “You are tormented… by nuns?”

Her face darkened. Too late to reel it back.

“They think I’m possessed,” she snapped, casting her gaze to the black beneath her feet. “Thanks to you. To whatever infernal disease you've infected me with.”

“Me?” Orlok barked a laugh—no longer amused, but offended. “You summoned me, dove. I did not come knocking on your door like a common ghoul. You tore the veil. You invited me in.”

“Oh, spare me,” she hissed. “You know exactly what you are. Some ghastly parasite that nests in dreams and poisons the soul. You made me float. You made me burn.” Her voice cracked with rage. Or fear. Or both. “They saw me! I levitated in my sleep like some hell-born puppet. And the light—red, glowing from my skin as if my blood had turned to fire. They screamed. They wept. They tried to chain me to the floor!”

Orlok had been only half-listening, still savoring the absurdity of “nuns,” but now—now he blinked.

“…Red glow?”

“Yes!” she nearly shrieked. “A light. A… a pulse from within. My hands. My chest. It lingers even after waking. Is that not your doing?! Didn't you plant it inside me like some cursed seed?!”

He stared, though she could not see it. His gaze bore into her, past skin and sinew, into something buried deeper than bone.

“And this… glow… manifests in waking?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Even when I’m awake. Not always—but enough. Enough to make them fear me.”

He took a step back, as if her words had struck him.

“Then how, precisely, would I know?” he asked, with sudden ice in his tone. “I am bound to a dream, girl. I cannot cross into your daylight world. My touch ends at the borders of sleep.”

Her voice wavered. “Then… who? Who else could it be? If not you—then who?”

He didn’t answer.

But his face darkened, his jaw clenched. A silence opened between them like a yawning grave.

Something was wrong.

Profoundly wrong.

Not just with her—but with the world she hailed from. And the girl standing before him, glowing in sleep and caged in the day, was more than a victim.

She was a cipher.

An omen.

He began to circle again—but slower now. Not as a predator hungry for blood.

But as a scholar before a mystery.

A priest before a miracle.

Or perhaps… a monster before a mirror.

The void stretched on like an ink-smeared canvas, vast and formless, but suffocating in its silence. Bela stood at the center of it, wrapped in a strange starlight that pulsed without source or sky. Shadows slithered at the edges, coiling in patterns too deliberate to be chance.

And he—Count Orlok—watched. He did not blink. He did not move. He merely observed her as if she were a curiosity beneath glass. A thing.

It had been long minutes—perhaps hours. Time meant nothing here. Only stillness.

At last, Bela exhaled, sharp as a sword’s draw.

“Are you truly going to stand there the entire night,” she said coolly, “glaring at me like some mute statue carved from gloom? Or does your ancient mouth still possess the art of speech?”

He remained silent. Regal. Undisturbed.

She narrowed her eyes.

“I asked a question,” she pressed. “You’ve spent long enough peering into me like a miser counting coins. If you plan to do something to me, could you at the very least offer the courtesy of a reply first?”

Count Orlok's lips curled—slowly, dryly. The barest ghost of a smile. “Do something to you?” he echoed, voice rich with mocking innocence. “My dear, I know not what you speak of. I have made no plans. No schemes. You flatter yourself if you think I have.”

Bela scoffed, the sound echoing like glass breaking on water. “Don’t lie to me. You’re old, aren’t you? Old enough to drift through this world without end or anchor. Tell me—after all these centuries, have you not grown weary of lies?”

The Count’s smile withered, replaced by a scoff. A dry, papery rasp that might once have been laughter.

“I lie when the truth proves dull, little girl,” he said, stepping lightly around her, shadows draping off his form like spilled ink. “And you—you—have thus far been anything but dull.”

His eyes gleamed, catching a flicker of invisible light.

“When first I heard whispers of you, I imagined some pale witch desperate to toy with powers beyond her kin. A lamb who thought herself a wolf. A virgin playing vampire.” His voice dipped, languid and wicked. “But no. It seems you are far worse.”

He stopped just behind her, and his voice became a whisper pressed to the nape of her neck.

“Tell me, then. Do you truly not know where you came from?”

Bela rolled her eyes, and the sarcasm dripped from her lips like honey turned to venom.

“Would I be asking you, you pompous bat, if I knew?”

A pause.

Orlok raised an elegant brow, as if offended by her tone more than her words.

“And such manner of speech,” he murmured, circling once more. “You’ve grown bold. Is it because you believe yourself resistant to me? Immune, perhaps?”

Bela turned, her brow arched high. “I can resist you?”

He laughed—this time, a real sound, rich and cruel and vaguely delighted.

“Oh, do not pretend. You were there when it happened. When it began. Tell me,” he said. “How comes it that a creature so unwilling, so ignorant, wields a power that did not stem from my blood? Who bore you, girl? When were you born? And how?”

He stepped closer, his voice now a quiet snarl.

“And by all means, how did you summon me?”

Bela threw her hands up, exasperated.

“For the hundredth time, I didn’t! You just appeared! You slithered into my dream like some shade with nowhere else to haunt!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and murmured, “Then you must have wanted something. Everything summoned bears a cost, and a calling.”

The Count began to circle again—slower this time, as if stalking not prey, but a riddle.

“And how are you so sure it was you who was called?” Bela retorted. “What if it’s the other way around? What if you need something from me?”

He halted.

A ripple through the void, as though the entire dream had inhaled.

“I require nothing from your kind,” he said coldly. “You may rot and crumble and be forgotten in the dust. Humans like you are as fleeting as smoke and just as fragrant.”

He was directly before her now. No longer circling. No longer looming.

They were eye to eye.

Something between them shifted.

And Bela felt it too.

Her brows furrowed, confusion lacing her gaze. Then—something strange flickered across her face. Realization. A deep, uncanny stillness.

“…Wait a moment,” she whispered. “Is your heart… in sync with mine?”

The void itself trembled.

The Count said nothing.

He could hear it now—the frantic drum of his heart had stilled. Slowed. Matched her own as if tethered to it.

Her breath. His breath.

Her stillness. His stillness.

What he saw… she saw.

What he felt…

No. No, this could not be.

It was a minute—just one—but it yawned like eternity. They stood frozen, gazes locked, the weight of something ancient and wrong pressing down upon them.

He took a step back, as if scorched by her presence.

“No,” he muttered. “No. This must end.”

“Pardon me?”

“You need to go,” he said sharply.

Bela frowned. “What?”

“I said go,” he snapped, his voice a thunderclap now.

“But—!”

She didn’t finish.

His hand lifted—elegant, slow, decisive.

Snap.

The void opened beneath her with a terrible howl, and her scream fell through it like a stone into black water.

She vanished.

Count Orlok stood alone once more. 

The dream collapsed around him with the finality of a tombstone lowered into place—unyielding, absolute. Silence reclaimed the space, dense and airless, as if sound itself had been exiled.

He stared at the place where she had stood, though there was no trace of her now. Only the void remained—an absence too sharp to be forgotten, too hollow to be mourned. His jaw tensed, breath leveled, and whatever softness might have stirred in him was methodically extinguished.

She must never return. 

Not to him. 

Not to the ruins of this accursed place. 

Whether her voice reached for him in the night or some aching part of her longed to call him name, he would not answer. 

He could not.

He would not. 

But still—

A remnant lingered. Not a memory, not even a shadow, but something quieter—an echo, faint and cruel. Her heartbeat, or the illusion of it, flickered in the ruins of his own, like the aftershock of a wound long since inflicted but never allowed to bleed.

It would fade. Eventually.

Everything did.

Or so he'd hope.

Chapter Text

The shadow hadn’t returned to Bela’s dreams.

It had been several nights without the screaming plunge into darkness—but she still remembered. The sickening lurch, the wind, the silent scream, the breathless wake-up in her thin cot, heart pounding like war drums. It felt real. Too real. As if she’d truly fallen into the void.

Bela lifted her chained hands, clinking slightly as she examined her wrists in the scarce moonlight. There was nothing now. No warmth. No red glow. But she remembered how it had surged unbidden. 

No one else had such a thing. Not her mother. Not the villagers. Not even the sinister presence that haunted her dreams. That voice in the void had paused— genuinely surprised —when she whispered that the red light still followed her into the waking world.

Maybe the villagers had been right all along. Demon child, they'd call her. 

If even the shadows didn’t know what she was... then what else could she be?

Bela’s stomach gave a quiet cry. The last morsel she’d tasted was a crust of bread and a half-glass of water, days ago—she had lost count. Her eyelids drooped as sleep’s weight beckoned her once more. Then—

Click.

The iron door creaked open with the whine of old hinges. A sliver of light broke the darkness. Bela’s head jerked up, and her body tensed.

Father Dimitrie.

She blinked, unsure if she was still dreaming. He stepped into the room, eyes darting like a hunted man’s, and approached her in haste. The lantern in his left hand cast wild shadows upon his face.

“Father?” she rasped. “What…?”

Before she could say more, he was upon her. His right hand dug into his pocket and withdrew a key. Her eyes widened as he knelt and began to unlock the iron collar from her neck.

“Wait—what are you doing?” she whispered, half in awe, half in alarm.

He said nothing. Just worked quickly. The chains clanked softly, one by one, as they were undone—wrists, ankles. She rubbed her raw skin, still stunned.

“Do the sisters know of this?” she hissed.

“No,” he said at last, voice low and urgent. “And they must not. Come. We have little time.”

“What? Why?” Bela stood now, heart thundering.

He was already at the door.

“Well?” Dimitrie turned back, eyebrows raised. “Are you not coming?”

She hesitated. Her bare feet shifted upon the stone floor. She didn’t trust this. Something wasn’t right. Yet the look in the priest’s eyes was not cruel—it was frightened. Of what, she didn’t know.

After a breathless pause, she stepped forward. Followed him.

They emerged into the hallway beyond the iron room. It was silent, the convent holding its breath. The hour was late—perhaps close to midnight. Dimitrie’s lantern swung gently in his hand, casting flickering golden light upon the cracked walls. At last, they reached the wooden door of her quarters.  Somewhere deeper in the convent, metal clattered, but here before the room she’d long called a prison, all was still.

Father Dimitrie turned to her, his mouth a thin, uncertain line beneath his graying beard. “I have acquired a suitcase,” he said, clutching the lantern tighter as though its light might shield him from her gaze. “You must gather your things at once. I shall remain outside, to keep watch.”

“A suitcase?” Bela asked, arching a brow. “What nonsense is this? Have you finally gone mad?”

“There is no time to quarrel,” he said. “You must trust me—”

“Oh, do forgive me,” Bela snapped, voice a low growl, “but last I recall, trust was not a luxury afforded to the damned.”

He flinched as if struck. “I understand your bitterness. But please—there are truths that can only be told outside these cursed walls. You must flee this place, child, or tomorrow you shall not live to curse me again.”

She searched his face for the usual cruel smugness, the detachment she’d come to expect. But tonight, it was gone—replaced by something haggard and honest. That unsettled her more than any lie he’d ever told. “And where, pray tell, do you expect me to run with a suitcase in hand and no shoes on my feet?” she hissed. “Through the hills like a madwoman? You do know they burn women like me in the next village.”

“You’ll not be running blind, I promise you. I’ve made... arrangements. But we must not dally. The hours slip away like water through fingers.”

Still she stared, wild-eyed and resistant. But something in her heart twisted at the edges—fear, yes, but also the unmistakable tremor of hope. Bitter, reluctant hope. She gritted her teeth.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if this ends with my corpse swinging from the convent gates, I shall haunt you ‘til Judgment Day.”

He did not smile. He simply stepped aside.

She slipped into her room and shut the door behind her with a click that sounded far too final.

The room was pitch-black, save for the lingering scent of candle smoke. Her fingers found the matchbox by instinct, lighting a wax stub that cast a flickering glow over bare walls. 

There it was—the suitcase. Just where he said it would be, like a strange animal waiting to be fed. She moved quickly, packing with practiced efficiency: two chemises, her winter shawl, a threadbare cloak. Then her hand paused on a small velvet pouch behind the clothes.

The rosary.

Worn wooden beads, a secret gift from her mother—back when shadows still smiled.

She hadn’t prayed with it in years. Not since the sisters had taught her that even her breath was sin. But still, she laid the rosary atop the clothes with quiet reverence, then closed the suitcase and locked it with trembling hands.

Opening the door, she emerged to find Dimitrie pacing like a nervous wraith, lantern swaying.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

He turned to her, studied her suitcase, then gave a curt nod. “Good. Keep close. And step lightly—we are not yet free.”

They moved through the convent like ghosts. The lantern’s weak glow twisted crucifixes into shadows, saints into skeletons. Passing the chapel, Bela glanced at the Virgin’s statue—serene by design, but in the dim light, it looked more like a death mask. At the cloistered garden, night air rushed in. Dimitrie opened the creaking gate, and they slipped into the cold. The convent loomed behind them, stone and silent. Ahead, the hill dropped into wild trees and brush.

The night breathed with wind, birdsong, and earth’s quiet sighs. Their footsteps were the only answer. Bela followed Dimitrie's lead, legs trembling, lungs burning, hunger twisting her gut. She tasted copper. Her body begged to stop.

But more than that, her mind screamed for answers.

Why?

Why now? 

Why him ?

They reached the edge of the forest, where the trees crowded together like a congregation of withered priests, and there—she stopped.

“I can go no further,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve eaten naught but a crust of bread, and walked half a mile with death still clinging to my back. If you mean to save me, Father, let me rest a moment.”

Dimitrie halted, breathing heavily. He turned, eyes flicking to the dark path behind them.

“We must not linger,” he said. “If anyone sees us heading this way—”

“Oh, let them see!” she snapped. “They’ve seen worse than a girl fleeing with a suitcase. They’ve seen me bleed in silence, scream through gagged cloth, burn red with curses I never chose. If they chase me now, then let them come!”

He stared at her, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose. After a moment, he nodded. Silent, reluctant. Hands to his hips, he stood and watched as she leaned against a gnarled tree trunk, chest heaving. 

“Tell me now, Father. What is this really? Why am I being dragged through thorns and shadows by the very man who once sentenced me to silence? And where in God’s holy name are we bound?”

Dimitrie exhaled, long and hollow. The lantern in his hand dipped slightly, casting light across the deep lines of his face.

“This,” he said quietly, “is all because of you . Because of what lives within you.”

“What do you mean?”

He stepped closer, his voice just above a whisper. “Sister Veritas and the others—they have made a decision. One they believe holy and just. They plan to take you from the iron room at dawn. Send you to the mines once more. But not to toil.”

Bela went still.

“They have arranged for your death, Bela,” he said. “A man awaits you there. One with no name, no mercy. He will strike you down, and the Sisters will say you slipped. That a beam fell. That your body was weak. That you died… only by accident.”

The blood drained from her face, yet she did not fall apart. No, Bela simply narrowed her eyes.

“And you knew of this?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“And now you’ve grown a conscience?”

“No.” Dimitrie’s voice cracked. “I have grown afraid . You possess something no mortal girl should. And the Sisters know it. You are a danger, Bela. But not to them.”

She raised her head. “Then to whom?”

He looked to the stars, then back to her.

