Lucius swung his sword hard, the steel slicing clean through the vampire’s left shoulder with a wet crunch. The creature shrieked—a sound caught between a man’s scream and an animal’s snarl—as it stumbled back, blackened blood spraying across the dirt. Its victim, another imperial soldier, lay dead beneath it, his teary eyes were dead and lifeless and his throat was torn wide.

  The outpost was in complete ruin.

  The flames spread through the wooden palisades, devouring beams and walkways like a living thing. Sparks flickered in the smoke-thick air, ash falling along with the winter snow. The fire painted everything in shifting shades of orange and red, turning the skirmish into a vision of hell.

  Imperial soldiers fought desperately, blades clashing against claws and teeth. The vampires moved fast—too fast—darting in and out of the shadows, their pale faces smeared with blood.

  Lucius didn’t have time to think. He parried a strike from another attacker, the force rattling up his arm, then shoved the creature back with his shield. It hissed at him, mouth pulled into a jagged smile, before leaping at another soldier nearby.

  Screams echoed from every direction. Men cried out for aid, for orders. But still, the fire climbed higher, lighting the carnage in flickering, uneven bursts.

  One vampire caught Lucius’s eye—lithe, fast, and dead set on him. It sprinted straight through the fire-lit chaos, fangs bared, blood still dripping from its mouth.

  Lucius braced himself.

  As the creature leapt, he dropped low and raised his sword in one smooth motion. The vampire flew right into the blade.

  A sickening ‘shhhk!’ tore through the air as the steel cleaved through its arm, severing it at the elbow. The creature let out a shriek of pure rage and pain, twisting midair as a spray of dark blood fanned across Lucius’s armour and the dirt at his feet.

  The dismembered limb hit the ground with a thud. The creature shrieked in agony, its severed stump clutching at empty air. Through the howl, it cried out—its voice guttural and broken—for the others.

  Two nearby vampires snapped their heads toward Lucius, and two nearby vampires snapped their heads toward Lucius, their red, slit-pupiled eyes locking onto him like predators scenting fresh prey. There was nothing human in their gaze—only a calculated hunger in their body movements as they began to circle.

  Lucius tightened his grip on his sword, and breathed steady. He adjusted his stance, mending his guard, and blade poised.

  He didn’t blink. He just let them come.

  The first vampire clutched what looked like a bloodied club, jagged nails driven through the head of it like a makeshift mace. The second dragged a length of chain behind it, the links rattling ominously with every step.

  Lucius didn’t wait.

  He charged, fast and direct, boots pounding against the scorched earth. As the club-wielding vampire pounced, Lucius pivoted low and brought his knee up, posturing himself.

  In one flawless motion, he drove his boot upward into the vampire’s descending skull—catching it just under the chin.

  Crack.

  The impact drove the creature’s head backward into its own collarbone with a sickening crunch, the force collapsing its ribcage and crushing its heart. The vampire dropped like a stone, dead before it even hit the ground.

  The second vampire—the one with the chain—went wide-eyed with horror. For the first time in its cursed life, it hesitated.

  But only for a heartbeat.

  Snarling, it snapped out of it and lunged forward, whipping the chain toward Lucius in a desperate attempt to strike before he could recover his stance.

  “Too slow!” Lucius shouted, with the adrenaline now taking full effect.

  Lucius dove beneath the strike, the chain slicing through the air, only just above his head. He rolled back to his feet with clear precision—faster than the vampire expected.

  Its eyes widened again. The creature was used to humans staying down.

  But Lucius didn’t give it the chance to rethink. With a sharp pivot and a powerful step forward, he drove his sword straight through the vampire’s chest, the blade piercing bone and shadowed flesh alike.

  The creature let out a gurgling gasp, red eyes dimming as it stumbled back—then fell.

  Lucius couldn’t believe the way he was fighting.

  His movements felt foreign—too sharp, too fast, too efficient. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears like a war drum, yet time itself seemed to slow around him. The roar of the flames, the stench of burning wood and blood, the mangled bodies of friend and foe alike—it all blurred into something surreal.

  Like a dream he couldn’t wake up from.

  He staggered back a step, sword slick with black blood, trying to catch his breath. Smoke curled around him like ghostly fingers. Screams rang out in the distance, some cut off too suddenly.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  It wouldn’t matter who he told about this—no one would ever believe him. Not the way the vampires moved. Not the things he saw.

  And now, even as his instincts screamed to keep fighting, something colder, sharper cut through the noise.

  The fight was lost.

  The fire had consumed most of the outpost. The cries of his comrades were growing fewer… and farther apart.

  Nothing could save them now.

  Lucius looked toward the tree line—now clearly visible through the charred skeletons of what had once been the outpost’s wooden palisades. Nothing remained but smouldering ash and jagged stumps.

  Then he looked back.

  The chaos raged behind him. Screams. Fire. Shadows darting between the flames. His comrades—his brothers in arms—were being torn apart.

  His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his blade.

  He was outnumbered. Fifteen to one, maybe more. Staying meant dying—and not quickly.

  He turned and ran.

