The silence was thick as tar, and everyone held their breath when the stranger's eyes met Anastasia's.
Then, unexpectedly, the vampire knelt.
Not a simple bow of respect. It was a deep, ritual reverence, as if he were kneeling before a queen of ancient times. His right knee touched the ground firmly, his left fist closed over his heart, his head bowed as though awaiting an order or a judgment.
The solemnity of the gesture clashed with the violence of his appearance, unsettling those present even more. A dense aura surrounded him. His coat still billowed with remnants of the energy that had brought him there in the blink of an eye.
—My lady —he said at last, his voice deep, dragging centuries behind it—. I have returned.
Anastasia, impassive, barely nodded. Her gaze betrayed no surprise.
—Rise, Mourian. Speak.
The vampire stood with a precise, almost feral movement. His dark eyes swept over those present as if still assessing their usefulness. When his gaze passed over Héctor, it paused for a heartbeat. His lips pressed into a thin line. Disdain, perhaps. Contained rejection. But he moved on.
—I have followed the leads you entrusted to me. At the last outbreak, three days' journey to the east, I found traces that confirmed our suspicions. —He paused—. It is not natural, my lady. The plague was provoked. Pure vampires… at least three. Perhaps more.
A murmur rose among the Rizz.
—How is that possible? —one of them managed to say—. Not even the pure ones possess such power...
—Unless an Ancestral guides them —Mourian cut in sharply—. It was no ordinary infection. It was a selective purge. And the signs… they were ancient.
—Did you see it with your own eyes? —Hermes asked, his brow already furrowed.
Mourian nodded.
—I fought two of them. They didn't know I was waiting. One fled before I could reach him. The other fell… but not before uttering something. A confession, between spasms and blood-choked sobs. It wasn't clear. Not complete. But he said: "The blood of Todd..."
A shiver ran through the circle.
—Todd…? —one of the Rizz whispered, paling—. But… he should be. He is…
—Silence —Anastasia ordered, without raising her voice.
Hermes crossed his arms, thoughtful. His eyes never left Mourian.
—We don't know what that phrase means… but we must not dismiss it —he said calmly—. If an Ancestral has managed to manipulate reincarnation or preserve a body somehow…
—It is the work of someone who knows us well —Anastasia added in a whisper that barely broke the night.
Then Héctor, who had remained silent, half-hidden behind Hermes, stepped forward. His voice trembled, but he spoke:
—That vampire… is he with us?
Mourian looked at him. His eyes were burning coals.
—I am not here for you, boy —he growled.
Héctor shrank back slightly. Hermes placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
—He is with us —Anastasia intervened, her voice firm and clear as a bell—. I sent for him.
Her tone left no room for doubt.
—Though it may not seem like it —Hermes added quietly, with a tired half-smile.
Mourian locked eyes with Héctor again. There was no real threat in his gaze. But there was a warning: do not stand in my way, do not speak to me, do not try to approach.
Hermes noticed and took a step forward, partially blocking the boy's view.
—Come, Héctor —he said kindly—. It's time to let the elders discuss their old wars.
The boy hesitated but obeyed. And as he walked away, he couldn't help but glance back one more time. Mourian's figure still stood there, tall, like a sentinel from a nightmare. But when their eyes met for the last time, Héctor no longer saw anger… only something he couldn't quite name. An ancient weariness. Or perhaps an unspoken promise.
Around him, the adults remained silent. No one dared to break the tension still hanging in the air. Even the wind, which had freely stirred the branches before, now seemed to crawl cautiously among the trees.
Then, as if that silence required an end, Anastasia spoke.
—Todd should have awakened before me —Anastasia murmured—. I will visit Castle Valdren at dawn. If he has anything to do with this cursed plague... he will listen to me.
Mourian stepped forward instinctively.
—I will go with you, my lady.
—No. I'd prefer you stay here —she answered firmly.
—This is about Todd —he insisted, a shadow of urgency in his voice—. If something were to happen, I couldn't...
—I'll be fine, Mourian —Anastasia interrupted him with a tone both firm and kind—. I prefer you remain here to watch over the camp in my absence.
A brief, dense silence fell. The Rizz observed with a mix of respect and caution. Finally, Mourian straightened slowly, like a statue returning to life, and lowered his head in a barely perceptible gesture.
—As you command, my lady Anastasia.