“To whatever darkness sleeps beneath this hill.”

Bela couldn’t reply.

It made no sense. 

She was born from that darkness. Not a threat to it. 

She could still feel it inside her—whatever it was. The red pulse of light that she did not ask for and could not control. She knew one day darkness would consume her, swallow her whole along with this power, and drag her back into the pit she belonged to. 

Not as punishment. 

No. 

But as acceptance . 

Finally, Dimitrie spoke, “Can we go now? It’s getting darker.”

They walked for what felt like hours. The forest deepened, branches growing thicker, underbrush clawing at their legs. Bela’s breath grew heavier, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her suitcase and the unspoken questions trailing her like smoke. 

“We are close now,” Dimitrie said over his shoulder. “There is a cottage just ahead. We shall rest there till tomorrow’s eve. Once the sun dies, we move for the next town. I have arranged transport.”

She paused, glancing up the hill they had descended, toward the distant silhouette of the church—its tower just barely visible, like a finger pointing up at a God that never listened. The path narrowed, overgrown and half-forgotten, but eventually, through a break in the trees, Bela saw it.

The cottage.

It sat like an old wartime secret, buried in ivy and half-swallowed by the woods. Made of grey stone and wood beams so weather-worn they looked almost soft, it couldn’t have been larger than a stable. One crooked chimney. A single shuttered window. No sign of life, save for the crows watching from the treetops.

When they reached the door, Dimitrie pushed it open with a grunt and stepped inside first. Bela followed and stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting slowly.

It was humble, no more than one room. A single bed—small, clearly built for one—sat pressed into the far corner. A cramped kitchen flanked the wall opposite. There was no washroom. No hearth. Just a wooden trapdoor in the center of the floor, with a rusted iron ring nailed to it like a forgotten warning.

“You may rest here,” he said. “We shall stay till nightfall. Then we move on.”

Bela turned to him, brow raised. “Move on to where?”

He hesitated for only a moment.

“The city. South of the river,” he replied. “I have sent word to the Order of the Morning Star.”

At this, Bela froze.

Her mouth parted, breath catching in her throat. “The Morning Star?” she repeated, voice thinner now.

He glanced at her only briefly. “Yes.”

She didn’t say anything at first. But inside her, something shifted.

The Order of the Morning Star.

It was where her father had served, long ago—her real father, the man whose name she’d never been allowed to speak within convent walls. Why would Dimitrie reach out to them now? Why them, of all people? Her mind began to spin with questions, but before she could speak, he turned toward the kitchen and rolled up his sleeves.

“You must be famished,” he said. “There is flour in the tin, and a bit of dried broth. I’ll make us something warm.”

She watched as he moved about the kitchen, muttering to himself as he measured water into a pot. His movements were efficient but tired, like a man who had lived too long and slept too little. Bela sat down on the edge of the bed, the thin mattress creaking beneath her. 

“Father,” she said softly.

He did not turn. “Yes?”

“Why are you doing this?”

He stilled. His hand paused above the pot.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked again. “You’ve watched them hurt me. Watched me scream through holy hymns and sob into stone floors. You never lifted a hand.”

“I—”

“And now you save me?” she pressed, voice rising. “Now you run with me? I don’t understand. Why not let me die, for the Church’s sake? For the village’s? They’ve feared me for as long as I’ve lived. You feared me too.”

“I did,” he said, quietly. He turned then, just slightly, enough for her to see the weight in his eyes. “I did fear you."

Bela said nothing, just stared.

“I don’t know what you are,” he continued. “No one does. But I’ve seen what happens to things we do not understand. We cage them. We burn them. We blame them for the sky’s fury and the river’s drought. And in time, we forget they were ever human.”

He placed the pot onto the small iron stove and lit the kindling.

“You are not the omen they speak of, Bela. Nor are you a curse. But if I let them have you... if I let you die without reason...” He stopped. “Then I become the very monster I claimed to be fighting.”

“And the Morning Star?” she asked. “What of them?”

His voice was quieter now.

“They knew your father. Perhaps they can help you understand what’s happening to you. Or at least... give you a choice.”

A long silence followed. Only the bubbling of the pot broke it. 

Bela sat curled on the bed, silently watching Father Dimitrie move through the kitchen with the quiet rhythm of a man long accustomed to solitude.  His calloused hands stirred the pot with deliberate care, crushing wild herbs and adding them like it was a sacred rite.  She hadn’t moved in minutes, still unsure what to make of this quiet man who moved like a ritual and carried weariness like a second skin.

She didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet.

How could she?

The years had not been kind. And trust, in Văduva’s Hollow, was a currency long spent and never replenished.

“Here,” Dimitrie said at last, setting two chipped bowls onto the small wooden table. “It’s humble, but warm.”

She slid from the bed slowly and approached, taking the bowl from the table’s edge and sitting back down. He took the lone chair opposite her. They dined with the space between them thick with all the words neither dared say aloud. It was meant to be a silent supper. 

Dimitrie chewed slowly, head down. Then, perhaps because the silence grew too heavy, he spoke.

“Ilie is dead.”

Bela paused, her piece of bread halfway to her mouth. 

“What?”

“He died yesterday,” Dimitrie said, eyes not lifting from his spoon. “Walked into the town circle, bleeding from the mouth. Collapsed before the fountain.”

“How?” she asked, brow furrowed. “Was he sick?”

“Some say it was a sickness of the lungs. He worked the coals too long. Too much smoke. Burned his breath to ash,” Dimitrie said. “But others…”

He trailed off.

She leaned forward slightly. “What do others say?”

“That it was an omen,” he said. “That it was no sickness at all. That something old has begun to stir again.”

Bela’s blood ran cold, but she said nothing.

Dimitrie continued: “That same night, the well dried. Every drop is gone. And when the villagers drew again, the bucket came full of something else.”

He paused.

“A crimson liquid. Not blood, but something close enough to fool the eye. Smooth. Shining. Still warm, they said.”

Bela sat in stunned silence, the spoon frozen in her hand.

“That can’t be,” she said softly. “That… that only happens when a prophet dies.”

He nodded slowly. “Indeed.”

Her voice fell into a hush. “The last time it happened was—”

“When the prophet before Ilie passed,” he said. “And before him, the same. Every prophet, without fail. As if the ground itself weeps to lose its voice.”

“But then—” She narrowed her eyes. “If it’s happened before, why do they call it an omen?”

“Because of what came before that,” he said. “Three months past, the blood moon rose again.”

She said nothing. Not yet.

“Along with it, war stirs in the north. Entire towns are turning to dust. Kingdoms collapsing under weight they cannot name. And through it all… the prophecy lingers. Like a rot beneath the skin.”

Dimitrie returned to his bowl, but did not eat.

“I’ve heard the prophecy my whole life,” she said slowly, as if trying to untangle each word before it left her tongue. “But I’ve never truly understood it. Why does it still hold such power over them? Over us ? It’s been so long since it has been uttered by the first person who has heard of it.”

Dimitrie looked up from his bowl at last, and the firelight caught his eyes in a way that made Bela still. They weren’t just weary—they were ancient , the kind of eyes that had seen too much and buried even more.

“Because it was never merely a prophecy, Bela,” he said, his voice a low murmur, like a hymn long forgotten. “It’s a warning. A memory with teeth. It clings to the soul of this place, clawing its way into every generation like a sickness we’ve never truly cured.”

Bela leaned forward. "Then what is it?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Where did it all begin?”

Dimitrie set his spoon down with a quiet clink, folding his hands in his lap as if bracing himself.

“Centuries ago,” he began, “when this land was nothing but wild hills and broken people, there came a time of terror. A darkness that spread like rot through the soil. No army could stop it, no blade could touch it. It devoured kingdoms. And so our ancestors fled—not just to survive, but to preserve something. A spark of hope. A shard of faith.”

“They turned to something greater,” he continued, his voice slow, deliberate, like a man reciting sacred text from memory. “A celestial being. One that heard their cries and answered. But divine aid always comes with a price. They offered their faith. Their worship. Their obedience —in exchange for protection.”

“A divine pact?” Bela echoed, her eyes wide.

He nodded once. “It shaped everything. Their laws, their rituals, even the hatred they nurtured—for anything they deemed unholy, unnatural. But faith alone wasn’t enough.”

“Why not?” she asked, the firelight flickering against her anxious face.

“Because war came anyway,” Dimitrie said, his voice darkening. “Led by a creature not born of flesh or bone. A thing older than nightmares. It bent the sky to its will, summoned plague from the rivers, and turned men mad with a glance.”

Bela shivered, goosebumps rising along her arms. “What happened then?”

“The order, desperate and dying, discovered what the entity prized most,” he said. “Something it held dearer than its conquests. So, in secret, they stole it. Its greatest treasure. They didn’t fight it with swords or fire—they fought it with loss. ”

“And that’s how they won?” she asked, breath catching.

He gave a slow, tired nod. “They won. But not without ruin. The order was shattered. Few survived. And they buried the truth deep—under stone, under time. From their ashes, our village rose: Văduva’s Hollow.”

She blinked, stunned. “So… we’re living atop their ruins?”

“Yes,” Dimitrie replied softly. “And with the foundation came the curse. The entity wasn’t destroyed—only wounded. And it made a vow. That one day, it would return. To reclaim what was taken. To make the descendants of thieves suffer."

Bela’s voice turned hoarse. “And the prophets?”

“They come with each generation,” he said. “Dreamers. Madmen. Children. Each bearing the same message—sometimes whispered in sleep, sometimes carved in blood. He will return. And when he does… not only will our bodies die, but our souls will be forfeit. Taken. Twisted into something else. Bound forever to his will.”

The words hung between them like smoke. A chill crept into Bela’s bones, more frigid than any wind.

“Death,” Dimitrie said, his gaze fixed on the fire, “is no longer the end. It is only the beginning of servitude. His army is not made of beasts, but of the faithful. Men and women who once prayed, now turned into monsters, eternally loyal to his wrath.”

“And yet…” Bela murmured, almost to herself, “they stay. The villagers. The sisters. Even you.”

“Yes,” Dimitrie said, his voice scarcely more than breath. “Because our faith commands it. We stole from him. And so we must guard what was taken. Pay the penance. Wait for the day he comes to collect.”

Bela’s next words trembled like a brittle leaf in the wind.

“And if we leave?”

He looked at her, eyes unwavering.

“Then our souls are already his.”

She couldn’t speak. Dimitrie turned back to his bowl and took a slow sip, though the broth had surely gone cold. She still didn’t know what to make of the prophecy—or if she even wanted to. 

Part of her clung stubbornly to the thought that if she did not witness its truth with her own eyes, then it held no power over her. After all, wasn’t she already living in a kind of hell? What more could fate throw at her?

And yet—just maybe—tomorrow could be different. 

If Dimitrie truly had come to help her, then perhaps there was a way out. If the prophecy could be real, then so too could hope. Hope was fragile, like a whisper in the wind, but it was all she had to clutch onto now, aside from the fierce, unyielding rage simmering deep within her. 

That, at least, was certain.

—

A day later

Bela stirred.

Her eyes opened slowly, as though waking from a century’s slumber, and for a brief moment, she forgot where she was. The ceiling above was not stone but wooden beams—cracked, weathered, and bowed with age. She blinked, then sat up with a start. She had slept still in her clothes, her boots half unlaced and her hair a tousled halo of black curls.

Then it hit her—Dimitrie.

Her eyes darted to the other side of the room. The chair by the table was empty. It stood crooked, as though someone had left it in haste. Her heart gave a quick, unpleasant twist. The room was exactly as it had been last night—except now, it was utterly silent.

“Father Dimitrie?” she called, voice cracking from sleep. No answer.

She took cautious steps toward the trapdoor, her hand hovering above the iron latch. It didn’t look disturbed. No fresh scuffs, no handprints in the dust. He hadn’t gone down there—wherever there led. That left only one possibility.

Bela hurried outside, the cold air of the forest morning biting at her skin like needles. Her breath fanned out in silvery clouds as she scanned her surroundings and walked around its perimeter.

“Dimitrie?” she called again, more insistently.

Behind the trees—nothing.

Behind the cottage—empty.

At the side, by the water barrels and the half-chopped pile of firewood—no sign of him.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, rubbing her arms for warmth. The unease that had begun as a whisper now murmured louder. Where had he gone? Maybe he went outside to gather food.

But even thinking that made her chest ache in a way she hated. The word betrayal flashed across her mind like a blade catching sunlight. Dimitrie had seemed sincere—gods, he looked sincere. She had wanted to believe it, if only for a night.

Her boots crunched on the frost-touched earth as she turned back to the cottage. She was nearly at the door when she heard it.

The distant clatter of hooves.

She froze.

It grew louder, closer. Not one horse—several.

Bela turned sharply toward the forest’s bend. Emerging from the white mist were five men on horseback, dressed not like the common folk of the Hollow, but in dark travel cloaks and finer leather coats. Their steeds bore saddle cloths embroidered in crimson and black, and their expressions were sharp-eyed and weary.

One of them spotted her immediately.

“You there!” he called. “You live in this cottage?”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “I do. Is there... is there something amiss?”

The man slowed his horse, and the rest followed, reining in behind him. “We’ve been riding these cursed woods since dawn. Seeking a village—Văduva’s Hollow. Would you happen to know the way?”

Bela forced a polite smile. “Yes... yes, of course. You follow the bend south, then take the path west past the old ash tree. It'll lead you straight into the Hollow’s gate.”

“Ah,” the man said, glancing back at his companions. “You hear that? At last, a soul with a map inside her head.”

They chuckled faintly among themselves. Bela dipped her head and turned, her hand already reaching for the door latch.

Then—

The sound of boots hitting dirt.

She turned her head slowly.

Two of the riders had dismounted. One of them looked at her—not rudely, but with a curiosity that scraped against her nerves like flint to stone.

“Forgive us,” he said, “but we’ve been on horseback for hours. My friend’s saddle is sore and half dead from hunger. Might we trouble you for water—or bread before we leave?”

“I-I’m sorry,” she replied, swallowing. “I have little to share. The larder is bare. I was just about to set out and find some roots and berries... for breakfast.”

The first rider narrowed his eyes slightly, as if noting every twitch of her lip. “Is that so?”

Bela nodded. Her fingers tightened on the latch.

And inside her chest, something began to stir. Not rage. Not fear.

A whisper, far off, like the wind through a crypt.

Run.

Bela could taste it in her mouth—cold, damp, and strangely metallic. She gave a tight smile, hand still nervously resting on the latch of the cottage door. “Well then,” she said softly, “safe travels, sirs. The Hollow is just a short ride from here. You shouldn’t have trouble finding it now.”

She turned slightly, trying to ease her way back into the cottage with the kind of grace that said this conversation is done , but one of the riders—tall, square-shouldered, and with a shag of dark, wind-blown hair—stepped forward and spoke again.

“Oh wait, I almost forgot,” he said, his voice smooth but too firm for comfort. “It has been a long journey, and my legs nearly forgot how to stand. If I might... trouble you with a few questions?”

She paused. Her hand tightened around the handle.

“Questions?”

“Yes. About the Hollow,” he said. “We’ve come seeking someone.”

