The sunlight filtered through the high canopy in broken pillars of gold, heavy with the scent of warm pine resin and damp earth, while birds sang overhead.

  Thwack.

  The axe buried itself deep in the trunk of tree. The man grunted, wrenching the blade free with a spray of woodchips. He was muscular, his linen shirt dark with sweat.

  "Papa!"

  The little girl laughed while holding up a handful of bright wildflowers. She ran toward him, her shoes thumping softly against the mossy forest floor.

  The man paused, resting the axe head against the ground. He wiped his brow with a forearm, smiling down at her. "Careful. Don't trip on the roots."

  “Look, Papa!” she beamed, thrusting the flowers toward him. “For you.”

  He reached out, his hand moving to take them.

  Snap.

  The sound came from the edge of the clearing. It wasn’t loud, just the crisp fracture of a dry branch under a boot, but in the quiet of the woods, it sounded like a gunshot.

  The birds stopped singing.

  The man’s smile evaporated. His hand dropped from the flowers to the haft of the axe. He turned his body, shielding the girl, his eyes locking onto the shadows between the trees.

  “Get behind me—quick,” he said, his voice low.

  The little girl froze, confusion clouding her face. She peered around his leg.

  A figure emerged from the shadows of the trees.

  She was an impossible sight in the wild: pristine, terrifyingly elegant, clad in ceremonial white vestments threaded with deep crimson silk that caught the light like wet blood.

  The woman stopped at the edge of the tree-line shadows. She looked past the man, her gaze fixing on the child with intensity.

  “Beautiful,” the woman said. Her voice was soft, yet disturbing. “I could taste the potential in her veins from afar. Vibrant… unspoiled.”

  “Who are you? Some kind of cultist?” the woodcutter barked, raising the axe. “We’re not too kind to strangers around here—especially those who hide in the shadows. Don’t come any closer. We don’t want any trouble.”

  The woman stopped and tilted her head, as if his aggression was a curiosity rather than a threat.

  “The design is set in motion,” she continued, her tone conversational, cold logic wrapped in religious fervor.“ To elevate filth-blood so it may achieve its potential. To force it to glimpse the true Source.”

  She paused, considering.

  “But we require… a test canvas.”

  She took one step forward.

  “A medium for ascension,” she murmured, her attention fixed not on the child, but on the blood beneath her skin. “Pure lineage introduced to mortal filth.”

  “What in the damned world are you talking about?” the woodcutter roared as he realized the canvas was referring to his child, the woman’s gaze fixed on her. “You’re not taking my daughter!”

  He braced his feet, swinging the heavy axe in a wide, warning arc. “Take one more step and I’ll split you in two. This is your last warning!”

  “Mortals are always so blind,” she said softly. “They mistake blood for flesh, and flesh for ownership.”

  There was a flash of crimson light—thin and sharp as a razor wire.

  The axe head fell to the moss with a dull thud.

  The man stood still for a heartbeat. Then, his torso slid diagonally off his hips. He collapsed into a wet, ruinous heap before he could even scream.

  The girl stared at the red mess that had been her father. Her mouth opened. The scream built in her chest, tearing at her throat—

  “Shhh. Now.”

  She was suddenly there, her hand clamping over the girl’s mouth. The pale priestess smiled, cold and beautiful.

  “Why are you screaming, filth-blood?” she whispered, leaning close. “Do you not see how beautiful this act is?”

  The girl looked into eyes that held no mercy.

  The little girl stared back, her eyes burning red with the vampire’s gaze.

  The world turned red.

  "NO!"

  Selene jolted upright, a gasp tearing from her lungs like she was drowning.

  CRACK-BOOM.

  Thunder shook the house, vibrating through the bed frame. A flash of lightning bleached the room white, casting stark, shivering shadows against the walls.

  Selene clutched the sheets her skin cold with sweat.

  Bang!

  The bedroom door flew open, hitting the wall with violence.

  Selis stood in the doorway. She was barefoot, wearing a simple nightgown, her brown hair wild and loose—but in her hands, Radiance and Shadowrend were drawn, the blades humming in the gloom.

  Her eyes were squeezed shut, yet her head snapped side to side, as if she were scanning the room.

  "Who is here?" Selis hissed, dropping into a low combat stance. "I heard a scream."

  Selene blinked, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She looked at Selis; looking like a vengeful angel ready to butcher an army in her sleepwear and let out a long exhale.

  “Everything is fine, Selis,” she breathed, raising a hand. “Put the swords away. You’re going to cut the doorframe.”

  Selis froze. Slowly, the tension drained from her shoulders. She lowered the twin blades but didn't sheath them.