He knew his mistress was practically invincible. But Todd Valdren was another Ancestral. Not even Mourian, with all his strength, could defeat him if it came to a confrontation.
—Castle Valdren is in Cryogea —she continued, her gaze distant—. Beyond the Whispering Mountains. At least a week before my return.
Mourian stood motionless, listening to his creator as if her words were a sacred rite. His devotion was almost tangible.
—As I said, I'd prefer you to guard the camp in my absence.
—I swear it will be safe —Mourian's voice echoed like the depths of a cavern—. Besides, the old man is here. He knows how to move those old bones well enough.
Anastasia let out a soft laugh, and that simple gesture was enough to dissolve some of the tension in the air.
—You may leave, Mourian.
As soon as Anastasia gave permission, Mourian vanished before them all, engulfed in a mist as dark as the aura surrounding him. His departure was a silent relief. As if the shadow of a beast had left the room.
—What are your orders, then? —Hollen asked, stepping closer.
—Proceed with the protocols. Check the villages still showing signs of plague. Hermes will be in charge during my absence.
Anastasia raised a hand and snapped her fingers, ending the meeting. The air filled with murmurs.
The Rizz already knew of Mourian's existence, knew of his unbreakable loyalty. But his mere presence was enough to unsettle even the most resolute hearts. Leaving him as guardian was not a comfortable decision… but it was not up for debate either.
Later that same night, the silence remained thick, barely broken by the soft whisper of rustling leaves. The breeze was cool and damp, carrying the scent of nocturnal herbs and the faint perfume of roses that bloomed despite the dark times.
Anastasia walked alone among the bushes, unhurried, letting the shadows caress her cloak. Her silhouette seemed to float rather than walk. She stopped before a dry fountain, contemplating its cracked surface, until a presence manifested behind her.
There was no sound, no sigh. Only the weight of the air changing, as if the night itself had taken notice.
—You should announce your arrival, Mourian —she said without turning.
—It is not my custom, my lady —he replied, his voice deep and dry, as firm as a stone in water.
Anastasia turned, meeting his gaze. He stood several paces away, as straight as a shadow carved in stone, his hands crossed behind his leather coat. The glint in his eyes was not insolent, but neither did it bow. He simply watched.
—What troubles your shadowed mind this time?
Mourian hesitated for only a second. Then he took a step forward. The ground creaked softly under his boots.
—That boy. Héctor.
—Yes?
—He is a fragile human. A child. He has no talent, no strength, no lineage. And yet… he has been granted a place close to you. Too close.
Anastasia didn't answer immediately. Her eyes turned to the roses growing near the fountain: their petals, almost entirely dyed in sapphire blue, left only the edges white, as if the night itself were claiming them. She caressed one gently with her fingertips, as if reading an answer in its texture she wasn't yet ready to speak aloud.
—Héctor did not ask for that place —she answered at last.
—I know —Mourian continued without hesitation—. But you have given it to him. And I fear that bond, if it deepens further, could become a weakness.
—A weakness?
—You are Ancestral. Our very existence trembles before your power. And yet you watch him as if there were something… essential in him.
Anastasia turned fully toward him. Her expression remained calm, but there was a depth in her eyes now that cut like ice.
—There is.
Mourian clenched his jaw.
—He is just a child.
—A child who survived where others did not. A child who, even in silence, reminds me what it means to have hope. That is no small thing.
Mourian shook his head, not arrogantly, but firmly.
—My lady… this is not sentimentality. My duty is to protect you. And with what we've discovered about Todd… if someday that boy is used against you...
Anastasia narrowed her eyes. A shadow crossed her face briefly.
—Do you think I haven't considered that? —she interrupted him, her tone dangerously gentle—. Mourian, you are pure strength and unwavering loyalty, but your heart… even before you were a vampire, it was sealed like an empty fortress.
He did not respond. He only watched her.
—That's why you can't see what's in him. Because you measure worth by the edge of a sword, and talent by the thunder of your fists. But there is another kind of power. One rarer, more precious. Héctor has it. I knew it the moment I held him in my arms for the first time. And if Todd truly is connected to this plague, then we will need him more than you can imagine.
The breeze stirred Mourian's coat. His dark eyes blinked just once.
—And what power is that?
—The power to change the hearts of others without even realizing it. The power to make even an Ancestral pause for a moment. That, Mourian… that cannot be taught.