  Snow had begun to fall, thin at first, then heavier with each stride. The once-green grass was slowly vanishing beneath a blanket of white, the flames at his back casting a flickering glow across the falling flakes.

  Lucius ran faster. Branches whipped past him, breath steaming in the freezing air. His armour clinked with every step, but the forest swallowed the sound as he pushed forward.

  After a few minutes, he risked a glance over his shoulder.

  Nothing. No figures in pursuit. He was alone.

  His feet carried him toward the village—the one he’d been sent to survey earlier that day. It was the only place left he could go. The only place that might still be safe.

  The snow thickened as he ran, swirling around him in heavy, windblown gusts. It clung to his armour and lashes, numbing his face with each step. The night was deep and shadowed, visibility fading fast—but still, somehow, he could see. Shapes. Movement. The faint outline of the path ahead, just enough to keep going.

  At last, Lucius reached the village.

  Just like before, it felt... wrong, distorted.

  The huts leaned at odd angles, their thatched roofs sagging like slumped shoulders. The animal pens were still empty, abandoned, with gates hanging loosely from broken hinges. No sound. No movement. Only the hollow hush of falling snow.

  There was no real surprise in the silence—he hadn’t expected life here. And yet, something about it chilled him more than the cold ever could.

  He approached one of the smaller huts—clay walls patched with crumbling cobblestone, straw roof dark with damp—and slipped inside, hoping for shelter.

  The warmth was still nonexistent, but at least it would shield him from the wind. Lucius lowered himself to the floor, exhaling hard, his breath curling in front of him like smoke. For now, at least, he was safe.

  Still gripping the hilt of his sword, Lucius moved deeper into the hut, his boots crunching softly on the packed earth floor. A small wooden table sat in the centre, surrounded by three uneven chairs—handmade, but barely holding together. He made for it, hoping to catch his breath, and just get back some of his energy.

  But before he reached it, he stepped over a thick, plain piece of cloth spread across the floor. Its faded colour and rough texture suggested it was meant to be a rug—or maybe just a dust mat.

  As his boot pressed down, something shifted beneath it, it was clearly hard, and even misshapen.

  A sharp clank rang out—metal against metal.

  Though the sound had caught him off guard, Lucius didn’t panic. He rose from the carpet with steady hands, stepped aside, and pulled the thick cloth fully back. And beneath it was a hatch.

  Weather-worn wood framed an iron handle, its surface dulled by age but still solid. However, a light flicker of light could be seen through the cracks of the hatch door.

  He cautiously gripped the handle, gave it a firm pull, and the hatch groaned open on stiff, reluctant hinges.

  But just as the seal broke, a faint sound drifted up, it was clearly a groan.

  Followed by a voice—soft, shaken. “H-Hello...?” Lucius froze.

  It was a young woman’s voice, trembling and fragile, the kind of tone that begged for help—but he’d seen enough in the last few hours to know that sound could be a trick, a trap.

  Sword tight in both hands, Lucius jumped down into the dimly lit opening below, landing with a crouch. The moment his boots hit the ground, he raised his blade and angled his stance, ready for anything.

  But it wasn’t a trap.

  As Lucius’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, the outlines began to take shape.

  At the far end of the hidden room, nestled behind stacked crates and clay jars, was a modest stockpile—food, water, enough to survive.

  And in front of it, barely lit by the sliver of light from the open hatch above, was a girl.

  Young. Small. Scared.

  And covered in cuts and bruises.

  Her arms were scratched, likely from brush or broken wood. A dark bruise bloomed along her collarbone, and a thin line of dried blood traced down from her forehead. Her silver hair was tangled, streaked with dirt and ash clung to her tear-streaked face.

  She was trembling—not from the cold but from fear. In her hands, clutched tightly and awkwardly, was a dagger wrapped in cloth, its blade barely visible, but glinting faintly in the shadows.

  She didn’t speak again.

  Just stared at him, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

  Lucius lowered his sword—just a little.

  He’d never seen someone so young with white hair.

  It wasn’t the pale blonde of a northern child or the faded grey of age—it was stark, silvery-white, catching even the low light like spun frost.

  How? Lucius thought, his grip tightening slightly around his sword. There was no answer. Just the question hanging there, heavy and strange.

  She didn’t look older than ten, and yet her eyes... they carried something ancient.

  Their eyes stayed locked—hers wide and wary, he’s cautious but softening.

  Slowly, deliberately, Lucius lowered his sword. The steel tip dipped toward the wood floor, scraping faintly before he let go completely. The weapon settled against the ground with a muted clatter, no longer a threat.

  The girl watched him, eyes flicking briefly to the sword at his feet—then back to him.

  Slowly, and with trembling fingers, she mirrored his gesture. Her grip loosened around the cloth-wrapped dagger. Inch by inch, she set it down beside her—not far, just close enough to grab if she had to.

  Neither of them spoke. Or even move.

  The silence between them stretched, thick as the cold air, but not empty. It pulsed with everything they didn’t yet know about each other—fear, curiosity, a fragile and growing flicker of something like understanding.

  They just stared, each waiting for the other to blink first.