In the center of Iskareth, beneath the dull light of an oil lantern, Eamon paced near the outpost gates. His hands trembled, though he tried to keep them still. Something felt wrong. Terribly wrong. The air was heavier than before. It tasted like ash. It smelled like something dead had walked past him. He knew this feeling all too well.
The dark presence.
His heartbeat quickened. A cold shiver ran down his spine. It was close. Closer than ever.
"Arthur," he whispered to himself.
He turned to the soldiers standing nearby. Their silver armor clanked lightly as they stood at ease. Eamon didn't wait for permission.
"I have to go," he said sharply.
One soldier stepped forward. "Sir, go where? We're under strict orders to remain—"
"I said I'm going into the forest. Follow me if you want, but I'm not waiting."
He dashed off before another word could be uttered. His boots struck the ground in a wild rhythm, crunching through gravel and damp grass. The cold wind slapped his face as trees rushed past him. Every instinct screamed danger, every step fueled by the dread clawing at his chest.
The soldiers called after him, confused but still loyal. After exchanging glances, they followed, though they struggled to keep up.
Eamon ran faster. His body moved as if it already knew the path. He weaved through narrow trails, jumped over roots, and ducked under low branches. His cloak flared behind him like a shadow chasing itself.
Meanwhile, Arthur lay in agony beneath a twisted pine tree. His vision blurred with pain. Blood soaked his clothes and pooled beneath him. His arms twitched uselessly. Every nerve in his body screamed. He couldn't move. Not even a finger.
Then the red blade came again.
The killer, grinning, plunged the blood sword straight through Arthur's chest.
Arthur screamed. His voice cracked like broken glass.
The pain was unimaginable. It felt as if fire itself had been poured into his ribs. The sword didn't pierce his heart. It missed—barely.
"Ohhh," the killer said, laughing, "painful, isn't it?"
He crouched beside Arthur, tilting his head like a curious bird. "Don't worry. I avoided your heart on purpose. I want you alive a little longer. I haven't even begun torturing you yet."
Arthur groaned, unable to speak. Tears streamed down his face as the pain drilled through his chest.
The killer grabbed Arthur's hand. Without warning, he twisted and broke the index finger. A sharp snap echoed through the forest.
Arthur screamed again.
He couldn't believe the amount of pain his body was holding.
"Why?" Arthur managed to gasp. "Why did you kill my father?"
The killer raised an eyebrow. "Let me think. Hmm. Oh yes. Because he was a self-righteous fool. Like you. He told me to stop killing people. He thought he could change me."
Arthur clenched his teeth. "So… you killed him… for trying to stop you from murdering innocent people?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" the killer said with glee. "That's exactly it! See, people like him always think they can fix monsters. But they can't."
"You sick bastard," Arthur hissed. "I will kill you."
The killer's eyes lit up. He grinned wide.
"By the way," he said, leaning in, "the name's Winston. The man who apparently killed both your father figures. Isn't that hilarious?"
He stamped on Arthur's leg hard.
Arthur screamed once more. His leg throbbed with unbearable pain.
Winston laughed. His wounds from earlier had already vanished. The cuts across his chest and arms were now smooth, pale skin.
"See that?" he asked. "All healed. Pureblood vampires don't stay hurt for long. That's our gift."
Suddenly, Winston froze. His ears twitched. His head turned slightly to one side.
He heard something.
Footsteps. Many of them. Dozens. Approaching fast.
"Tch," Winston muttered. "What a bother."
He stood up, shaking his head.
"Sorry, boy," he said. "Looks like I'll have to leave for now. But let's meet again. Tomorrow night, same place. If you're still alive and have enough guts left, come find me. But don't bring the army. If you do, I vanish. And you'll never see the face of the man who killed your fathers again."
Arthur coughed, blood trickling from his lips. "I will come. I'll find you. And I will kill you."
Winston chuckled. "Guess you are a fool after all."
And with that, he vanished into the forest shadows.
A few hundred meters away, Eamon skidded to a stop. He looked around, eyes wide.
He turned to the soldiers panting behind him.
"You go right," he ordered. "Circle around and look for signs of attack."
"But what about you, sir?" one of them asked.
"I know where he is. Don't follow me from here."
Eamon took the left path, a narrow trail wrapped in thorns. He sprinted ahead, heart pounding louder than ever.
Finally, through the trees, he saw a figure lying on the ground.
"Arthur!"
He ran to him, dropped to his knees beside him. Arthur's face was pale. Blood covered everything.
"Arthur?" Eamon whispered. "Arthur, hey, are you okay? Talk to me. Damn it, talk to me!"
Arthur moved his lips slowly. "That… bastard… he's too strong."
Eamon scanned his body. The sword wound. The broken hand. The crushed leg. His friend was barely alive.
"Where's Skarn?" he asked. "Is he still here? Did he get hurt?"
Arthur groaned. "He came to protect me. Got hurt. But he's okay now. He ran into the woods."
Eamon gritted his teeth. "You fools. You absolute fools. I told you not to fight him alone."
Arthur coughed. "I'm sorry… I need blood… Eamon… I need it now. Or I'll die."
Eamon froze.
"What?"
"Just a little. I need to drink a little of your blood. It won't hurt you. Please… I'll heal if I drink."
Eamon's eyes widened. He took a step back.
His thoughts raced. He couldn't let Arthur drink his blood. The curse wasn't just inside him. It was part of his body. His soul. Even his blood. If Arthur drank from him, he would die. No question.
But he couldn't say that.
He couldn't reveal the curse. Not yet.
Arthur looked at him, confused.
Eamon turned away.
"Wait here," he said quickly. "I'll bring someone. Someone from the village."
Arthur winced. "Why not just… give me some of your blood?"
"I can't," Eamon said, trying to sound firm. "Sorry. Just wait. I'll find someone fast."
Before Arthur could speak again, Eamon ran. His cloak flared behind him as he vanished into the trees, leaving his injured friend behind.
The forest fell silent again, broken only by Arthur's labored breathing.
And the moon continued to rise.