I woke up thinking about her.
Her.
The moonlight on her face.
Her eyes.
The way the silence seemed to bend around her, as if the world itself paused to watch her.
I should have asked her name last night.
I could have.
I didn't.
I hesitated.
And now… all I have is regret.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and shivered. Winter had no patience. The cold cut through my clothes, my skin, my very bones, sharp and unrelenting. Survival did not allow for hesitation, for regret. It demanded action.
I dressed quickly, pulling my coat tight around me, and reached for the axe I had leaned against the wall. Its weight in my hands was familiar, grounding, almost comforting. I stepped outside into the storm. Snow fell thickly, thick enough to swallow every trace of the path ahead. The sun was hidden behind endless clouds. Light could not reach the ground. The world looked gray and dim, as though it had forgotten the morning.
The cold sank deeper than skin. It crawled through my blood, into my chest, into my lungs. Each step was deliberate. Each breath a small victory. The forest waited ahead, dark, thick, and silent. And I had to go there. I had to survive.
This world was not meant for humans alone.
Elves thrived deep within the forests, moving with speed and grace, living centuries without aging. Half-breeds walked between worlds, part human, part something else, rejected by both, hunted by all. Other creatures faster, stronger, far deadlier moved through the shadows. Powers, abilities, gifts humans could never have. And yet… we endured. We survived. That was our strength. Our curse. Our only true gift.
I had learned that the hard way.
I had lived in a village once. A small cluster of houses, the smell of woodsmoke and bread, children running in the streets, laughter filling the air. My father worked endlessly, hands torn and bleeding, never a complaint on his lips. My mother smiled through every hardship, her warmth holding our home together even when everything else fell apart. My siblings were loud, chaotic, alive. My friends foolish, careless, loyal stayed by my side through every scrape and argument.
I had laughed at the old man who came to the village long before that night.
"Vampires," he warned. "They are real. They hunt. They kill. No one will survive if they strike."
We mocked him. Ignored him. Scoffed at the stories he carried like a burden he wanted to share.
And then… they came.
The night was quiet first. Too quiet.
Then the screams.
The flashes of movement I couldn't comprehend. Shadows that tore through homes, through people, faster than the eye could follow. They moved like death itself, silent and relentless. No one could see them until it was too late. People ran, fought, screamed and fell. My parents, my siblings, my friends… gone in an instant. I ran. I ran until my legs burned, until my lungs screamed for air, until snow covered my body and world and memory blurred together.
And then… I collapsed.
When I woke, I was in a small house, warm, with a fire crackling in the hearth and a strange, gentle voice speaking over me.
"You survived," the old man said softly. "The rest… they did not. You are lucky. But remember… they will come again."
He told me about the vampires. How they struck villages, how they preyed on humans and other species alike, how they were more than legend, more than myth. He spoke of their cruelty and cunning, of how the villagers had ignored the warning signs, laughed at his words, and sealed their fate with disbelief. His voice was calm, but I could feel the weight of every word.
I stayed with him. He cared for me, taught me how to live again. How to survive. How to earn a meal cutting wood, how to mend clothes, how to endure pain without breaking. I learned that life after horror was still life, and that survival was a skill as sharp as any sword or claw. When he died, he left me the house. The responsibility of existence fell to me, and I bore it willingly, because it was all I had.
Now, years later, I walked through the forest again. Snow fell heavily, muffling every sound, softening the edges of the world into white silence. The trees loomed like dark sentinels, their branches heavy with snow, bending under the weight. The wind whispered through the pines, carrying the scent of cold earth and frozen pine resin. Everything felt still. Too still.
A sound.
Something weak.
Something small.
I froze. My heart thudded painfully.
And there it was.
A little fox. Its fur matted with blood, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Amber eyes wide with pain, I couldn't see that.
I crouched slowly.
"Easy little thing… I'm not going to hurt you."
I tore a small piece of bread I had brought and placed it near its mouth. The fox hesitated, then slowly, carefully, it ate. I wrapped its injured leg with a strip of cloth, moving as gently as I could.
"Hang in there…" I whispered.
Then.
Behind me.
A presence.
Tall. Pale. Silent.
I froze.
Slowly… I turned.
Long white hair fell over frayed, worn clothes. Eyes locked onto mine. Skin pale against the snow.
It smiled.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Fangs. Long. Blood-stained.
My heart stopped.
I wasn't a child.
I wasn't surviving.
And it knew that.