Silence thickened between them. A crow called in the distance, as if the night itself needed an excuse to turn the page.
Finally, Mourian nodded slightly, more out of respect than conviction.
—I don't like him —he admitted honestly—, but if you protect him, I will not touch him. Nor will I allow others to.
—I know.
She turned her gaze back to the flowers. He remained there, motionless, like a shadow blending with the night. And for the first time in centuries, Mourian wasn't sure if he had just lost an argument… or if he had learned something new about his mistress.
The night moved on in silence, and there, among the rose gardens, two imposing figures stood. The garden, fragile and harmless, seemed unbothered by their presence. The flowers remained open to the wind, indifferent to the centuries of power and darkness that surrounded them.
And meanwhile, beyond the Whispering Mountains, an ancestral castle still stood… waiting.
...
The next morning, the camp awoke beneath a gentle mist that slowly unraveled between the rooftops and gardens. The air smelled of damp wood and dew trapped in the canvas. Héctor woke with a strange feeling in his chest, as if something heavy had fallen asleep with him. It wasn't fear, but it wasn't calm either.
He remembered the eyes of the stranger. Dark, dense, like burning coal. And the way he had looked at him… not with hatred, but with something harder to name. A silent warning. A living shadow.
He sat up slowly, as if his body was also trying to shake off the memory, and stepped out of the tent. Searching with his gaze, he couldn't find Anastasia among the early stirrings of the day. He walked until he found Hermes, who was calmly reviewing a map. His fingers moved precisely over symbols drawn in charcoal.
—Hermes...? —Héctor asked, still drowsy—. Where is she?
The old man raised his gaze slowly. A faint smile appeared on his face, though his eyes retained their usual gravity.
—She left at dawn, Héctor. Crossed over to Cryogea. She said she'll be gone at least a week.
—Alone?
—By her own choice.
Hermes returned to his task, and though Héctor considered insisting, something in his tone told him he wouldn't get more answers.
He remained silent for a few moments, watching as the old man drew a small line over the parchment with a charcoal quill. But the unease didn't leave him.
—And the vampire from last night… —he finally asked cautiously—. The one who appeared so suddenly… who is he?
Hermes paused. He didn't immediately look up, as if carefully weighing his words.
—He is someone who has served Lady Anastasia for a very long time —he said at last—. In ways that aren't always easy to understand.
Héctor lowered his gaze, thinking.
—He doesn't seem... very kind.
Hermes smiled faintly, with a mixture of understanding and resignation.
—He's not —he admitted—. But he's not here to make friends. He's here to protect. And that, Héctor, sometimes requires a kind of silence… different from what you know.
The boy didn't answer. He simply nodded, accepting the words, though not entirely convinced. Then, without another word, he walked toward the clearing, unaware that Hermes watched him go with a faint look of concern on his face.
He wandered through the quiet courtyard until he reached the edge of the rose garden. There, the silence was interrupted by an unexpected sound.
A melody floated through the air, soft but steady. A stringed instrument, perhaps. The tone was dark, as if it carried centuries within it. The notes seemed written in an ancient language, a mix of lament and warning. It wasn't sad, exactly. But neither was it comforting. It had an ancient structure, with irregular intervals, tritones that cut through long, vibrant phrases. Somber, evocative, impossible to ignore.
Around him, a few of the Rizz briefly stopped their tasks, casting uneasy glances at each other. The sound of that melody seemed familiar to some, but its gloomy, haunting tone made everyone uncomfortable in ways they couldn't explain. It wasn't aggressive, but it stirred old fears, as if awakening echoes they preferred to keep buried. No one dared say it aloud, but most wished it would stop.
But Héctor stood still, listening.
It didn't sound grim to him. It sounded... real. Honest. As if someone were speaking from deep within, without words. He felt a faint trembling in his chest, as if the sound touched a string he hadn't known existed. His feet moved almost of their own will, drawn by the melody. The rhythm felt familiar, though he'd never heard it before.
He followed the sound, weaving between branches and canvas, letting the echo guide him. He didn't know who was playing, nor with what instrument. But whatever those strings produced… had a soul. An old soul, scratched by loneliness.
The trail led him to a wooden structure set against a gentle hillside. Not a house or a tent, but rather an old granary used for storing tools or provisions. The side door stood ajar, and from within filtered a faint light, scattered through poorly joined planks. Dust hung in the air. Silence reigned.