Bela tried to keep her voice steady. “Is that so? I daresay you’ll be disappointed, sir. I’ve not lived in the Hollow. Barely know a soul from there.”

The man tilted his head, unconvinced. Behind him, the others watched her closely. One of them, younger, perhaps sharper, narrowed his eyes.

“Is that right?” he said slowly. “The village’s but a stone’s throw from here... and you’ve never visited?”

Bela gave a sheepish shrug. “I’ve no reason to. My uncle is unwell. I keep to the woods. Live off herbs and meat from snares.”

The younger rider scoffed. “And what of medicines? Salt? Cloth? You never trade?”

“I manage,” she replied quickly. “The forest has been kind.”

She was lying, of course, and poorly. She knew it. And so did they.

The tall one stepped closer. “What’s your name?”

She swallowed. “Clara.”

“Clara.” He repeated it as though tasting it, like it didn’t sit right on his tongue. “Tell me, Clara. Would you happen to know of someone named Bela?”

Her breath caught. Her hand slipped from the door.

The name rang through the air like a church bell cracked in half.

She didn’t answer.

“I ask,” the man continued with a mocking lilt, “because we’ve heard of her. An acquaintance of ours. Someone we were sent to... collect. A friend of hers awaits in the city. Very eager to see her again.”

Bela didn’t move.

Her eyes darted from the tall man to the others. One of them had his hand on the hilt of his sword now. A little too casual. A little too ready.

And just like that, the tension snapped.

Shit.

She turned and ran.

Not back into the cottage. Into the woods.

Her boots slammed against the earth, slick with dew, the edges of her dress catching on low branches and thorns. She didn’t care. She ran like a woman possessed. Like death was breathing down her neck with a hot, eager breath.

He planned this, her mind snarled. That bastard. Dimitrie. He set me up. He knew. He said he would help, said he would get us out. Liar. Snake. Priest, my ass.

“RUN FASTER!” one of the men behind her shouted, followed by cruel laughter.

Bela didn’t look back. She couldn’t afford to. The forest blurred past her—the trees like gallows, the fog like a veil trying to pull her down. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. Her dress, soaked at the hem, tangled with every damned root in sight.

She wanted to die.

Of course she did.

But not like this. Not in the hands of men with strange faces and stranger intentions. She had heard what happened to women found alone in these woods. The stories didn’t need to be told twice.

Finally, a shout erupted behind her.

“Catch her! Before she disappears!”

She turned her head slightly—just to glimpse how far.

Mistake.

She didn’t see the branch.

Her foot caught.

She went sprawling, hands scraping over damp soil, cheek pressed to the forest floor. The taste of dirt filled her mouth.

“Get up—get up—get up,” she muttered frantically to herself.

She did.

She stumbled. Kept running.

Then—

Bang!

A flash of fire exploded near a tree to her right. Bark shattered. Splinters rained down like needles.

She froze.

Another shot rang—closer, louder. A tree just feet away splintered into flame and smoke.

She halted, chest heaving.

Boots thudded behind her.

The riders were coming.

And this time... they were very, very close.

The wind had stilled. Even the birds had gone quiet. Bela staggered back a step, legs trembling beneath her. Her breath clouded in front of her face in erratic puffs. She knew they were closing in behind her—the rhythmic crunch of boots over earth, careless, sure. The one with the musket raised it lazily.

“Move again,” he drawled, “and I’ll not miss this time. You’ll fall with a hole between your eyes, girl.”

The men emerged from the tree line like wolves drawn by the scent of wounded prey—slow, deliberate, predatory. Their steps were not hurried, but confident, steeped in the arrogance of men who believed themselves already victorious. Their horses, left a few paces behind, stood tethered to low branches, reins swaying like nooses in the still air.

Bela stood frozen at first, heart clawing at her chest. Every instinct screamed to run. But the woods that had once sheltered her now felt narrow and suffocating, as if the trees themselves had leaned in to watch her fall.

She dropped to her knees with a thud muffled by wet leaves. Her hands trembled as she reached out, palms up in a plea that scraped the last of her dignity raw.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice cracked and hoarse with fear. “I’ve done nothing wrong—I swear to you, you’re chasing shadows, ghosts! Dimitrie—he lied. He’s lied to all of you!”

One of the men snorted, a humorless chuckle dragging from his throat. “They all say that, love. Every last one.”

“No—no, I’m telling the truth!” she cried, desperation rising like bile. “You don’t understand. I haven’t hurt anyone!" 

The tallest of them stepped forward, his belt sagging under the weight of a flintlock pistol and a well-used saber. He crouched beside her, his hand clamping around her wrist with bruising strength.

“Quiet now,” he said, with a rough finality that left no room for mercy.

“No—please, just listen —there’s no point in taking me, you’re making a mistake—”

“God’s teeth, will someone shut her up?” another barked, circling behind her like a vulture. “She’s louder than a cursed church bell at dawn.”

Two of them lunged, hands outstretched.

“Don’t touch me!” Bela shrieked, her voice shrill with terror as she kicked out, her foot landing squarely against a shin. One of the men let out a sharp cry and stumbled back.

“You filthy little beast! ”

Rough hands grabbed at her shoulders, her legs. She thrashed like a wild animal, spine arched, fingers clawing at sleeves and skin, her teeth sinking deep into the wrist of the man trying to pin her down.

“Argh! She bit me! The little witch bit me! ”

A fist flew. The impact cracked against her cheek with a sound that split the forest in two. The world tilted. Bela collapsed, her limbs limp and dazed. Her vision swam in streaks of black and crimson. The copper taste of blood spread across her tongue.

“That’s more like it,” the man growled. “Behave yourself, girl. You’ve got a pretty face—it’d be a shame to ruin it completely.”

She lay still, eyes unfocused, her chest heaving. A tear slid from the corner of one eye, tracing a line through the grime and blood smeared across her cheek.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t… don’t touch me…”

“Shut your mouth,” came the reply, thick with contempt.

Rough fingers yanked her wrists together, and she winced as coarse cord dug into her skin, biting like teeth. Her ankles were seized next, forced together with unyielding strength.

“Keep still, damn you,” one of them hissed.

She tried to scream—anything, something —but a wad of folded cloth was shoved between her teeth. She gagged against it, twisting her head, but it held.

“Always the loud ones,” another said with a leer. “Still… with a mouth like that? She’ll fetch a good coin. Bit of meat on her bones and a few weeks of training—could break her in nice for the brothels in Brașov.”

Bela’s eyes flared wide, burning with loathing. Every muscle trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, panicked rhythm, breath caught in a storm of fear, shame, and fury.

She saw their faces. All of them. Dirty, calloused, human and yet monstrously inhuman—these men who saw her as chattel, who laughed and bartered with their eyes. She thought of the convent—how the sisters had prayed over her with knives of scripture and salt. She thought of Dimitrie, of his soft-spoken lies, of the tight-lipped villagers who turned away when she passed.

A lifetime of silence. Of sacrifice. Of being nothing.

The scream behind the cloth in her mouth burned up from her chest, furious and raw. Her wrists jerked violently against the bonds. Her heart pounded like war drums.

And then—something gave.

A snap.

A warmth ignited beneath her ribs—no, not warmth. Fire. A deep, seething crimson heat, like blood given breath.

One of the men paused, peering down at her. “Wait… what the hell is that?”

Faint tendrils of light began to pulse beneath her skin—red and furious, threading like veins of molten glass.

“Look at her arms,” another breathed. “They’re glowing. ”

The shimmer spread—collarbone, shoulders, fingertips. The cords that bound her wrists began to smoke.

Bela blinked slowly, dazed, eyes unfocused—but within her, the storm had found a name.

“You will not touch me,” she said, voice thick behind the cloth.

The red light flared.

“You will not touch me!”

“She’s—she’s possessed!” someone gasped.

“Get back! Gods, get back! ”

“Demon witch—!”

No.

Not this time.

Another man chuckled nervously, stepping forward. “Don’t be fools. She’s valuable. Powers like that? She’ll make us rich. We just need to—”

Snap.

The sound was final.

And then the world exploded.

Red light erupted from her body, a shockwave of energy that struck with the fury of a storm unchained. Thunder cracked. One of the men flew backward, slammed into a tree with a bone-breaking thud. The bark split where his body hit.

The others screamed, stumbling, covering their eyes—but too late.

The ground trembled. Bolts of red energy spiraled outwards, tearing through branches, igniting leaves. Hex-light coiled around her, violent and alive. Another man was lifted clean off his feet and hurled into the darkness.

Bela rose. Slowly. Terribly.

Her dress clung to her like a second skin, torn and filthy. Her hair floated around her face in wild strands, glowing red at the tips like embers in a forge. The cords fell from her wrists, burned to ash. 

The clearing was still. Only the sound of the birds returned, cautious and fluttering above the treetops. The riders lay sprawled across the forest floor, their bodies twisted in awkward shapes, stunned into silence by the psionic blast that had torn through them like the wrath of some forgotten god. One had struck a tree trunk with such force that bark split clean off. Another was groaning, trying feebly to crawl, eyes dazed and bleeding.

Bela stood at the heart of it all.

The red glow had not dimmed. It pulsed around her wrists and danced down her arms—alive, unruly, almost eager.

She stared at her hands.

Free.

She was free. 

She didn’t wait. Her bare feet sprang into motion, skimming across the leaves and underbrush as she bolted into the woods, the red mist trailing faintly in her wake.

Branches scratched at her arms. She ducked under tangled roots, jumped over a fallen log, and slipped through thickets with the grace of a hunted deer. There was no time to cry. No time to collapse. If those bastards had any friends lurking nearby, she'd not live long enough to see another morning.

Just keep moving.

She ran.

And ran.

Until the air grew thicker and the forest turned darker. Shafts of sunlight cut through the mist like blades, and somewhere in the distance, a stream babbled.

She almost felt safe.

Until the leaves rustled behind her.

She turned, frozen, eyes wide. And from the tree line stepped—

“Calm thyself, Bela."

Father Dimitrie.

He emerged as if summoned by nightmare. His priest’s robe hung like an old shadow off his frame, dark with the damp of the woods. His hair was slick with sweat, his expression unreadable.

“Stay back,” Bela warned, already scrambling up from the stone, fingers twitching, bracing for another surge of power.

He raised his hands, palms open.

“I mean no harm, child.”

“You are harm,” she spat. “And don’t call me child. Don’t speak to me like I haven’t seen what you’ve done.”

Dimitrie sighed, as if she were the disappointment here.

“You cannot keep running, Bela. There is nowhere to go.”

“There’s anywhere but you,” she snapped. “You gave me to those men. You let them touch me, tie me—sell me! And now you come back? For what? To drag me back into the pit?”

His face hardened, but his voice remained maddeningly calm.

“It is better than where you’re headed. If not to them, then to the coal pits, or the noose. You are cursed, Bela. Everyone sees it.”

She shook her head. “You said you would protect me.”

“And I tried,” he said sharply. “But there is no redemption for a girl like you now. You speak to shadows in your sleep. You struck the nuns and those peddlers without flame!”

“Lies! ” she shrieked.

“No— truth ,” he said firmly. “I lied for you as long as I could. I kept the sisters quiet. I tried to calm the town. But the Devil’s mark grows bolder on you by the day. Look at yourself!”

Bela’s voice faltered.

“I didn’t ask for this…”

“No,” Dimitrie agreed coldly. “But it is in you. And no man will ever want you now—except for one thing. And even then, they’ll pay to break you. That’s what you’re worth now, girl.”

His words hit like a stone through glass.

A moving body. No soul.

Just something to be sold, beaten, thrown into a dark room for coins.

Is that all I am now?

“No,” she whispered. “No—I am not that.”

“You’ve little choice.” His voice softened again, oily, gentle. “Come with me. We’ll return quietly. No more beatings. No more chase. Just peace. I’ll see that they treat you gently.”

She looked up at him.

And for a second, he thought she might yield.

But her eyes flared with hatred instead.

“Peace? Peace? You vile, rotting shell of a man—you think peace is a cage?”

Dimitrie’s calm cracked. He lunged.

She screamed and threw her arms up, but he caught her by the waist and slammed her to the ground. She thrashed, kicked, spat in his face, but he pinned her down like a wolf with a rabbit.

“You little curse ! You should’ve died at birth!”

“I’ll die,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “after you.”

She drove her knee up into his ribs. He grunted, staggered—but didn’t let go. His weight bore down on her. She clawed at his face. Ripped the chain from his neck. Her legs flailed, her back arched.

“Stay down! ” he roared, hand slapping her cheek.

And then—

The red returned.

Not as a glow this time.

But as consumption.

Her eyes burned crimson. Her skin shimmered. A hum built in the air, not loud but deep—ancient.

Dimitrie froze.

“W-what are you—?”

And then the light took him.

From his chest, from his soul—red tendrils unfurled like vines of energy, latching onto him, draining him. His screams were raw and strangled. His eyes rolled back.

His body withered like fruit left in the sun.

And Bela—terrified, horrified— absorbed it.

Unwillingly. Involuntarily. But wholly.

The energy poured into her, and she could feel his thoughts, his final curses, his cowardice— his hate —before it snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

When it ended, he crumpled beside her like a broken doll.

And Bela was left gasping. Alive. Trembling.

Alone.

But she would never be the same again.

Bela stumbled back, legs giving out beneath her as her body struck the damp forest floor. Her breath was caught between gasps and silence, her heart pounding in a strange rhythm— like it wasn’t hers anymore. 

Before her, Father Dimitrie still stood.

But only for a second.

His arms dangled lifelessly at his sides. His jaw slackened. Then, without warning, his body tilted backward and collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. He hit the ground hard. His eyes—still open—stared up at the swaying trees, as though they alone held the answer to his sudden death.

Bela’s mouth quivered. Her fingers dug into the earth.

“What... what did I just—?”

She glanced down at her hands. No more red light. No more humming. Just her pale, trembling fingers stained with moss and soil. But the power— the energy —remained. She could feel it. Surging through her veins like wildfire wrapped in chains. It clawed inside her, hot and pulsing.

She felt full. Too full.

But not of warmth. Not of light.

She was filled with rage .

Unspoken. Boundless. Ancient.

It wasn’t even hers—but now it lived within her like a parasite and a prison all at once.

She crawled forward, dirt under her nails as she dragged herself to Dimitrie’s body. Her voice cracked.

“Father...?”

No answer.

“Dimitrie...”

She hovered over him, reaching with one shaky hand to nudge his chest. Nothing. No rise. No breath.

She touched his cheek—it was cold.

But his eyes. Staring. Unblinking. Like he had died mid-thought.

“Shit… shit— shit! ”

She recoiled, sitting back in horror.

She had killed someone. She—Bela, the forgotten orphan girl, the cursed thing in the village— killed him. Drained him like a goblet of wine.

He was gone.

Gone because of her .

And she hadn’t even meant to.

She held her head in her hands. Tears ran down her face, carving paths through the dirt on her cheeks. She wanted to scream. But the forest was too quiet, too watching.

She had to run.

She clawed her way to her feet, trembling and slick with sweat, the sharp throb of her earlier wound flaring with each breath. Her left leg screamed in protest, but she forced it to bear her weight—barely. She had to move. Had to get away from the corpse. From him.