  "You screamed," Selis said softly, stepping into the room. "It sounded... like you were dying."

  “I had a really bad dream. It felt so real,” Selene said, looking toward the window where the thunderstorm raged. “It was like I was remembering… remembering something.”

  "A dream?"

  “No—more like a memory. But not mine. I’m not sure,” Selene said. She rubbed her palms over her face, trying to scrub away the image of the woodcutter. “I saw a little girl in a forest. And I saw a vampire cut her father down like he was nothing.”

  Selis stood silent for a moment in the dark. “Maybe it was just a bad dream?”

  Outside, the thunder rolled again, a low, growling sound that faded into heavy silence.

  Selis hesitated, then nodded. “Try to sleep, Selene. Dawn is still far off, and we still need to find the porter. We don’t have much time—so they can rest in peace.”

  “Yes.” Selene stared at her hands, then closed them into fists. “You’re right.”

  Selis finally sheathed the blades, then backed out of the room, pulling the door closed with a soft click.

  Selene lay back down, but she didn’t close her eyes. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the thunder, feeling the phantom echo of a scream that had been silenced centuries ago.

  But across the river, in the twisting alleys of Lowtown.

  A shadow moved through the narrow streets, slipping between broken lanternlight and stone, drawing closer to a ramshackle house deep in Lowtown.

  The candle on the bedside table had burned down to a stubborn nub of wax, casting long, flickering shadows against the peeling plaster. Outside, the storm had finally broken over Lowtown. Rain lashed against the windowpane like handfuls of gravel, and the wind howled through the alleyways.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The mother smoothed the blanket over Faye’s shoulder, tucking the edges in tight. The little girl was already half-asleep, breathing in a soft, rhythmic whistle, but Ryn lay in the bed beside her, his eyes wide and fixed on the dark rectangle of the door.

  Rumble.

  A low growl of thunder vibrated through the floorboards, making the window glass shiver.

  "Is the door locked, Mama?" Ryn asked, his voice barely audible over the rain.

  Tessa smiled, though the lines of exhaustion around her eyes deepened. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead and kissed him there, lingering for a moment as the thunder rolled away.

  "Yes, Ryn," she said softly. "Nothing gets in here but the morning light. Now close your eyes."

  Ryn hesitated, listening to the rain, then nodded. He let his eyelids drift shut. "Night, Mama."

  "Goodnight, my loves."

  She straightened, picking up the candle and shielding the weak flame with her hand.

  She paused at the threshold, looking back at them one last time—two small shapes safe beneath the quilts. A heavy exhale left her chest. She turned to step into the dark hallway.

  She took one step.

  There was no scream. There was no struggle.

  There was only a sound like a wet, heavy fruit being smashed against stone—a sudden, violent thud followed instantly by a sharp hiss of fluid striking the floor.

  CRACK-BOOM.

  Thunder exploded directly overhead, shaking the entire tenement building. The noise was deafening, drowning out any gasp or cry that might have followed.

  Ryn jolted up. "Mama?"

  Silence stretched from the hallway as the thunder faded. Heavy. Absolute.

  "Mama...?" Ryn’s voice trembled. He shook Faye’s shoulder, waking her.

  "What... what is it?" Faye murmured, rubbing her eyes. "Is it the storm?"

  A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the hall.

  It glided into the doorframe, blocking the view of whatever lay beyond. The figure was tall and terrifyingly sleek, clad in a coat of lacquer-black. Gold filigree climbed the high collar, catching the dying light of the candle that flickered in the draft.

  Astraea stepped into the room.

  Her high boots made no sound on the floorboards. She looked down at her glove with mild boredom and flicked her wrist.

  "M-Mama?" Faye squeaked, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  Astraea raised her head. Her face was porcelain-pale, her lips stark against the white skin. Crimson eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, locking onto the children.

  "Hush, little one," Astraea said. Her voice was soft, a silken melody that cut through the sound of the rain. "Your mother is… resting. She has left you in my care now."

  Ryn blinked, his confusion momentarily warring with his fear. The voice sounded so calm. So elegant. He loosened his grip on Faye just slightly, squinting into the gloom.

  He whispered, his voice trembling with desperate hope. “Is Mama sleeping?”

  "Deeply," the voice purred.

  FLASH.

  Lightning seared the sky white, blazing through the window.

  For a split second, the room was bleached in stark, horrifying clarity. The light didn't just catch the gold filigree. It illuminated the wet, crimson slick painting the front of Astraea’s black coat. It shone on her chin, which was wet with red, and her gloves, which were dripping.

  She was drenched in their mother's life.

