Where the gods rarely listened.
The mist lived there.
Sometimes it breathed against your neck. Sometimes it waited. It never came all at once, but in pieces—tendrils first, tasting the air, testing your fear. Then thicker. Heavier. Until you couldn’t remember the shape of the trail you came from, or the name you answered to.
I felt it then—the first brush along my arm. A chill threading under my coat.
For a breath, I was a child again—huddled between rows of brittle scrolls in the farthest corner of Synnex’s library, the candlelight barely holding back the dark as the Elders whispered warnings to those of us foolish enough to listen.
I remembered the illustrations most. Grotesque sketches etched in fading ink.
Children, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, pulled by the ankles into the fog. Mothers clawing at the mist, their fingernails trailing ribbons through smoke. Faces pressed against a curtain of white—mouths open, but no sound reaching through.
Their screams, they said, were still out there. Just… waiting.
A surge of energy rippled through the fog. My pulse followed its rhythm—too fast, too loud—and I clenched my fists, fighting the pull.
Not now. Stay here. Stay in the present.
But memories had teeth, and they sank deep when I least expected it, dragging me backward into moments I thought I’d buried.
The mist closed in, slipping through the cracks in my mind. My vision wavered. I forced a long breath out. If I didn’t get this under control, it would get me killed.
Leather bit into my palms as I tightened my grip. My chest cinched. I quickened my pace toward the gates, boots crunching through snow.
The hairs at my nape lifted.
I wasn’t alone.
I turned, breath hitching, only to nearly collide with a wall of man. His presence was suffocating. His skin was deep umber, rich and smooth, but there was nothing warm in the way he closed the distance. He loomed, leaning down until our noses almost touched. Each breath from him was a heat I wanted to recoil from, but the mist pressed in, trapping me.
Our eyes locked, and my lungs forgot their purpose. His gaze churned like molten gold, the outer rim darkening to bronze.
I was frozen in place—prey pinned beneath a predator’s stare.
He leaned in closer still—close enough that I felt the shape of his words before I heard them.
“Hello, little dove. Lost, are we?” he asked, his voice laced with an arrogant charm that crawled under my skin. It was the kind of voice that commanded attention, like honey laced with venom.
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. My throat constricted as though unseen hands had wrapped themselves around it, silencing me. Panic clawed at me as I reached for my neck, trying desperately to speak.
He took a step back and cocked his head, watching me with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Strange…” he murmured, almost to himself. “That you’re still awake.”
My breath quickened. I reached for the dagger at my hip. His golden eyes gleamed.
“Sleep,” he commanded.
The word carried weight, like a hook in my chest. Shadows slid across my jaw, tugging me down. Snow rushed up to meet me.
The last thing I saw was a smile—too wide, too sharp. Bright white teeth gleamed, and among them, four predatory canines.
My blood went cold. There was only one kind of creature I’d ever read about that carried teeth like that—Vampyre. Born of night, they worshipped the creators of the gods who had vanished from the world. Every instinct screamed to run, but my body refused.
Impossible.
7
Malachi