They’d find him soon enough. And then they’d come for her.

They’d burn her. Like the witches in the old stories whispered beneath blankets and behind locked doors.

But she didn’t make it far.

CRACK!

A shot rang out, splitting the hush of the forest—and agony lanced through her thigh like lightning set ablaze. Bela screamed, twisting mid-step as her body pitched forward and hit the mud with a wet, sickening slap.

Pain. White-hot. All-consuming.

She clutched her thigh, just above the knee, where blood was already gushing in pulsing rhythm through torn flesh. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and the scream tore from her throat like a creature clawing its way free.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Boots grinding into the damp earth.

“Stay right there, you damn thing!” a voice barked.

Hoarse. Vicious. Full of rage.

She rolled onto her back, panting through clenched teeth, and saw him—one of the riders from earlier. Limping. His musket still raised, hands shaking with fury. Half his face was a ruin of bruises and dried blood, but his eyes gleamed—hungry, wild.

“You thought you could kill us and slither off into the trees?” he growled. “Filthy little serpent.”

Branches rustled behind him, and two more figures appeared—ghostlike in the gloom. Survivors. The aftermath of her earlier burst of psionic fire. One looked wary, a flicker of fear in his eyes. The other stepped forward with a dagger already drawn.

“She’s bleeding,” the cautious one observed.

“She should be,” the brute muttered.

Then their gazes drifted past her—toward the motionless figure sprawled near the edge of the path.

The brute’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open.

“…That’s Dimitrie.”

The rider limped forward, dropping to his knees beside the corpse. He didn’t bother checking for breath or heartbeat. The silence was enough.

“Dead,” he said bitterly. “That bastard’s dead.”

Then—silence.

And then they turned on her.

“You murdered a priest!” the rider hissed. “A man of God! She’s no girl—she’s a monster!”

Bela’s limbs flailed in the mud. Her wounded leg dragged uselessly behind her as she tried to crawl—anywhere, just away .

“No—please—he tried to hurt me—I didn’t mean to—!”

The brute moved with terrifying ease, yanking her upright by the collar of her dress as if she weighed nothing at all. Her scream was short, muffled by his fist in her hair.

“Silence, witch.”

“No—don’t take me back—please, don’t let them— !”

She sobbed, wild and broken. Her hands clawed at the ground, at their arms, at air. Her fingernails split and bent backward in the mud.

“Let me go—I’m not evil—I’m not—!”

“You killed a man of the cloth,” the rider said coldly, standing tall. “You’ll be judged in the square. Let the villagers see what her kind truly is.”

“No—No—!”

Her voice cracked. Then it broke entirely. Her last scream faded into a whimper.

No one came.

No savior emerged from the trees. Only the rustle of leaves, whispering overhead. The corpse of Father Dimitrie lay still beneath their canopy, his eyes wide open, locked forever on the sky.

Then they dragged her up, half-hauling her through the forest, her blood leaving a crimson trail behind them.

Toward the village.

Toward judgment.

Toward fire.

—

A day later

Count Orlok had returned to his throne.

Fifty years had passed since he last haunted the Crimson Court. In his absence, his name had become myth—a curse whispered behind locked doors. Now, with his presence draping the palace like frost, the council resumed their duties beneath a veil of dread.

Each gave their report: tales of betrayal, veiled threats, and unrest within the Order. Dreven spoke of bribes among merchants. Vargan warned of a priest preaching “purity of blood” with too much zeal.

Orlok listened—silent, still. He never raised his voice. He didn’t have to.

His commands were like blades: precise, quiet, final. Every word carried expectation—and consequence.

At the hour’s end, he rose. The air itself seemed to flinch.

“I grow weary of these words,” he said at last, each syllable sliding from his lips like oil down marble. “Tend to your tasks, and may your whispers be sharp.”

The councilmen rose in unison. “As you wish, my lord.”

Without another glance, Count Orlok turned, the train of his midnight cloak sweeping behind him like shadow incarnate. The heavy doors opened before he touched them.

Outside the chamber, a thin figure awaited him with the precision of a clock striking midnight. Caldrevan, the butler, was ghostly in his own right

“My lord,” he said with a deferential bow. “Dinner is served... in your chambers.”

Together, they moved through the winding corridors of the palace—walls lined with ancient portraits whose eyes followed like sentinels from another age. They reached the Count’s private chambers—two tall doors carved with the twisted forms of starving angels. Caldrevan pushed them open. The scent of fear seeped out like perfume.

Inside, the chamber was richly adorned in black and scarlet, with velvet drapes cascading like bloodied waterfalls from the ceiling. At the center of the room, upon a silk-lined dais, knelt a couple.

A young man and woman, their wrists and ankles bound in silvery cord. Their finery—white traveling garb meant for a wedding—was now dirtied with tears and dust. Their eyes, red and wide, screamed louder than any voice dared.

Count Orlok paused at the threshold, letting their terror settle into the stones. He stood there as if savoring a bouquet at a feast, the scent of their panic blooming richly in his lungs. He did not rush to them.

No. He wanted them to see him.

He approached with the grace of a stalking beast, slow and deliberate. The man whimpered, the woman gasped and shook—but the cords held firm.  Orlok tilted his head, regarding them with a cold, dissecting gaze—like one might offer a statue they weren’t sure they liked. Then, with an almost curious inhale, he closed his eyes and let the scent of their blood speak to him — young, fresh, and untouched by time or worldly corruption.

Then he turned slightly, glancing back at Caldrevan.

“You’ve a discerning eye, old friend,” he said, his voice lower now, a rasp threaded with something close to approval. “A vintage… unspoiled. Very fine.”

The butler bowed once more, his face unreadable.

“Your delight is my duty, Count. They were en route to wed,” Caldrevan replied softly. “Their carriage was most agreeable to intercept.”

Orlok turned back to the trembling pair.  And with one final breath, the feast began.

The woman’s breath trembled like a candle flame clinging to life in a storm. Her lips moved wordlessly, pleading to no god that would listen. Count Orlok stood before her, towering, his shadow a smothering thing cast long and heavy over her shaking form. 

He extended one gloved hand, slow as duskfall, and delicately brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

She flinched.

As though burned.

Her skin recoiled beneath his touch as if her soul knew better than to welcome it. Orlok’s lips curled. He leaned forward, inhaling the sweet, sharp scent of fear. When he spoke, it was soft. Almost kind.

“Hush now.”

Then his mouth opened.

There were no fangs at first—only silence and stillness. And then, suddenly, the strike.

He sank into her neck with inhuman grace, his fangs sliding through her flesh as easily as breath through mist. Her scream was strangled into a gasp. Her body arched against the bonds as though trying to flee from inside itself, but the cords held, tight and cruel.

Orlok drank.

He drank deeply.

And with the blood came the torren. He tasted it all: her dread,  her silent prayers to be spared, her memories of warm hands and wedding veils. But there were darker things, too. A fevered thought, a perversion not spoken aloud, a buried shame—ripe and sweet with guilt. She had feared dying in a palace, but she feared dying dirty even more.

He drank until her heartbeat was a whisper. Then he let her head loll to the side like a broken doll.

The man was next. 

“No,” he mouthed. “Please—”

The bite this time was harsher—less ceremony, more hunger. Orlok clutched the man’s shoulder as he fed, and the blood surged into him like a second heart beating out of time. The man’s thoughts screamed in protest, but Orlok felt them anyway. Panic and guilt. The hatred of his own helplessness. He was supposed to protect her. But all he could do was weep like a child.

And then—amidst the feast of terror and despair—something else came. A voice.

Faint. Familiar. Terrible.

“…please… please, someone… no more… make it stop… I can’t… I’m still here… alone…”

He froze.

The taste soured. The girl. The voice. Her again. Not from this feast—no, not these two. They were only flesh. This voice... it did not live here. It came from somewhere else.

It had been days. Days since she first followed him from the dream. First soft. Then louder. Now—

Now it screamed.

“…forgive me… please… someone… I don’t want to be alone anymore…”

It wasn’t addressed to him. The words were scattered, like broken glass on a chapel floor. She begged for salvation, for companionship, for mercy. And Count Orlok—Count Orlok, the dread of the Eastern Peaks, lord of the night— despised mercy.

He had sworn never to listen again.

But the voice didn’t stop.

If anything, it grew louder—pressing, pulsing through his skull like a second heartbeat. A haunting, pitiful hymn only he could hear. Count Orlok staggered back a step, shoulders stiff, breathing hard as though the air had soured.

“Enough,” he hissed, to no one.

Behind him, Caldrevan shifted slightly.

“Something troubles you, my lord?”

“No.” His voice was a coffin lid slamming shut.

He turned from the corpses, stepping over the girl’s lifeless fingers as if they were nothing more than fallen twigs. Their bodies lay crumpled together—bride and groom never wed, puppets whose strings had been cut by fangs. A wedding unmade by blood.

As Orlok passed his butler, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Burn them. I want no scent lingering.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He vanished into the gloom, long coat trailing behind him like a curtain of midnight. 

The world feared Count Orlok.

And rightly so.

But in the endless dark of his palace, through vaulted halls of deathless stone and soul-crushed silence, it was the whisper of a forgotten girl that hunted him still. A ghost not born of flesh, but of memory and dreams.

And no feast, no scream, no blood, could make her voice go silent.

—

Moments later

The ink on the final letter bled like wine against the parchment as Count Orlok pressed his signet ring into the wax seal with an absent murmur of breath. He straightened, the wooden chair creaking under the weight of centuries, and with a flick of his fingers, motioned for the attending scribe to collect the letters.

"See that these find their destinations before the cock’s first crow,” he muttered, not looking at the scribe. “Let no house claim I ignored their petty grievances.”

"Yes, my lord," came the tight-lipped reply, the scribe bowing and retreating like a shadow fleeing light.

Orlok rose without sound. His cloak moved like oil down his shoulders, and as he passed the arched windows of the chamber, his pale reflection did not appear in the warped glass.  Downward he moved. Past the gallery of stillborn portraits. Past the chapel he had long since desecrated and repurposed for silence. Deeper, still deeper, until the velvet of the night turned to iron cold. 

The crypt greeted him not like a home, but like a tomb.

With practiced indifference, Orlok unclasped his cloak and laid it across the back of a crumbling stone chair. Then, slow and deliberate, he approached the coffin and slid inside as if slipping into a lover’s embrace. The lid closed without a touch and the world above faded.

Darkness. Quiet. Not the restful kind, but the endless.

His sleep—if it could be called that—twisted inward, a descent not into rest but into the abyss behind the eyes. The crypt vanished. All things vanished. Even himself. Until only the void remained.

He stood alone within it.

A shadow, no more than a silhouette suspended in a womb of black.

This was his dreamscape. Silent. Eternal. Controlled. He could bend it if he wished—but he rarely did. He preferred the nothing. It suited him.

But tonight, something was wrong.

His heart still beats. Uneven. Hungry.

And the void... was not entirely empty.

Minutes passed. Long. Suffocating. Time was irrelevant here, but still he felt its passing like cold fingers tapping on his shoulder. He wandered deeper, each step swallowed soundlessly by the nothing beneath him.

Then—light.

A door.

Open.

He stopped.

It was a simple iron door, set in a wall that had no right to exist. It stood alone, glowing faintly from within. Its existence offended the void. This—this was not of his making.

The last time his dream had shifted without his command, he had found himself wandering a monastery’s echoing halls.

And now, it is happening again.

She called him.

Unwillingly, perhaps. But it mattered not.

His lip curled, fangs pressing against it faintly, not from hunger this time—but from dread. Not fear. He feared nothing. But this… this stirred something deeper.

Curiosity.

And beneath it… something he would never name.

He stepped through the door.

The room inside was iron. Cold. Rusting at the corners. No windows, no torches. He said nothing, only scanned the chamber.

And there she was.

Not quite whole. Her form flickered and fractured in pieces, like a mirror broken and reassembled poorly. Her body was curled upon the floor, weeping into her hands. The weeping, however, was real . That was unmistakable. It crawled along the walls and down his spine like a haunting lullaby.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one. “Please… let it end. Let me sleep. Just this once…”

Count Orlok didn’t move. He watched her. Listened.

His heart beat again.

Stronger now.

He hated the sound of it. He hated her for it.

How dare she haunt him still? 

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mouth opened, but no words would come. There was no rage. No malice. Only a single, blinding thread of pain.

It stretched from her chest to his, invisible and cruel.

She sobbed once more. A sound too human for this place. Too wretched .

The iron room held its breath. Not peaceful, not kind. It was the silence of judgment.

But suddenly, the girl stirred.

Her shoulders rose faintly. Her head turned, ever so slightly, and her eyes—those sorrowful, bleeding orbs—lifted to meet his.

A flicker of recognition passed across her cracked expression. Then came the shame. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even attempt to stand. She simply turned her face again and pressed it back into her knees, as if hiding might erase her presence entirely.

Orlok’s lips parted into a cold grin.

“Well, well,” he drawled, taking a single step forward. The sound echoed through the iron chamber like a nail dragged across a coffin lid. “Still weeping, I see. Saints above, do you ever tire of drowning in your own salt?”

The girl did not respond. But her fingers clutched tighter around her arms.

“Oh, come now. Not even a greeting? We were such intimate companions, were we not?” His tone dripped with mockery, silken and cruel. “You summoned me here, unbidden— again —and now you give me the silent treatment?”

“If you are not here to kill me,” she said at last, voice brittle as old paper, “or do anything to help me… then leave.”

Orlok arched a brow, more amused than offended.

“Ah, there it is. That saintly little edge in your voice. It almost suits you—if I squint hard enough to forget the rest of you is a mess.” He circled slowly, like a raven eyeing a dying lamb. “But how could I leave? I was invited. Is your misery so vast it reaches even into my domain?”

“Go away,” she whispered.

“Oh, hush,” he spat, waving a dismissive hand. “You’ve made it quite impossible now. You’ve been crying for days, haven’t you? What a sight. All puffy and pitiful. Tell me—did the good nuns strike you again? Or perhaps…”

He leaned down to her level, crouching so his face hovered just above hers.

“…did those little red powers of yours stir again?”

Her breath caught.

“Oh,” Orlok chuckled darkly. “There it is. That shiver. I know that look. Something did happen, didn’t it? What was it this time? A chair flew across the room? A candle burst? Or—let me guess—someone got too close. Too cruel. And bam —you melted them. Boiled the skin from their bones like fat in a hearth pot.”

“Stop it…”

“Did you kill someone, girl?” he pressed on, voice a whisper of silk and venom. “Because let us be honest—it was only a matter of time, was it not? A strange creature like you, so full of rot and secrets and shame. You were never going to last long."

She covered her ears.

“Hell has a seat carved just for you,” he said. “Engraved and waiting. But don’t you fret… it will be warm, and you’ll finally stop crying, yes? Because down there, no one will care. You’ll blend right in.”

“You’re evil,” she hissed.

He laughed, long and low. “Yes, and yet you keep inviting me back. What does that make you, sweet girl?”

