The forest hadn't breathed since he arrived. Not even a bird dared whisper.
He walked away, boots silent against the forest floor, yet every step weighed heavier than the last.
As he reached the edge of the trees, a distant shout cracked the stillness.
Another scream.
His head snapped toward the sound. It came from the eastern path—closer to the main village. Faster this time. Louder.
He vanished into mist, reappearing at the edge of the crowd that had already formed.
"Gasps broke the air.
Cries followed.
Confusion spread like fire across dry leaves."
The villagers parted slightly as he stepped forward. They recognized him, and though none dared speak to him directly, they welcomed the quiet strength in his presence.
A man lay twisted on the dirt path, chest heaving shallowly. His shirt soaked red at the collar.
Mouth open, blood bubbling faintly.
Eyes wide in frozen horror.
And there it was again.
The mark.
Small, circular, pressed into the skin just below the jaw. Not a clean bite like a vampire's—more like a nail, twisted, unnatural. The same ridged imprint. The same bruising spread outward like ink in water.
The vampire crouched beside the man. Still breathing.
Barely.
"Exactly the same," he thought, inspecting the edges of the wound. "But not fatal this time. Sloppy… or deliberate?"
The man shuddered. His lips parted.
"Dark… dark mouth… in the forest…" he croaked.
Then he convulsed.
The vampire placed a hand over his chest, letting a thin pulse of his own energy pass through.
It didn't help.
Whatever had touched this man—it wasn't feeding like a vampire. It wasn't killing like a beast. It was infecting.
Changing.
The villagers whispered louder now.
"Is it a curse?"
"Another demon?"
"Should we call the priests again?"
He stood and stepped back, his gaze sweeping across their fearful faces.
"Two attacks in two days. Same mark. Same fear."
Then, with a sudden chill: "It's not just watching anymore. It's testing."
He looked toward the hills where the trees thinned into shadows.
"Whatever you are… you're waking up."
"Sleep eluded him—not for lack of trying, but because rest demanded peace, and something inside him stirred too restlessly for that."
He sat by the window, ancient book open in his lap—but unread.
Outside, the village slumbered under a moonless sky. Yet something moved beyond the ordinary. Something unseen, but deeply felt.
The first sign came with the dogs.
Normally fierce and loud, they fell silent. Then one by one, they began to howl—not like a warning, but in mournful, trembling cries. Each note lingered too long, like they mourned something only they could sense.
Then came the crows.
At dawn, a dozen of them circled above the church steeple, their wings casting crooked shadows across the square. They didn't caw. Just circled, restless, as if trying to escape a place that wouldn't let them.
Children complained of nightmares.
"My brother talks in his sleep now," whispered a baker's apprentice. "He says something about a black face in the woods."
"She's not been the same," murmured an old woman about her granddaughter. "She wakes with dirt on her feet."
Inside the tavern, spoons dropped from hands. Drinks spilled and stayed untouched.
Nobody laughed anymore.
Even the fire in the hearth flickered strangely—no longer golden, but flickering pale as if reluctant to burn.
And then there were the whispers.
Not loud. Not constant. But real.
They came at dusk, when the wind pressed against windows. A voice like crackling leaves… or dried lips too close to the ear.
"Come closer."
"Open the door."
"Let me see."
He heard them too.
But only when he stood completely still.
"You don't belong here," the voice whispered once—low and rustling, as if the forest itself was speaking through broken teeth.
That was when he bolted the windows.
And began lighting warding incense at dusk.
Not because he feared the voice.
But because something in its tone wasn't unfamiliar.
Something old. And personal.
He knew now—it wasn't just any spirit.
It wasn't a mindless curse.
This… thing…
It knew him.
And it had come back.
The room was dim, lit only by a single brass oil lamp flickering against stone walls. Dust hung motionless in the air. The vampire sat on the cold wooden floor, legs crossed in ritual stillness, spine straight like a practiced monk.
Before him lay a book—massive, bound in weathered black hide. Its corners were frayed. Its pages brittle with age, like ash pressed into parchment.
He opened it gently, reverently.
"Ortanis… Kyrel ven'as mor'dul…" he whispered.
The words scraped against his throat. The language of the dead always did.
His eyes scanned lines etched in ink so dark it seemed to sink into the page. Symbols not meant to be spoken outside of ancient sanctums danced before him—part script, part sigil, part wound.
He pressed his thumb to a carved rune on the inner cover. Blood welled. The page responded—glowing faint gold, then fading.
He took a breath and began reading aloud.
"Thal erun kha'nael,
Krov se thir malus,
Zan'aethor, vekh tal'rien—
The shadow walks where light has fled."
The language pulsed as it left his lips.
"The words didn't bounce—they vanished, devoured by walls that had heard darker incantations long before his time."
The walls seemed to lean inward.
"The page resisted him—dry, brittle. His fingers, steady in battle, now quivered with recognition."
These words were not foreign to him.
He had once spoken them under a black sun, kneeling before a council of beings that no longer walked the world.
"I sealed you with hands I no longer recognize… under a sky the world forgot.Long ago."
His fingers grazed a particular passage.
"That which sleeps in broken mirrors,
Feeds on thought, drinks from fear,
When the gate of whispers opens wide,
Blood shall mark the second seer."
He repeated it aloud.
This time louder.
"Sae'ril dus var'ek…
Nemor fae'lur en'durien."
The flame in the lamp hissed.
A line of cold crawled down his spine.
"No," he muttered, closing the book halfway, then reconsidering. "Not yet…"
He flipped forward, seeking a cross-reference. His mind moved faster now. Symbols clicking into place. Lines connecting like threads across centuries.
"This is no ordinary haunting," he said aloud, voice dry, measured.
"It's a summoning."
And someone—or something—had answered.
"Far beyond the hills, something smiled where no face should be."
He paused, eyes narrowing as he reread the passage, a whisper falling from his lips as if echoing across time.
"When three marks are laid,
And the blood moon weeps,
The lost name shall return."
He didn't speak after that.
He just stared at the ancient words as if they might blink first.
"There were no words left—only the weight of what he had once buried and what now crawled back toward the surface."