  The darkness snapped back instantly—but the image was burned into Ryn’s retinas.

  The confusion vanished. Ryn’s breath hitched in a choked sob, his eyes widening in the pitch black.

  He grabbed Faye, pulling her back against the headboard, his mouth opening to scream.

  "Ah-ah," Astraea whispered from the dark.

  Another flash of lightning lit, softer this time. She was closer now, leaning over the bed, a blood-soaked finger raised to her lips.

  "I think," she said, her red eyes narrowing with delight, "we shall play a game. A silence game."

  She smiled, revealing teeth that were too white, too sharp.

  “The first one to scream gets their blood drained.”

  Ryn slammed his hand over Faye’s mouth just as the scream rose in her throat.

  Astraea giggled—a soft, terrible sound.

  BOOM.

  Thunder roared again, and under the cover of the noise, the bedroom door clicked shut, sealing them inside.

  In the darkness, there was only the sound of breathing—quick, panicked, small. Then slower. Then softer.

  Then nothing at all.

  The sun rose over Veilmouth after the night’s thunderstorm. It crested the Veilspine peaks washing the Northern Bank in pale light.

  On the cobblestones of the upper streets, Garen exhaled a breath that turned to white mist in the chill air.

  He adjusted his grip on the heavy crate of alchemical glassware, the muscles in his neck straining as he navigated the final steps to the scholar’s townhouse. The wood bit into his calloused palms, but he didn't slow down. To slow down was to invite a lecture.

  "Careful! By the Circle, will you watch your footing?"

  The scholar—a spindly man with a nose that seemed permanently wrinkled in distaste—hovered three steps ahead.

  "Yes, sir," Garen grunted. He reached the landing and set the crate down with a gentle thud.

  The scholar immediately pried the lid open, inspecting the glass vials inside. Finding nothing broken, he looked disappointed. He fished in his coin purse and flicked a single silver coin toward Garen. It missed Garen’s hand and clinked onto the dirty street.

  Garen didn't complain. He bent down, retrieving the coin from the muck.

  “Next time,” the scholar sniffed, looking at Garen’s worn coat and dirt-streaked trousers, “try to look less like you’ve been rolling in the Lowtown gutters before you handle delicate instruments. It reflects poorly on the Athenaeum.”

  Garen wiped the coin on his trouser leg and pocketed it. “Yes, sir.”

  The door slammed in his face before he had finished the sentence.

  Garen stood there for a moment, staring at the polished wood. He rolled his shoulders, working out the knot of tension near his spine. It was morning, his back already hurt, and he had been insulted by a man who couldn't lift a sack of air.

  He turned to leave, head down, eyes on the pavement—and nearly walked into someone standing in the middle of the street.

  "Garen."

  He stopped. The voice was familiar—calm and low, lacking arrogance, more inviting than commanding. He looked up, squinting against the glare of the morning sun.

  It was the girl. Eldric’s daughter.

  "Selene?"

  He blinked, confusion furrowing his brow. It was her face: the same sharp chin, the same green eyes, but everything else was wrong. She was taller, somehow. Straighter. And her hair...

  The golden-brown locks he remembered were gone. Her hair was now a stark, flowing white, bright enough to hurt his eyes in the sunlight. It spilled over her shoulders like liquid silver.

  "Your... hair," Garen mumbled, gesturing vaguely near his own head.

  Selene reached up, touching a strand as if she had forgotten it was there. She lowered her hand quickly. “This is what stress does to you, Garen. What’s done is done.”

  Garen nodded slowly. That made sense to him—not that he knew anything different. Scholars were always meddling with things beyond him. It wasn’t his place to ask why.

  "You look well, though," Garen said, politeness kicking in. "Did you need Professor Eldric? He is—"

  "I’m not looking for Eldric," Selene cut in. Her voice was steady, but there was a weight to it that made Garen straighten up. She looked at the townhouse door, then back to him, her eyes noting the dust on his knees where he’d knelt for the coin. "I have a job for you. I need your help to dig."

  Garen sighed, shifting his weight. "What is it that we are digging?"

  "Graves," Selene said. "And I pay fairly. Better than him." She tilted her head toward the scholar's house.

  Garen looked at her. She wasn’t acting like a girl anymore. She wasn’t the timid girl from before..

  He looked at his hands, rough and scarred, then down the street toward the river, where Lowtown’s scattered smoke was already rising to choke part of the sky. He needed the coin. He always needed the coin.

  He let out a short, dry breath.

  "It’s just the way things are," he muttered.

  He looked back at her and nodded. "Where are we going?"