She rose slowly, her broken form stitching itself together, just enough to stand—legs shaking, arms limp, but upright. Her mouth was a firm, furious line. Her eyes gleamed with defiance.

Orlok tilted his head, intrigued.

“Well, now,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

His grin widened.

“Don’t tell me I offended you.”

The girl snapped. Like a storm gathered too long behind trembling eyelids, she broke. Her body trembled, not from fear, not anymore, but from a wrath buried deep—scalding, raw, volcanic. She shook with the force of it as though her fragile form might tear itself apart.

“You don’t know anything about me!”

Her scream cracked against the iron walls, echoing in shards. Her voice, hoarse from nights upon nights of weeping, now throbbed with fury.

“Not one cursed thing!”

Orlok blinked, still half-smiling, but unmoving now. He studied her like one might regard a lightning bolt that chose to strike a mirror.

“You—you think this is amusing? To stand there, that smug face cloaked in shadow, and say things like you know me?” She stepped forward, finger jabbing the air between them, the fire in her eyes practically boiling the rust on the walls. “You're a damn shadow! That’s all you are! A voice. A figment. A... a ghost that lingers in the corners of my suffering just to lap up the taste of it like spoiled wine!”

Orlok’s grin returned, slow and slithering. “Ah... there she is. The little flame in the dark. I wondered how long it would take before you tried to bite.”

“You mock me, insult me, hurl your curses like knives—because it’s all you can do,” she spat. “You can’t even touch me. You come through dreams like a coward scratching at the door. And you think that makes you terrifying? It’s pathetic! ”

Orlok chuckled low. “Careful now. You speak boldly for someone with no armor.”

“No armor? You think I’ve lived this long because I had armor?” she hissed. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve endured. What they’ve done to me. What I’ve done to myself just to keep breathing. You think your words are knives, but I’ve had steel in my belly and prayers screamed in my ear and holy water flung at my face like poison!”

She marched forward, fists clenched. “All you can do is talk. That’s it. You can’t hurt me. You can’t touch me. And you think I should be afraid of you?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Do not tempt me, girl. If I could reach you in the waking world, you would not so much as dare lift your eyes to mine—”

“BUT YOU CAN’T! ” she screamed. “You can’t reach me. Not while I’m awake. And if you can’t touch me even while I sleep, then what makes you so damn bold? I’ve been beaten, locked in stone cells, starved, branded. You think you’re the worst thing I’ve faced? You’re not even close. You’re just a distraction. A maddening one. Like the rest of them.”

Orlok stared. 

“Come on, then,” she whispered, stretching her arms wide. “Strike me. Strangle me. Stab me. Tear me apart if you can. But it won’t matter.”

Her voice fell soft. Terrifyingly soft.

“The day after tomorrow… I’ll die anyway.”

That caught him. The grin froze on his lips. The smile turned to something colder—something still.

“I’m dying,” she said, matter-of-fact, as though it were no more significant than announcing the weather. She threw her arms wide, laughing bitterly. “The day after tomorrow. That’s all I have left. So do it now, if you must. End it. Kill me. Or stand there and savor the last time you’ll ever see me. Either way, I won’t die fearing you .”

For a long moment, there was only silence. The girl’s heaving breaths. The hum of her fury. The stillness of the Count.

Then Orlok’s voice came, colder, quieter—curiosity threading beneath his usual disdain.

“What did you say?”

She looked away.

“You said the day after tomorrow,” he pressed. “Tell me, what is to happen?" 

The iron room stood like a casket of echoes, heavy with rust and secrets. Beneath the waning light, Count Orlok and the girl faced each other at last—no more than a foot of air and silence stretched between them. The space felt charged, like a storm swelling in the bones of the world.

It was the girl who broke the hush, her voice raspy but clear, almost venomous in its clarity.

“It’s none of your business,” she said.

Her words clanged against the iron walls like nails. “I will die,” she continued, “and I’ll no longer be a threat to anyone. Not to you. Not to my village. Isn't that wonderful news?”

She smiled—but it wasn’t joy, or even bitterness. It was the smile of someone who had long since used up both.

“Văduva’s Hollow is saved from my cursed existence. Maybe miracles do happen, Sir. Maybe prayers really do get answered. I’ll be free, and that’s all that matters."

Silence again. A different kind this time.

Orlok didn’t speak. He didn’t mock. He only looked.

And as he looked—something struck him. Their hearts… yes. He could feel it. The rise and fall of her spirit as if it were his own. Her fury. Her resignation.  He studied her, this broken thing of light and shadow. Even in pieces, her eyes burned. She meant it. She was truly going to die.

“…Do you mean to kill yourself?” Orlok asked finally, softly, but there was a sharpness to the question that pierced through the stillness.

The girl stared at him. Then—

She laughed. A bark, rough and joyless. A sound twisted by madness, exhaustion, and some cruel sense of comedy only she understood.

“Why do you laugh?” Orlok asked, one brow slightly raised.

She wiped a tear from her cheek, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “Because it won’t matter.”

Her eyes flicked up to him, the flame inside them low, but steady.

“Our hearts seem to know each other, don’t they? When I die, you’ll feel it. It’ll ring in your head like the church bells in Văduva, shaking your bones.”

A breath.

“It’s a shame, though,” she said quietly. “We never met in the real world. You and me. Not properly. But maybe… maybe that’s for the best. You get your peace. I get mine. In the end, we both get what we want.”

Another silence, thick and impossible to swallow.

Then, after a moment, Count Orlok's voice slipped through the still air—silken and dry.

“…Is this your way of inviting me to your execution?”

That earned another burst of laughter from her, sharp and cracked like a broken chime. “Is that what you heard?” she replied, grinning. “I don't know. Maybe?”

She stepped forward with mockery burning in her veins.

“Come to the execution then, Count. Stand in the back as a shadow. Who knows? Maybe you’ll manage to shake my heart enough that I die afraid after all?” The girl turned slightly, waving a limp hand toward him. “But then again, you’re not real, are you? You’re just… this. A nightmare with good diction." 

She didn’t mean for her voice to tremble at the end, but it did. Just a little. The edge of humor faded away like smoke from a burnt-out candle, leaving behind only her truth—raw and looming.

She didn’t notice the way Orlok tilted his head.

Didn’t see the gleam shift in his ancient, pale eyes.

She thought she was taunting him. Mocking the dance of their meetings. Using sarcasm to paint over dread.

She didn’t know—

He’d already taken it as a challenge.

And Count Orlok never walked away from those.

—

Days later

Father Petru was running. His breathing came fast, ungraceful and unholy, as he held onto his rosary for dear balance. His dark curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, and a curse nearly slipped from his lips—not that it would’ve been the first this week.

Late. Late. I’m late again.

He had woken up well past his hour. The bells of the chapel had already rung for Prime when he’d stirred, and the rest of his brothers from the Order of Saint Iacob were nowhere to be seen in the clergy’s dormitory. By the time he crossed through the cloisters and descended the hill, they had already vanished into the village.

As he reached the first alley that fed into Văduva’s Hollow, he caught sight of them at last—black robes ahead, weaving between townsfolk like ink bleeding through snow.

“Wait! Wait, I’m coming!” he called out.

The priests ahead turned—there were five of them—and one, the round-cheeked Brother Augustin, waved. “Petru!” he called back with a grin. “Blessings upon your lazy bones!”

“Hah,” Petru huffed as he caught up, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees. “I woke up late. Forgive me for being unlike you, Augustin, who dreams in sermons.”

Laughter rippled between the brothers.

Brother Gherasim, the oldest among them—his beard a snowy veil that reached his chest—nodded in greeting. “Peace, Petru. You are just in time.”

“In time for what?” Petru asked, brushing sweat from his brow as they walked together down the cobbled lane, passing curious villagers whispering beneath their breath. “Why is everyone heading for the town circle?”

“It is the gathering,” said another. “The nuns of the Chapel sent word—it is best if we show our faces there. All the villagers will be present.”

“The gathering?” Petru blinked. “For what purpose?”

The laughter stilled.

“A public execution,” said Brother Augustin simply.

Petru stopped walking. “A what?”

“Criminals,” added Brother Nicodemus, adjusting the cord at his waist. “That is what they say.”

“No—no, no, that can’t be right.” Petru stepped in front of them, eyes wild with disbelief. “Surely the Council would not carry this through. Public executions? That is barbaric. I thought we had long abandoned such methods! Even in Brașov they—”

“It is the will of the village,” said Brother Gherasim, cutting him off gently but firmly. “We are not in Brașov, Petru. We are in Văduva’s Hollow. The people cling to their ways.”

“But this is against the doctrine!” Petru argued, trying to keep his voice down as more townsfolk passed by. “Have we not preached that punishment must walk hand-in-hand with mercy? Imprisonment. Reconciliation. This is murder wrapped in spectacle! This—this should be condemned, not watched like theatre!”

“Would you have us speak out against them?” Gherasim asked. “And lose our place here? We are strangers in this land, Petru. We keep the peace. We do not remake it.”

Petru clenched his jaw. His fists curled beneath his robes. The stones underfoot seemed to pulse with rage.

“You mean to say we just watch ?”

“Not watch. Support,” Augustin said. “Stand with the people. Show presence. Nothing more.”

Petru bit back his frustration. So he changed the subject, not because he had stopped caring—but because he could not bear to keep speaking of it.

“Who is it?” he asked bitterly. “Who is to be killed? Is it the one who murdered Father Dimitrie?”

The priests glanced at one another. Avoiding his eyes.

It was Brother Nicodemus who answered, after some silence. “It is Bela.”

“...Bela?” Petru whispered, stunned.

His voice cracked around her name.

“Yes,” Nicodemus nodded slowly. “The orphan. One of the girls housed by the convent. The nuns say she is possessed. Dangerous. There was much evidence...”

Petru’s mouth parted, but no words came.

Bela.

The girl with the haunted eyes and a voice like cold steel. The same who had approached him in the tavern that bitter evening, with questions about the religious orders from the city, about this certain Father Athanasius, about whether God had gone deaf. The girl who was chased out by the tavern keeper for merely speaking to him. The girl who never once showed up for Mass. The girl who claimed she didn’t believe in God.

And yet…

“She—she seemed lost,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone. “Yes, sorrowful, confused. But capable of murder? Of… this ? No. No, I never thought…”

“Perhaps we are all mistaken,” said Gherasim, “but the judgment has been made.”

It seemed the late morning sun bore no warmth that day.

Petru looked up as they reached the entrance to the town circle. A crowd was already gathering—a wall of pale faces, whispering lips, and tense shoulders. The guillotine loomed at the center like a crooked finger reaching for Heaven.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, something sank. And he wondered—whether Bela had truly done it or not.

Beside him stood Brother Augustin, trying to feign the solemn serenity their Order demanded in public—but the sharp glint of morbid curiosity flickered in his eyes.

Petru leaned toward him, his voice hushed and hollow. “How many are to die?”

Augustin shifted on his feet. “Three, or so the whispers claim. All were imprisoned for murder most foul. Tomorrow, another three will be executed – for theft.”

Before Petru could press further, a commotion stirred the front of the crowd.

Murmurs rose like an unsettled tide as a procession emerged from the alley between the old inn and the bakery—at least a dozen men marching forward, gripping chains and rope-bound prisoners. The figures at the center were hooded, each one with a rough sack thrown over their head. Two wore threadbare tunics soaked in grime, their boots dragging. The third—

The third was unmistakable.

The hem of her simple linen dress scraped the dirt as she stumbled forward, flanked by two guards who held her tightly by each arm. Her shoulders were too thin beneath the cloth. Her steps faltered. And still, the crowd howled.

“Sinners!”

“Burn in Hell!”

“Justice!”

“Let the Devil take them!”

“Hang the witch!”

Petru winced at every word like they were lashes across his skin. His hands gripped the rosary tighter still.

From the raised wooden platform, the village head stepped forward—a man in his late sixties, his face carved by deep lines and years of judgment. He raised his hand, and the noise dulled.

“People of Văduva’s Hollow,” he declared, voice loud and unshaken, “we gather this day to remember the wages of sin. The Lord commands righteousness, and yet these three walked the path of the Devil.”

The silence among the villagers rippled with tension. All eyes were fixed on the stage.

“This is not cruelty,” the man continued. “This is a lesson. A warning. A reminder that there is no room in our land for those who walk in blood and blasphemy. I shall name them, one by one, so that none forget what happens when evil is left to fester.”

He turned to the first guard. “Remove his hood.”

The sack was pulled away, revealing a man in his forties, with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes that stared down into nothing. His face bore old scars and recent bruises.

“This is Dumitru Ionescu,” the village head said. “He slew his wife in her sleep and claimed she was possessed. Said the Devil spoke through her. But it was not God who spoke to him.”

The crowd jeered, some throwing curses, others—stones.

Petru looked away, already knowing what was to come. He stared down at the earth, its cracked surface dry even after last night’s rain.

The guillotine creaked.

The man was dragged forward and forced to kneel. Metal on wood. The thud of wood locking in place. A final breath.

Then—

SHHKKT.

The blade fell. The crowd gasped, then hushed. A heavy silence followed—so total that Petru could hear the wind shift against the chapel bell tower. The headless body was taken away without ceremony. Blood stained the wood.

Then came the second. Another sack was removed. Another name. This one, a farmhand who had killed two travelers for coin. The guillotine rose again. Petru dared a glance this time—and immediately regretted it. The man was sobbing, screaming something unintelligible before the blade silenced him forever. The crowd was less raucous now. Even bloodthirst has its limits when fed too fast.

Then, the third criminal stepped forward again.

They all knew it was Bela. 

The crowd surged with fury, renewed.

“Witch!”

“Devil’s bride!”

“Kill her!”

Petru’s chest tightened.

He forced himself to look— he had to look —as the man beside Bela reached up and tugged the sack from her head.

There she was.

The girl from the tavern.

Her face was gaunt, lips chapped, her skin so pale it looked nearly translucent. She blinked at the light like a bat dragged into the morning. Her hair clung to her cheeks in tangled strands. Her eyes, sunken with sleepless nights, stared straight ahead—expressionless.

She looked not like a murderer.

She looked like a child at the altar of death.

Petru felt something shudder deep in his chest. A pang so deep it made him suck in a sharp breath. Why did it ache so much? He barely knew her. Had only spoken to her once. The sky darkened, as if the heavens themselves had also drawn a curtain in protest.

Atop the wooden platform stained by the blood of two men, the village head raised his arms again. His voice, hoarse yet resolute, rang through the thick silence that had returned after the last execution.

“Here,” he proclaimed, “we come to the final sin.”

He paused, eyes scanning the crowd, letting the tension ferment like wine in a sealed cask.

“This one is not merely a thief of life,” he growled. “She is a consort of darkness. The killer of our beloved shepherd—Father Dimitrie, who served our flock for near three decades.”

The villagers gasped and grumbled, curses bubbling at their lips.

“She did not use a blade,” the village head continued, walking slowly across the stage like a preacher before the pulpit. “Nor musket, nor axe, nor poison. No… this one used something fouler. Powers not of this earth—gifts bestowed by wickedness itself.”

A woman in the crowd shrieked. A child began to cry. Another shouted, “Witch!”

