The night deepened, and the moon hung silently in the sky like a silver eye, cold and indifferent, casting its pale, merciless light. Between the mountains, cold mist swirled, and the drooping branches resembled the fingers of the dying. At the foot of the hills, hidden in a decaying forest, lay an ancient manor long abandoned by both time and mankind.
Deep within the manor, an ancient stone coffin, carved with worn patterns, began to tremble.
Dust and cracks marred the lid, and the surrounding air froze as if time itself had been stilled. A faint, bluish light leaked from the narrow seam, bringing with it a shuddering chill—and the faint, intoxicating scent of blood.
Crash—
The lid suddenly slid off, breaking the silence with a deep, grating noise. A pale, slender hand reached out from the darkness, the fingers long and sharply defined, nails gleaming faintly red like polished blades.
Slowly, he sat up. His golden-red eyes flickered in the darkness, glowing faintly like a beast stirring from the depths of the abyss. His long hair fell loose over sunken cheeks, and his skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent. His gaze was dazed at first, but as the night breeze brushed past, his pupils contracted slightly.
"So...hungry."
It was the first sound he made after a hundred years of slumber.
His name was Cyril Carvain, the last of a pureblood vampire lineage—Carvain—a house that had long been wiped from history by the alliance of the Church and vampire hunters. His name had vanished from every hunter's archive, as if it had never existed.
But Cyril had survived. Sealed by his parents within this forsaken cemetery, entombed in a stone sarcophagus, he had evaded the great purge.
And now, he was awake—not for vengeance, not for memory—but for blood.
Hunger gnawed at him, a raging fire devouring his very being. He staggered out of the coffin, every movement heavy, as if his soul had yet to fully return. His body trembled under the weight of thirst and the backlash of his reawakening power, every nerve taut with feral craving.
At the forest's edge, a scent struck him—a scent so sweet and pure it nearly blinded him.
He froze. In the next instant, his body tensed like a drawn bow.
Blood.Fresh, warm, untainted.A fragrance more tempting than anything in the world.
He moved like a shadow, soundless and swift, weaving through the underbrush. The chill night wind clawed at his tattered cloak, branches scraping against his cold skin. And then — he saw her.
A girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, sat alone on a grassy slope at the forest's edge. She wore a pale blue dress and cradled a bundle of freshly picked wildflowers. She frowned slightly, examining a tiny cut on her fingertip. A few drops of blood welled up, glistening like rubies under the moonlight.
Cyril's gaze locked onto the blood.His throat tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed in reflex. His pupils constricted sharply.
He lunged without hesitation.
In an instant, he seized the girl by her delicate neck, pinning her against the ground. Her bright eyes widened in shock, reflecting the night and his face.
And then — his fangs sank in.
Warm blood rushed into his mouth, saturating his senses like rain upon parched earth. He drank greedily, leaving not a single drop behind. The taste was sweet beyond imagining, but it was more than mere flavor.
It was her fear.
It was the purity and terror in her eyes.
That expression — so innocent, so bewildered, so desperate — was devastatingly beautiful, and he found himself utterly addicted. As if, in draining her life, he could also consume the purity of her soul.
When he finally released her, her body had gone cold. A faint smile still lingered on her lips, delicate and sorrowful, like the first bloom of spring withering before its time.
Cyril crouched low, studying her with an unreadable expression. A bloodstained smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He made no attempt to hide his satisfaction—it was a joy born of instinct, of conquest.
From that night onward, Cyril found himself unable to resist.
He began his own private hunts — only for young girls.
Not merely because their blood was the sweetest, but because their eyes held the clearest, purest reflections of fear.He never touched the elderly, never drank from animals. He considered their blood vile, dirty, unworthy.As a proud pureblood of the Carvain lineage, he refused to debase himself like the lowly vampires who scavenged in back alleys.
While others gorged on drunks and beggars, Cyril chose his prey with elegance and precision.
After more than a month of careful observation, he understood the power his handsome face held over women.
He learned how to approach gently, to lure them in without a hint of threat. He spoke softly, even smiled sweetly. He used charm and warmth to lower their guard — and then,
Kiss, bite, farewell.
He had fallen in love with those dying gazes — the pleading, crystal-clear stares that could mirror the moon itself.
At the end of each night, Cyril would silently return to the abandoned manor, lying once more within his cracked stone coffin, patiently awaiting the next descent of darkness.