  “Not far—to the cemetery,” Selene said. She turned, her white hair catching the wind. “Follow me.”

  The grounds were quiet, enclosed by high fences that kept the clamor of the Northern Bank at bay. Here, the grass was manicured, and the headstones were thick slabs of stone carved into intricate shapes, some even bearing figures like marble sculptures—unlike the rotting wooden crosses that sank into the mud of the Lowtown boneyards.

  Selene paused at the entrance, her silver eyes scanning the endless rows of white stone.

  “You know what the Athenaeum calls this place?” Her voice was low, cutting through the silence.

  Garen shook his head, shifting the heavy spade on his shoulder.

  “The Stone Archive,” she said. “As if death is just another thing to be cataloged. Can you believe that?”

  Garen felt like an intruder. Dirt from the street still clung to his boots, staining the pristine path as he followed Selene toward the eastern edge of the grounds, where the old trees cast long, melancholy shadows.

  Two simple wooden coffins lay directly on the grass, sitting slightly askew as if they had been unloaded in haste. They were plain pine, unpolished and smelling of fresh resin—far too simple for the surrounding structures.

  Selene stopped before a tall, weathered headstone. The name carved into the stone was Elara, her dates faded by years of rain. Beside her grave, the grass was untouched.

  “Here,” Selene said softly. She looked at the two boxes resting on the ground, then back to the empty space beside the headstone. “Can you dig? Deep enough for two?”

  Garen looked at the heavy pine boxes, then at the ground. He didn't ask who was inside.

  He saw a rusted spade leaning against the weathered headstone and a coil of rough hemp rope hanging from a tool hook. He walked over, grabbed the spade, and weighed it in his hands.

  "I can do it," Garen said.

  "Thank you," Selene murmured. She seemed to be looking through the wood of the coffins rather than at them. "I will return in the afternoon. I... have preparations to make."

  She turned and left without another word, her white hair vanishing through the cemetery gates.

  Garen spat on his hands, gripped the spade, and broke the earth.

  The work was brutal. The ground here was rocky, resisting the blade with every thrust. The sun climbed higher, burning the mist off the Northern Bank, and soon Garen was drenched in sweat, his muscles aching with each swing of the spade.

  Thud. Scrape. Toss.

  By the time the holes were deep enough, his hands were trembling.

  Getting them into the ground was the hardest part. Garen had to drag the heavy boxes to the edge of the pit one by one. He looped the hemp rope under the wood, bracing his heels against the loose dirt, grunting as he lowered the Professor down to rest beside his wife. The rope burned his palms, the weight nearly pulling him in with it.

  Next came the smaller box.

  Garen breathed heavily, his chest heaving, his boots slipping on the piled earth.

  Filling them back up was faster, but heavier. The sound of the first shovel-load of dirt hitting the wooden lid echoed in the silence—a hollow, finalized thump.

  By late afternoon, the sky had turned a bruised purple and burnt orange.

  Garen sat on the grass, his legs sprawled out, his hands resting on his knees. He was utterly spent.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel.

  Selene approached, carrying a small wooden bucket and a bundle of white windflowers. She didn’t speak immediately. She handed the bucket to him.

  "Water," she said.

  Garen took it, drinking greedily. The water was cool and clean. "Thank you," he croaked, wiping his mouth.

  Selene knelt by the fresh mounds. She placed the flowers carefully. She stayed there for a long moment, her hand pressing into the loose dirt, her head bowed. She didn't cry. She just looked… hollowed out. Like a ruin herself.

  Finally, she stood and brushed the dirt from her palms. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavy pouch, offering it to Garen and letting the coins spill into his palm.

  Garen looked down. Ten silver coins glinted in the dying light.

  His eyes widened. He sat up straighter, ignoring the protest of his muscles. "Selene… this is… this is too much. Two would have been fair."

  This was months of rent. Food for many seasons.

  "You earned it," Selene said, her voice brooking no argument. "You gave them a resting place when I couldn't."

  She looked down at him, her green eyes reflecting the sunset.

  “I have one more job, Garen. It involves carrying equipment.” She paused, gauging him. “The pay would be enough that you’d never have to carry another crate for a scholar again. You could finally rest.”

  Garen stared at the silver in his hand, then up at the young woman who looked like a ghost. Stop working? The words felt foreign in his mouth. He looked at the fresh graves, then at his own scarred knuckles.

  He let out a short, dry breath.

  "It’s just the way things are," he said quietly.

  He pocketed the coins and used the spade to haul himself to his feet. He dusted off.

  "I'm ready."

  Selene’s lips curved in a faint, fleeting smile.

  "Come with me," she said.