“It was five pebblers, travelers from the next valley, who came upon the horror in the woods,” he went on. “They found Father Dimitrie’s broken body—his mouth twisted in agony, his flesh marred by fire with no smoke and no ember near—and she, this girl, standing over him like a phantom. Her eyes black as pitch, they say, her hands shaking with some invisible rage.”

Bela stood at the far side of the platform, the man holding her arm as though he were clutching the neck of a rabid dog. Yet she remained quiet. Unmoving. Untouched by the storm around her.

“She followed him,” the village head hissed, “into the woods as he went to gather firewood. And there, under the Devil’s gaze, she struck him down. Because she hates our God. Because she refused our gatherings. Because she is not like us. And because she gave herself to the Devil so he might grant her power. That power took root in her veins like poison.”

Father Petru clenched his jaw as the crowd erupted.

“This,” the village head said, “is why she shall not only be beheaded—but her body, too, shall burn. That no curse may slither from her bones like a snake. That her evil dies with her breath and is scattered like ash in the wind.”

Cheers. Horrible, jubilant cheers. The kind of joy that only madness can birth.

Bela’s eyes, dim and distant, did not reflect the scene before her. Instead, she looked skyward. Her lips barely parted. She whispered something, but no one heard. Her gaze roamed the heavens where a patch of blue had once been and was now replaced by thunderclouds, thick and growling with unshed rain.

How did it come to this?

The man gripping her elbow yanked her forward. She stumbled once but didn’t resist. The guards dragged her to the guillotine, shoving her into place with a callousness born of hatred. She fell to her knees.

Father Petru swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.

Bela did not cry. She rested her chin where the other two men had placed theirs before death. Her arms were tied behind her back. She closed her eyes. And for a moment, she let herself imagine the other side. Her mother—was she there? Was she waiting, beyond the veil, arms open and soft smile returned? Would death be warm? Would it be quiet?

A man approached, holding the axe to cut the rope that would trigger the fall of the blade.

The crowd had gone still again. Some leaned forward. Others whispered prayers. More waited for the sound— that sound —the sharp finality of judgment.

The man raised the axe.

Bela’s lips parted in a breath.

Now.

But just as the axe began to swing—

A sound cracked through the air.

Hooves .

Dozens of them.

Clattering iron shoes thundered down the stone roads leading into the village square. At first, only a few turned their heads. Then others. Then the executioner froze, his blade still in the air.

Bela blinked open her eyes.

The thunder was not from the clouds.

It came from the earth.

A scream rose from the back of the crowd.

“Riders!”

The village head turned, mouth twisted in fury. “What is this?”

From the tree line and shadowed paths at the edge of the square, they came—riders cloaked in dark garb, their faces unseen beneath heavy hoods. They bore no banners. No sigils. And yet, with every beat of the hooves, their presence seemed to drain the warmth from the air. Even the children stopped crying.

The villagers glanced among themselves, whispering in hushed tones.

“Who are they?” hissed a baker’s wife, clutching her daughter close.

“I know not,” murmured her husband, sweat beading on his brow, “but they bear no crest I recognize.”

“They ain't from Miercurea,” spat an older man near the stocks. “Or Satu Mare neither. I've seen noblemen in my day. These aren’t noblemen. These are ghosts.”

Up on the stage, the village head had gone pale, his voice cracking with a forced authority.

“Halt!” he shouted, waving his arms as though he still held control over the morning. “What business have you here in Văduva’s Hollow? We are in the midst of sacred judgment!”

He looked to Bela briefly—her limp figure still secured beneath the guillotine’s blade—and a dreadful thought crept into his mind.

Don’t tell me... they’ve come for her?

The black riders didn’t answer. Instead, their horses stepped forward slowly, methodically. The crowd parted before them like wheat under a blade, terrified to even breathe near them.

Bela’s eyes followed the dark forms cutting their way through the sea of villagers. In the haze of fear and blood loss, they looked like specters come to usher her to death. Grim reapers, she thought, not dressed in bones but in mourning.

But judging by the gasps and trembles of the crowd—these weren’t phantoms of her dying mind.

These men were real.

The village head stumbled forward once more, his hand gripping a shaking ceremonial staff. “You will go no further,” he barked, louder this time. “This event is sanctioned by the council of the Hollow! You have no claim here. We offer you nothing but passage and peace.”

Still, the riders approached.

The head’s voice cracked again. “You will stop! Now, by my word! Or you will be escorted out by force!”

The lead rider tilted his head ever so slightly.

Escorted?

The absurdity of the threat hung in the air like rotten fruit. The rider’s horse stepped forward—just one step, deliberate and slow. Then another. His cloak swayed slightly with the breeze as he raised a gloved hand. 

The village head clenched his staff. “You—stop at once, you bastards! This is a public execution! We are killing the children of demons ! You have no place here!”

Then—finally—the lead rider stopped and lifted his head.

No face was seen. His hood was still drawn low. But from beneath it came a voice like velvet laced with iron:

“A gathering for killing the children of demons, you say?”

He paused.

“…Then I suppose we’ve come to the right party.”

The words struck like a dagger through silk.

“What are you saying?” the village head spat. “What madness—”

The rider did not respond to him. Instead, he turned to look at the others behind him—silent figures still mounted, hands resting on sheathed swords that hummed with hunger.

He lifted one gloved hand.

“Kill a quarter of the town.”

Gasps erupted.

He continued.

“But leave the sinners. The council. The clergy. The ones who think themselves clean.”

He paused again.

“The Count has a message for them.”

There was no confirmation. No orders repeated back.

The swords came out in unison—no clatter, no flourish. Just steel drawn like whispers, silent and precise.

The village head stumbled backward. “No! Stop—stop this at once! ”

Too late.

The first rider dismounted. Then the second. Then the third.

And then the screams began.

Villagers ran in every direction, clawing over one another to escape the descending storm. Mothers shrieked for their children. Men pushed aside their wives in panic. Blood sprayed into the air as the riders struck with terrifying elegance. One slash was all it took—clean, silent, final.

Father Petru dropped his rosary and stumbled back, trying to grab a child near him. “This way!” he cried. “Inside the chapel!”

But the crowd was already splintering, some fleeing toward the fields, others trying to squeeze through narrow alleys. The stage shook as the executioner dropped his axe and leapt down, fleeing like the rest.

Bela’s eyes widened.

The chaos around her bloomed like fire—flames of panic and steel, bodies falling, screams echoing—but she was trapped beneath the wooden yoke, her vision fixed to the black-booted men who strode past her like gods of death.

She didn’t know whether to pray, scream, or welcome the madness.

But one thing she knew now, without doubt:

This day was no longer about judgment.

This was a reckoning.

The screams clawed their way into the morning like wolves tearing through sheep. The riders moved not like knights or soldiers, but like creatures bred for war and blood. Their black cloaks flared with every movement, slicing through the air as their long strides consumed distance faster than the eye could follow. Though heavily armored, they were inhumanly fast. And when they ran, they did not chase—they hunted.

Father Petru and his flock didn’t look back.

Not once.

They knew evil when they saw it.

And it had come to Văduva’s Hollow.

Bela remained trapped beneath the heavy guillotine, blood dried at the corner of her mouth, hair matted to her face. Her chest rose and fell, not with life but with dread. The riders cut through the village like fire through parchment, and she—helpless—could only watch.

She tried to look away.

She tried to make sense of it.

But the thought kept bubbling to the surface, like black ink in water.

The shadow from her dreams. 

No, no, she told herself. Do not think of his name. Don’t give it shape. Don’t give it power.

One rider grabbed a fleeing butcher by the collar and lifted him clean off the ground, cleaving him open with a sickle-shaped blade that shimmered with a silver edge. The man’s entrails hit the stone with a wet slap. Another villager tried to crawl through the alley, only to be yanked back by a gloved hand, his scream dying as his throat was opened with surgical precision.

The town square was no longer a gathering place.

It was a butcher’s block.

Blood slicked the cobblestones in thick, congealing pools. It streaked across the cottage walls, handprints dragged across the wooden doors, as if someone had begged God to open them in time. He hadn’t. Bodies lay crumpled like dolls—twisted, broken, faces frozen mid-scream.

One by one, the important ones were gathered.

The village head. The councilmen. The nuns. Even the priest’s apprentice. And Bela.

They were forced into a line in the middle of the blood-stained square, kneeling, trembling. Some sobbed. Others whispered hymns. A few just stared, numb.

The village head looked like a man flayed of pride. He threw himself forward on his knees, hands splayed in the bloodied dirt.

“Please!” he begged. “I know not what we’ve done! We are but a humble folk—what could we possibly have that you want? There’s no gold in our mines, no treasures in our homes! We have livestock, yes, but not enough to fatten even your beasts!”

He gestured desperately to the corpses. “Why… why all this? We kneel, we worship, we pray, we live in fear of the old tales… we have wronged no one! Please, spare us!”

The riders remained still.

Like statues carved from onyx.

Then the leader stepped forward.

He moved like shadow incarnate—slow, but sure, heavy with authority. The sunlight barely touched him. His cloak fluttered as he walked along the line of captives, examining them as though inspecting livestock before a feast.

“We are the Knights of the First Fang.”

The voice slithered through the fog like poison, thick with promise and threat. The words did not echo—they lingered, heavy as judgment. The villagers stilled, eyes darting in silent panic. No one dared speak.

“We come from the Carpathians,” the knight went on, his tone ironclad and devoid of mercy. “Where the dead still whisper… and the living forget how to breathe.”

He stopped before the village head—who knelt, trembling, cheeks slick with tears. The knight cocked his head as though inspecting an insect he might crush for sport.

“Whispers reach us… even from this hollow place.”

A breath of silence. A ghost of a smile beneath the cowl—cruel, unseen, but felt.

“Whispers that bind your blood to ours… in ways no other dares dream. Or dares survive.”

The village head shuddered, voice cracking. “W-What… what do you mean?”

The knight’s hood sank lower. His reply came as frost—quiet, absolute.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He crouched, metal groaning as if the armor itself recoiled from what crouched within. His eyes, twin embers in the dark, locked onto the old man’s.

“The Count remembers.”

Each word was a blade, deliberate.

“He remembers what was stolen.”

The knight leaned in, lips a breath away from the villager’s ear.

“And he is not a forgiving creature.”

He rose again, unfolding like a shadow cast by something older than man.

His final words were glacial.

“You will return what is his…you must… ”

Silence swept the square. Not even the birds cried.

“…or this village shall feed the First Fang’s hunger.”

Chapter Text

A grim silence blanketed Văduva’s Hollow. 

The town square, once lively, now held white-shrouded corpses, their crimson stains still wet. Grieving moans filled the cold air as women clung to each other, rocking over their dead. Children, too young to understand but old enough to remember, sobbed. Father Petru, his cassock soiled, offered blessings, but faith had abandoned the broken hearts that night.

Beside him, the younger priests mimicked his attempts, offering candles, prayers, touches of comfort—but all were swallowed by the abyss of grief. One woman screamed when they approached her, clawing at her face, shrieking, “Where was your Saint when they tore out my son’s throat?”

Father Petru flinched. He had no answer. Only silence.

Above them all, the church bells tolled not in celebration, but in mourning. A slow, deliberate knell for each soul lost.

Yet beneath the pain, a truth began to twist its roots into the villagers’ hearts.

The prophecy—whispered through generations, feared and mocked in equal measure—was no longer a tale. It had come alive. And it had come with steel, fangs, and fire.

Within the creaking walls of the village head’s house, the chill air could not extinguish the heat of argument. The council chamber—a modest room with long tables, lit by sputtering lanterns—shook with the thunder of voices.

“I tell you, we possess no such relic!” cried Grigore, the village head, a man who had aged ten winters in a single evening. His hands slammed upon the table, knuckles white and veins raised. “Not I, nor any soul in this village has ever laid eyes upon what they seek!”

Councilman Nicolae, his eyes sharp and gleaming with suspicion, pointed a crooked finger. “And yet they came, did they not? With blades drawn and names unspoken. Why would they burn our homes and slay our kin unless they believed we held something precious ?”

Another, Stoica, leaned forward, his face shadowed by the flickering lamp. “Maybe you simply forget, Grigore. You did not speak when they arrived. You froze. You let them kill while you stood still as a hunted deer.”

“Damn you,” Grigore hissed, voice breaking. “Would you not freeze, Stoica? Would any man here remain brave when devils in armor tear through your friends like wheat in harvest?”

The room fell into a brittle silence.

Then Ionel, an elder councilman with clouded eyes and a long memory, leaned back and murmured, “Perhaps… Grigore speaks true. This is not about gold or relics. This is prophecy.”

Grigore stiffened. His eyes flicked to the side, where a black-painted cross rested on the wall.

Ionel continued. “The old verses, passed from tongue to tongue, spoke of a darkness buried beneath our feet. Of a godless thing, sealed in the hollow, waiting to reclaim what was stolen from him. The knights—these Fangs —may serve not a king, but something far more ancient.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. The words were ridiculous—but had not the prophecy already walked among them?

Grigore sat heavily. “Then what was stolen? What treasure lies beneath our earth? I’ve lived here all my life, and not once have I seen or heard of any such thing. And the Count—this figure they serve—I know nothing of him. No one does.”

A pause. A breath held in dread.

Then, like a quiet breath through a crack in the door, another voice joined them.

“Perhaps I might offer a thought.”

All heads turned to the entrance.

There stood Sister Veritas, her face half-lit by the amber flame of the hallway sconce. Her hands were folded before her; her long black habit soaked at the hem with rain and sorrow. She had been among the people, comforting, praying—watching.

The council parted for her without a word. Even the fire seemed to hush at her approach.

“Sister,” Grigore rasped, “you’ve heard… all of it?”

“I have,” she said softly, stepping closer. “And I believe the answer lies not with the Count's knights… but with the words we’ve ignored.”

Nicolae raised a brow. “You speak of the prophecy?”

“I speak of Ilie ,” she said.

The name hung like a bell’s toll.

Ilie—the madman. The drunk. The cursed.

Or so they had believed.

“He spent years warning us. Ranting of eyes beneath the ground. Of dreams not his own. Of a wound the Hollow never healed from,” she continued. “We thought him touched in the head. But perhaps… he was touched by something else.”

Grigore’s voice was hoarse. “He is dead, Sister. Where can we rely on visions now?”

“I know.” Her voice faltered, just briefly. “But perhaps he died for telling the truth too soon.”

A heavier silence fell, as if the very walls remembered old songs and whispered shames. Grigore broke the quiet, staring into the lantern, "Then our question remains. What did we take from this dark thing beneath us?" 

No one answered.

Outside, the wind howled, its voice a patient laughter. A log cracked in the hearth, echoing the thick silence. The councilmen, pale with grief and dread, sat heavy in their chairs. Though the storm outside had quieted, a new tempest brewed within the village head's house. 

Sister Veritas stood among them, resolute, candlelight dancing on her sharp features.

“I have pondered upon it,” she began, voice calm but clear, slicing through the fog of uncertainty, “and I fear the knights may speak truth... at least in part.”

A stir moved through the council.

“What say you, Sister?” Councilman Stoica leaned forward, brows furrowed. “You would place faith in those monsters?”

Veritas’s gaze swept the room like a blade. “Not faith. Reason. And observation. Three signs were given to us—signs we ignored. First, Ilie—our mad prophet, perhaps the only one among us who truly understood the dark beneath—was killed. Not by the knights. By our own fear.”

Stoica’s mouth parted, but no sound came.

She continued. “Then Father Dimitrie—the guardian of our sacred rites, the pillar of our faith—was taken. They found him staring skyward, his eyes wide open, but his face as pale as fear itself.”

Gasps and uneasy glances passed between the councilmen.

“And months before all of this, the blood moon rose. You all remember it. The sky was drenched in crimson. The dogs would not stop barking. The infants howled through the night. And we…” she paused, her voice cold, “we prayed. And nothing changed.”

Grigore, the village head, rubbed his temples, eyes closing briefly. “You speak of omens. But where do they lead?”

“To faith ,” she answered, stepping closer to the table. “Our entire belief—the masses, the prayers, the confessions—these were not rituals of worship alone. They were defenses. Shields against the thing buried beneath our land. The thing spoken of in the prophecy.”

The men exchanged looks, unsure.

Sister Veritas pressed on. “And now, with both Ilie and Father Dimitrie gone, we are exposed. Naked before the eyes of that ancient darkness. Do you not see? The knights arrived at a public execution . Not a home, nor a church, but an open square where the so-called sinners were to be punished before all.”

Ionel frowned. “You mean to say they chose that moment deliberately?”

She nodded. “Yes. Because that moment, that act, was our most vulnerable. Our faith was not shielding us—but damning us. For the blood we spilled in judgment, was blood they came to claim.”

A long, dreadful quiet fell upon the room.

Nicolae whispered, “You speak as though these knights... protect this entity.”

“No,” Veritas replied. “I believe they serve it. And it feeds upon sin. It marks the souls we condemn, and it does not forgive. Those criminals? Those we were about to hang before the swords came down? They were no longer ours. They belonged to the Count.”

Grigore’s eyes widened.

Sister Veritas stepped back. “We have feared the prophecy, yet continued to harbor those who stoked the fire. We cannot save ourselves through prayer alone now. We must cleanse the wound.”

A murmur of reluctant agreement began to rise—shuffling in chairs, slow nods, thoughtful grunts.

Grigore stood, his voice shaking, but certain. “Then we understand at last… why the knights came. They sought not vengeance, but reclamation. The Count demanded what he believes was taken: the souls of the wicked we dared judge in our own time.”

He paced to the center of the chamber, fists clenched. “Then let them take what they came for.”

The room went still.

“We gather the remaining criminals—the thieves, the murderers, the fornicators we’ve shielded with pity and excuses—and we send them to the wretched mountains where those devils dwell.”

He looked at each councilman. One by one, they nodded.

“Let these wretched souls be delivered to the damned. And may the Count,” he hissed, “choke on their blood."

A final silence passed, thick with dread and resolve.

So it was decided.

After the meeting, the councilmen left the house one by one. The heavy door creaked open, and Sister Veritas stepped into the cold again. Her breath fogged the air, mingling with the scent of blood, smoke, and wax. She walked only a few paces before a soft voice called out.

“Sister Veritas.”

She turned. Father Petru emerged from the shadows, his eyes hollow but not yet empty. Behind him, the bodies still lay wrapped beneath the stars, watched over by weeping kin and candlelight.

“We have prayed over more than half,” he said gently. “But the candles burn low, and we’ve no more in the sacristy. I would ask for your help.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “You shall have it. Come, walk with me.”

They ascended the hill towards the church, the wind biting their robes, the cobblestones slick with dew and blood. Below, Văduva’s Hollow flickered, a village steeped in sorrow. The church stood sentinel against the brooding Carpathians, where wolves howled and stars hid. Father Petru walked beside Sister Veritas, each slow, careful step preserving the fragile silence.

“I still cannot understand how quickly it all happened,” he said, voice low. “One moment we rang the bells to summon the faithful... and the next, we were pulling children by their collars into the church while their fathers were being torn apart like straw dolls.”

Sister Veritas didn’t respond at first. Her eyes remained forward, hands tucked neatly inside her sleeves. The hem of her habit rustled softly with the breeze.

“We tried to hide them all,” Petru continued, swallowing the lump in his throat. “The mothers, the little ones… I saw one child, Ionel’s youngest, trembling so hard he couldn’t even cry. Just... silent .”

He looked at her, waiting for some shared grief.

Veritas nodded, slowly. “It is a wound we will carry, all of us.”

Yet her tone, though not cruel, felt detached. Like someone reading from a page rather than remembering a horror. Her eyes seemed miles away.

Petru blinked. “Sister, are you well?”

She stopped briefly, blinked—as though waking from a dream—and offered a tight smile. “Forgive me. I was only… reflecting.”

They walked in silence for a few moments more until Petru suddenly halted, his boots crunching against gravel. “Tell me truthfully,” he said, “these knights… are they truly linked to the prophecy? The one spoken of by Ilie from the tavern?”

Sister Veritas turned slightly, her silhouette sharp against the hill’s crest. “They are not just linked, Father. They are the harbingers of it. The prophecy never gave a date, never a season. We believed— hoped —that if we prayed long and well enough, it might never come in our lifetime. Or in any lifetime at all.”

Petru frowned. “But the signs…”

She tilted her head. “The blood moon. Ilie’s death. Dimitrie’s demise. We had them all, and yet we did not see . And when the knights finally came, they chose the square during the executions… not by chance, but by design.”

Father Petru ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Then what now? What shall the village do with this knowledge? I’ve heard whispers that those knights demanded something. Have we decided what to do?”

Veritas gave a long, quiet sigh. “It has been handled,” she replied. “The council convened. They know what must be done.”

She resumed walking, assuming the conversation was over. Petru stared at her back, then hurried to catch up. “What decision, Sister?” he pressed. “What has the council agreed upon?”

At this, she stopped entirely.

She turned, the wind catching her veil and casting it like wings behind her.

“They have decided,” she said, calmly, “to offer the sinners of our village to the Count. The ones we were to hang—those who murder, thieve, defile and blaspheme. Tomorrow night, they will be sent to the mountains. To him .”

Father Petru recoiled. “You speak of sacrifice !”

“I speak of justice ,” Veritas replied coolly. “The Count hungers for the rot festering in this village. If we do not cast it out, he shall take everything .”

“You don’t know that!” Petru’s voice rose with disbelief. “What if you are wrong? What if the signs were misunderstood? We could be sending innocent people to slaughter!”

A short laugh escaped her lips. “Innocent?” She took a step closer. “The drunkard who beat his wife ‘til her eye caved in? The baker’s boy who stabbed his brother for a scrap of bread? The seamstress who drowned her infant in the stream to chase a lover to Brașov? Innocent , you say?”

Petru’s fists clenched. “They are sinners , yes, but not monsters. They deserve punishment, yes—but redemption too. That is the mercy of our Lord.”

“Mercy,” she echoed, almost fondly. “You still think like a church boy. Tell me, Petru… how many prayers must a murderer offer before his soul stops stinking of blood? How many Hail Marys before a liar’s tongue stops blackening?”

He opened his mouth to argue—but her voice grew stern.

“We have lived in this valley long before you came with your soft hands and clean robes. We know what grows in our soil. And what sleeps beneath it. This is our way. And you… you will have to live with that.”

There was silence then—so sharp it rang in his ears.

After a pause, Veritas softened her voice just enough to let the cold in again. “Come,” she said, turning on her heel. “The candles won’t fetch themselves.”

Petru remained silent as they climbed the hill's final stretch. The church loomed like a stone sentinel beneath the bruised sky. Behind them, the village lay still, yet something stirred in the shadows—a pulse, a breath, a deep whisper. 

Tomorrow, the mountain will feast.

—

A day later

The iron room reeked of rust, blood, and despair. Bela huddled in the corner, chains clinking softly, her bound wrists and drawn-up knees a futile attempt to disappear. The damp stone chilled her spine. Thirsty, she felt old sweat and dried blood clinging to her skin, while a constant, searing pain throbbed in her thigh with every breath.

The graze wound wasn’t deep, but it burned like hell. A cruel reminder from one of the horsemen who’d dragged her from the woods days ago. The bullet had just missed her femur. Just missed the artery. She would have preferred it hadn’t missed at all.

She should’ve died.

By God, she should’ve died.

Why didn’t they let me die?

She leaned her head back, staring at the flickering lamp. Her thoughts circled endlessly, returning to them— the black-clad knights.  

They were shadows made flesh, without insignia, prayer, or mercy. Their swords scythed through the square, spraying blood and cracking the air with screams. From her condemned stage, she'd watched them butcher men like pigs.

Who were they? 

They moved with prophetic force, serving something unknown. Their leader had spoken to the village head, but the screams still echoing in her skull had drowned out the words. All Bela had known was terror. Now, silence. Worse than the screams.

She had survived the execution, yet felt no relief. Not here, with her body screaming and her mind slipping from exhaustion. She knew they would blame her again; they always did. 

She bit down on her tongue to silence a whimper, just as the door creaked.

Her head jerked up. The iron hinges groaned, light spilled into the chamber—and in came three silhouettes wrapped in habits and duty.

Sister Irina.

Sister Clemence.

Sister Sanda.

No greetings. No pity. Only the clatter of keys and the rattling of chains as they knelt before her and began to undo the shackles at her ankles and wrists.

“H-Hey—wait,” Bela croaked, her voice like gravel. “What’s going on?”

None of them answered.

Only Sanda muttered, “Hurry. We’ve not much time.”

As soon as her wrists were free, pain flared in her thigh. The world tilted. Two pairs of hands hoisted her up roughly. She gasped and stumbled, barely upright.

“I—I can’t—my leg—” she groaned.

“Walk,” Clemence snapped. “We’ve no strength to drag you.”

Irina grunted. “She’s heavier than she looks. Straighten yourself, girl. We’ve work to do.”

They half-dragged, half-shoved her up the narrow stone staircase. Bela’s bare feet slipped on the cold steps, and every jolt of movement sent lightning through her thigh. She grit her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

“Where are you taking me?” she managed through clenched teeth. “What—what is this?”

“Shut your mouth,” Sanda hissed. “You’ve spoken enough for a lifetime.”

Bela coughed, nearly crumpling to the ground. “This is—this is madness …”

They didn’t listen.

Through the narrow corridors of the convent they moved, the same halls that had once held echoes of hymns and incense, now thick with tension and the distant, ever-creeping weight of dread. The closer they came to the bathing room, the more the scent of soap and cold water clawed at her.

They entered.

The bathing chamber was a sparse, echoing room—arched windows fogged over, its only centerpiece a stone tub filled with water that shimmered in the afternoon light. It looked too clean for her. Almost like a lie.

As soon as they reached the edge, the sisters let go.

Bela dropped like a sack of flour, a sharp cry escaping her lips as her leg hit the cold floor.

“Undress,” Irina ordered flatly.

Bela blinked at her, sweating and shaking. “I—I can’t. I’m bruised all over. My leg— look at it, it’s still bleeding. It’ll get infected if you—”

“Get in the tub,” Clemence snapped.

“It needs to be cleaned first,” she tried to reason. “You can’t just dump me in filth—”

“Complain once more, and I’ll scrub the filth off your tongue myself,” Sanda growled. “You stink like a corpse. Get. In. ”

Bela stared at them, eyes wide, but her voice failed her.

She was too tired. Too broken. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed her pride, her anger, her fear.

They left without another word. The door slammed behind them.

She sat there for a long moment. Alone. Listening to the sound of her breath, shallow and wet. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the torn hem of her shift. The tub sat quietly, waiting like a coffin. Her body ached in protest.

And still, she moved.

Because what else could she do? The dead don’t get to decide.

With trembling fingers, she peeled her tattered shift from her skin, each motion a fresh wave of agony through her ribs, back, and leg. Her wrists bore red chain marks, her left  shoulder a purple bloom from a musket stock, and her thigh screamed. Gritting her teeth, she staggered to the steaming tub and dipped her foot in.

The moment her skin touched the water, a hiss escaped her lips.

“God in Heaven—!”

It was liquid fire. The water ignited every buried nerve, her bruises and cuts screaming as she stifled a cry, the pain nearly stealing her breath. Hunching, she bit down hard, scrubbing the massacre's filth from her skin. Dried blood peeled, grime collected under her nails, and the water turned murky, swirling with evidence of her brush with death.

Finished, her hands were pale and pruned. She sat clutching her chest as silence returned. No soap, no cloth, only water, pain, and a faint, inconsequential lavender scent. Dripping and naked, she staggered from the tub, spotting a stack of clean linen. She ripped a piece, winding the makeshift bandage tightly around her thigh.

It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t last long. But it was better than nothing. And nothing was often all this village had ever given her.

She limped to the door, voice hoarse. “I’m done.”

The door opened just a crack. A hand emerged—pale, impersonal—and flung a dress inside. The door slammed before she could speak.

The dress landed on the stone floor. Simple, woolen, black. A mourner’s dress. She stared at it for a long beat, then reached down and slowly dressed, wincing as fabric slid over her wounds. The cloth stuck to the linen bandage on her thigh, and the hem dragged heavily over her calves as she stood.

Still limping, she stepped into the corridor.

The nuns waited. Irina. Clemence. Sanda. They looked at her with that same stern coldness she’d known since childhood—like she was a stray mutt that wouldn’t die quick enough.

Before she could ask anything, Clemence grabbed her by the arm. “Move.”

“Where are we going—”

“Enough,” snapped Irina. “You’ll see soon enough.”

They left the convent. Outside, the sky had split.

Rain fell in lazy, heavy drops, darkening the stone path and soaking the hem of Bela’s dress almost instantly. A gust of wind carried the smell of wet earth and burning wood. The village lay below them, swathed in mist and grey, its thatched roofs glistening under the drizzle. The church bell stood silent behind them like a mute witness.

But ahead, at the edge of the hill, stood Sister Veritas. Hooded, still, like a sentinel of some grim procession.

“Sister Veritas,” Bela rasped, her voice breaking from disuse and fear. “What is happening? Where are we going—?”

“Quickly,” Veritas cut her off without a glance. “They’re already gathered at the square.”

Bela furrowed her brow. “Gathered? Who—?”

No one answered.

She didn’t ask again.

Her gut had already started sinking.

They descended the hill slowly, boots slipping in the mud, rain soaking every thread of cloth. The road twisted down into the heart of Văduva’s Hollow, where smoke curled from hearths and doors creaked beneath the storm. The townspeople kept their distance, watching from behind shutters and shadowed corners like frightened children.

When they reached the town square, Bela’s heart dropped.

There were carriages— six of them, black and unfamiliar, waiting in a neat row like crows on a fence. That alone unsettled her. Văduva was a forgotten place. Carriages only came when the dead needed burying or the taxes needed collecting.

And standing just beyond the carriages, lined up with their hands bound behind them—

Her breath hitched.

Coal miners. The same ones she’d worked beside in choking dust and dim lamps. Thieves. Murderers. Drunkards. All spared from execution yesterday… but not spared from whatever this was.

“What the hell…” Bela muttered, her stomach twisting.

She turned to Veritas again, voice barely a whisper, “What is this?”

Veritas didn’t look at her. Instead, she raised a hand, signaling toward a stocky man near the front of the carriages—Grigore, the village head, his cloak already drenched.

“She’s here,” Veritas declared. “Line her up with the rest.”

Grigore nodded. “Good. The hour is near. We mustn’t delay.”

Line her up?

“Wait—what?” Bela’s voice rose, but Clemence had already begun pulling her forward.

Grigore turned back toward the carriages. “We’ve six. Three for the condemned, three for those who shall escort them. They leave within the hour.”

“Escort us… where ?” Bela demanded.

Grigore didn’t answer. He’d moved toward a man holding a long scroll, checking off names.

One of the guards grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her to the end of the line of criminals. Her leg nearly buckled. The rain masked her tears.

She turned her ear toward Veritas and Grigore’s murmuring nearby. Her heart hammered.

“…address sealed by Count Orlok himself,” Veritas whispered.

“Never heard the name,” Grigore muttered.

“Nor I. But I can feel the devil in it. In the very bones of it.”

Bela’s stomach turned.

Count Orlok. The name was poison. Whoever he was, she didn’t want to meet him. Didn’t want to climb into any carriage heading into the Carpathian Mountains.

Is this… is this a sacrifice?

She limped forward in line as the guard behind her grunted. “Walk faster.”

So she did.

And all the while, the mountain waited.

Bela climbed into the carriage, the bandage on her thigh already stiff from dried blood. The interior was cramped and reeked of wet leather, damp wool, and something more primal—fear. The other passengers were already seated: five men, all gaunt-faced, dressed in patchwork coats, their wrists red and bruised. Most she recognized from the coal pits. 

No one spoke as she took the final seat.

The door shut behind her with a harsh clunk. Metal. Locked. The sound echoed like the swing of a gallows beam.

Outside, hooves clapped over muddied stone, wheels groaned, and within moments, the caravan lurched forward. Six carriages in all. Three holding the condemned. Three for the escort. Like they were cargo, not people. Important cargo, at that.

Bela braced herself against the wooden wall as the carriage shuddered down the hill and left Văduva’s Hollow behind. She caught one final glimpse of Sister Veritas and Grigore—stone-faced, arms crossed. Not a single word of farewell. Not even a parting prayer.

Why?

Why us? What could that Count Orlok want with murderers and thieves?

She curled her hands into fists. Why slaughter an entire village for our sake?

The wheels thundered over uneven ground, jolting them every few seconds. No one met each other’s eyes. Their silence was not peace—it was survival. 

They didn’t know what was coming. 

That made them dangerous. 

Even to each other.

—

Moments later

Time dragged. The road wound up, ever climbing. With each mile, the world outside grew colder. The green of the lowlands bled into grey rock, then into frostbitten hills. Snow began to gather on branches, clinging like ghosts to pine needles. By dusk, the windows were fogged over, and the cold had seeped into their marrow.

The prisoners huddled closer. Bela sat between two men, one snoring quietly, the other staring at the floor like he’d lost his soul somewhere in the mud. Her legs trembled. Her stomach growled. She’d not eaten since the day before.

Someone finally spoke—a wiry man with a crooked nose and swollen knuckles. “D’you think they’ll hang us when we arrive?”

“Maybe skin us first,” muttered another with a bitter chuckle. “Then let the wolves gnaw the rest.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bela snapped, surprising herself.

The man raised a brow but said no more.

She stared at the frost-dusted window.

The Order of the First Fang.

What kind of name was that?

“Fang” didn’t sound like priests or monks.

It sounded like cultists. Or cannibals.

Or something worse.

Could they be collecting criminals for experiments? A private army? Were they gathering sinners because they'd be easier to control? Her heart pounded.

This must be tied to the prophecy, she thought grimly. The one whispered in the convent hallways—the return of the Beast… the flood of sinners… But if that were true, why her? Why now?

As darkness fell and stars began to prick the sky like watchful eyes, their breaths turned visible. Their teeth chattered. Snow fell steadily outside. The horses groaned with the weight of the climb. And then—just as Bela’s head drooped against the wooden panel—

The carriage stopped.

No one moved at first. They thought perhaps a wheel had stuck in the snow. Maybe a tree had fallen.

But then…

Screams.

One. Two. Then more. Shouts. The crack of whips. The thunder of hooves scattering.

Everyone in the carriage snapped upright.

“What in God’s name…?” whispered the man beside Bela.

“Is that… is that fire?” another muttered, sniffing the air.

Yes. Smoke.

Thick, charred, and close.

One of them lunged to the side window, yanking the small velvet curtain aside—and froze.

His breath caught.

“Holy—God preserve us…”

Everyone rushed to look. Bela saw it too.

Outside, a man from the escort carriages knelt in the snow, an arrow protruding from his chest. Blood painted the white ground in wild strokes. His sword was still sheathed.

A bandit? An assassin?

“No, no, no…” someone muttered, rocking back and forth.

“Sabotage,” another gasped. “ We're being ambushed. ”

“Oh lord,” Bela hissed. “Get out—we need to get OUT—”

They lunged at the doors, pounding them with their fists. Wood and iron held firm.

“OPEN IT! OPEN THE DAMN THING!”

“Let us out! We're not even armed—!”

“God above, are they burning the carriages?!”

The heat began to rise. Orange light flickered against the snow, dancing like flames outside. Another scream rang out—this one shorter. It didn’t end. It stopped.

Panic exploded.

They slammed the walls, clawed at the latches. Bela kicked at the hinges, her thigh screaming in protest.

“We're locked in! They’ve left us to burn—!”

“NO! They wouldn’t—”

“Oh, wouldn’t they?” she snapped. “No goodbyes. No priest. No food. Just— here, take them. What if this whole trip is a culling?!”

The others froze.

The idea sank in like rot.

Outside, horses shrieked and bolted.

The carriage rocked violently, as though something had slammed into the side. Everyone toppled into each other, scrambling, screaming.

Bela pressed her forehead to the wood, fists shaking.

And then—outside the walls of the carriage—someone whispered her name.

“…Bela…”

Not loud. Not from the others.

But from the woods .

She froze.

The others didn’t hear.

Outside, the screams continued. But she only heard that voice now.

“…Bela…”

She pulled back from the wood, eyes wide.

Someone was out there.

And they knew her name.

The inside of the carriage was now filled with the scent of singed wood and scorched leather. Bela’s breath was shallow, her lips trembling from cold and terror. Her hands were pressed against the splintering wood panels as the others still clawed and slammed at the locked door like animals trapped in a burning barn.

“We’ve got to get out—now—before whatever's out there finds us first!” Bela snapped, her voice cutting through the panic like a knife. “The window! We could squeeze through!”

No one seemed to hear her. They were too busy flailing, punching, yelling, praying. Spittle flew, curses and pleas mixing into a wretched soup of desperation. Bela pressed herself to the side of the carriage and pointed toward the narrow window above.

“If we force the frame loose, we could fit through it!”

Still nothing. Her words drowned in the roar of fear.

Then—CRACK!

The carriage door burst open with a groan of tortured hinges and splinters flying into the night.

Everyone surged toward the gap like a flood. No words. No coordination. Just raw instinct.

Someone shoved Bela to the side as they leapt out. Another man tripped on the step and screamed as he fell, but he didn’t stop. He crawled. Ran. Fled.

Bela stumbled after them. Her boot caught the edge of the step and for a moment she nearly tumbled, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain in her thigh. Cold air slapped her face as she emerged into a scene carved straight from Hell.

Ash danced in the air like black snowflakes. The mountain pass around them was choked in shadows and the growing hiss of burning canvas. The flames had reached one of the rear escort carriages, its wheels ablaze, casting flickering light on the slumped corpses littered across the icy road. Faces twisted in death. Some she recognized—others were unidentifiable, mouths open in silent warning.

Bela’s eyes scanned the nearby carriages.

All six had been hit. The ones beside theirs—the ones holding more prisoners—had their doors kicked open or ripped off entirely. Some looked like the people inside had forced them down from within. Others bore marks of blades. One carriage was splintered completely in half, the axle snapped like a twig.

The air was filled with nothing but the sound of boots on snow and the ragged gasps of men too afraid to breathe. The prisoners were scattering into the woods like startled deer, their chains gone or snapped in the commotion.

“Run!” someone shouted from the trees. “They're still out there!”

But who? Who were “they”?

Bela backed away from the carnage, chest heaving. Her heart was galloping, hammering against her ribs like a drum of war.

Her breath fogged before her in fast, desperate clouds.

This isn’t happening.

It couldn’t be.

The past few days had been a spiral into madness.

Her body still bore the bruises of torture.

She had seen Father Dimitrie’s corpse, mouth gaping, his eyes wide in death.

She had been led to the noose in the village square—prepared to be made a spectacle.

Then the blood. The slaughter.

And now—this.

What devil was behind it all?

What wrathful hand was pulling the strings?

Bela turned, limping toward the woods as the others did, favoring her grazed thigh. The pain was a fiery dagger buried deep in her muscle, each step a cruel reminder that she was not made for escape.

The trees yawned before her like towering monoliths of the underworld. She ran—or rather, stumbled and dragged herself—into the snow-covered forest. The ground beneath her was uneven and steep. Roots clawed from the earth like skeletal fingers. Branches whipped at her face and tangled in her hair.

The moon above gave the only light—pale and cold.

And then...

“Come to me…”

She froze.

A whisper—soft as silk, low as thunder. It curled in her ear like smoke.

She looked around wildly. Nothing. Just trees and snow.

She kept going, faster now despite the searing pain.

But again—

“Come to me…”

The same voice. Velvety. Ancient. Impossible.

She stopped again, heart in her throat. She spun in a circle, breath hitching.

No. No no no no.

She’d heard that voice before—but never here.

Only in dreams.

In the shadowed places between waking and death.

When she was still caged in her cell in Văduva's Hollow, bleeding and broken.

The shadow.

The one that tried to kill her. The one that promised her death wrapped in silk and smoke.

What if this wasn’t a dream anymore?

Bela took a shaky step back, eyes wide. Her boot hit a root—she stumbled—but caught herself on a tree trunk.

The bark scratched her palm.

That’s real. That’s real, dammit.

She panted. Snow gathered on her lashes. Her skin burned from the cold.

The forest around her looked full, whole, untouched. No fragments. No sudden shifts like in a dreamscape. No unnatural fog. No impossible staircases or doorways to nowhere.

It was real.

It had to be.

But the voice… it was still there.

“…Come to me…”

She clamped her hand over her mouth, afraid the voice might somehow hear her if she breathed too loudly. Her back pressed to the tree. She turned slowly, scanning again.

Nothing.

Just forest.

Just snow.

Just the sound of wind and the memory of screams.

And yet… she felt it. Something was near.

Something watching .

Bela’s knees trembled. Her fingers clenched.

She whispered—so soft it barely left her lips.

“God in Heaven… deliver me from this evil…”

But she wasn’t sure anymore if Heaven was listening.

The trees stood still like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches shrouded in a mantle of hoarfrost. The moon spilled silver across the snow, painting the forest in a cold, dreamlike hue. But to Bela, there was no dream to this—only a waking nightmare she could not shake.

She stumbled, breath hitching in ragged bursts, her boots dragging through the crusted snow. The silence around her was maddening, broken only by the wind’s mournful howl and her own wheezing sobs.

“Please…” she whispered inside her head, eyes clamped shut as she paused beneath a crooked pine. Her knees trembled. Her hands, red and raw, clutched the front of her cloak like a child would cling to a holy relic.

“Let it end. Let them stop. Make them stop. Please, if there be any mercy left in Heaven…”

The voices. Those infernal, whispering things like insects crawling beneath her skin. Chanting, always chanting. Her name, her sins, her shame—spoken in tongues no mortal was meant to understand.

She pressed her forehead to the bark of the tree, shuddering. “Take it back, take this curse back. I am not meant for this. I am not…”

But just as her prayer dared to finish, the world shifted.

Crunch.

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a howl. It was worse.

A footstep. Deliberate. Heavy. Snow compacted under something that walked upright.

Her eyes flew open.

She didn’t breathe.

Another step. Crunch. Then another. The kind of sound that peeled the air, precise and calm and too human to be a beast—yet too inhuman to be anything safe.

She turned slowly, heart hammering against her ribs like a wardrum. The woods behind her were quiet... too quiet. No birds. No wolves. Just the skeletal forest and the weight of something unseen watching.

Then—

Movement.

There. Between the trees. Half-hidden in shadow but not swallowed by it.

A figure. Tall. Elongated. Wrong .

Not quite man. Not quite a ghost.

Its limbs were stretched like puppeteer’s wire held them aloft, and its skin, what little the moonlight dared to touch, bore the color of corpse flesh—pale, waxy, mottled in places. But it was the way it moved. Smooth. Too smooth. Like something that had long forgotten what bones were meant to feel like.

Her blood turned cold. She didn’t scream.

She ran .

Or tried to.

Her leg—still tender from the fall earlier, still stiff from frostbite—gave a pitiful lurch. She hobbled, each step a strained, dragging push forward, as if she were moving through wet concrete. Her breath burst in white clouds. Her hands clawed at low branches and thorns. She wasn’t going fast. She knew she wasn’t fast enough.

The voice followed her.

Not with lips. Not with sound. But inside her.

“Why do you run, little dove?”

Bela choked on her breath, nearly tripping again. No, no, no.

“This is your calling. There is no escape. You feel it, do you not? The truth... clawing from within.”

Tears spilled, hot against frozen skin. “Leave me be!” she cried aloud, as if the trees might rise to her defense.

“You were chosen, Bela. This is not death. This is your becoming.”

Her legs burned. Her lungs threatened to give. She couldn’t tell if the voice was behind her or inside her now. Her ears rang with its rasping seduction.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, desperate, wild-eyed. The trees were still. Nothing there. No one.

She spun her head forward again—and that was when she saw it.

No more glimpses. No more shadows.

The figure stood right in front of her.

Its bald head gleamed in the moonlight. Eyes—black, glassy, ancient—burrowed straight into her soul. Its mouth was an obscene slit curled into the barest suggestion of a grin, baring yellowed fangs. Clawed fingers reached like an invitation—crooked, beckoning, final.

She didn’t scream.

She shrieked .

Her foot slid on the slick snow. She lost all sense of gravity, flailing. Her body pitched backward and down—tumbling, twisting through brush and ice, a ragdoll in a cruel god’s hands.

The night swallowed her.

Bela tumbled down the slope like a broken doll, limbs flailing, cloak whipping about her like a shroud. Snow exploded in bursts beneath her body as she fell, flung from root to rock to thorn like she weighed nothing at all.

Whump— her shoulder slammed into an outcropping. Crack —her ankle twisted beneath her. Then—

Thud.

Her body met the tree with a final, brutal force. Her skull cracked against the bark, a wet sound muffled by the snow. A puff of crimson sprayed the white, and the world collapsed into velvet-black silence.

Everything went still.

The wind dared not breathe. Even the woods held their breath.