Héctor approached quietly, careful not to make a sound. He didn't want to interrupt. But when he saw who the player was, his heart jumped in his chest. He even stepped back, startled—afraid, yes… but also in awe.
Inside, standing alone in the center of the sparsely furnished space, a solitary figure stood with his back turned. A dark coat fell over his silhouette like a shadow. In his arms, he held a strange instrument of aged wood and elegant curves. Its frame resembled a crescent moon, and from its arch stretched taut strings like held-back sighs. A wooden extension ran along his back, allowing him to rest it over his shoulder as if it were part of himself.
Each note seemed to rise from somewhere deeper than thought. A mix of melancholy, restrained strength, and unspoken questions. Héctor felt that, somehow, he understood. That this wasn't just music—it was another way of speaking. Of screaming inside without breaking the silence.
From somewhere else in the camp, far from that place, Hermes felt a vibration in the boy's mind. A reflexive pulse of fear, faint but clear, like a drop falling into still water. And though it wasn't urgent, the old vampire didn't hesitate. In an instant, he was moving. He didn't run… but he didn't walk either. He moved as only an ancient vampire can: unseen by human eyes, with the calm of one who commands time. He stopped at a nearby point, hidden among the vegetation, far enough not to be seen, but close enough to intervene if necessary.
Meanwhile, Mourian continued to play. He never looked at the boy, but he'd sensed him from the first step. He knew he was there. And yet, he didn't send him away. He didn't stop the melody. He simply let the strings speak for him.
In his eyes, the boy was still fragile, insignificant. But his lady's words had left a crack in his judgment. She saw something in him. Something Mourian didn't understand… but for the first time, found worth observing. Not with his eyes, but with something subtler. As if, by letting him listen, he might discover what she saw in that attentive silence.
Because sometimes, even the oldest shadows need to see the world through other eyes. Even if only for a moment. Even if only for her.
The sound faded little by little as Héctor quietly left the place, his heart still racing. No longer from fear, but from a strange blend of emotions he couldn't name. He slipped out of the granary without making a sound and stepped back into the open air, leaving behind the figure of Mourian, who had not moved an inch.
As he returned to the path, the murmur of the camp was beginning to regain its morning rhythm. Fires crackled in the distance, and a few voices mingled with the distant song of birds. Héctor wandered aimlessly until a familiar figure stepped in front of him, cutting off his path.
—Hermes —he murmured with a faint sigh, knowing he couldn't hide anything from him.
The old man looked at him kindly, but also with that quiet severity he used when he wanted Héctor to speak on his own.
—Most people find Mourian's performances… rather unsettling —Hermes said, narrowing his eyes with interest—. But it seems that's not the case for you, boy.
—It didn't feel like he was just playing —Héctor replied, not looking away from the path—. It felt like he was speaking.
—Speaking? —Hermes repeated, with a tone that invited him to continue.
—You can see my mind —the boy added frankly—. You know what I mean.
Hermes barely smiled.
—I can, yes. But it's not your mind I most care to hear, it's your words. You have a unique way of giving voice to that restless mind of yours.
Héctor lowered his gaze, thoughtful.
—I don't always know how to say what I think or feel… —he confessed—. But that melody… it was like it spoke the language of the heart. Like someone dared to say what I can't.
Hermes remained silent. For the first time in a long while, he had no immediate reply. He just looked at him with a calm expression, recognizing something in him that went beyond his young age.
And in the back of the barn, hidden among the shadows, Mourian softened his gaze. Just slightly. As if the boy's words had brushed against a buried memory. It wasn't enough to convince him. But for the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to see beyond judgment. Even if only for a moment.
One more note would have broken the silence, but Mourian slowly released the strings. He didn't turn. He didn't sigh. He simply thought, almost with annoyance:
"For now, that will be enough."
And in that inward return, like closing a well-known door, his gaze hardened once more.
...
—If that vampire is on our side… if he's a protector like you say… —the boy continued, raising his eyes— why do you worry so much about what happens to me?
Hermes didn't reply right away. His eyes, tired but alert, traced the boy's face. They walked a few steps together through the central plaza, among tents, bushes, and a few improvised pots set by the Rizz.
—Because good protectors don't rest, even when there's no immediate danger —he said at last—. Because your life, Héctor, is valuable… even if you don't believe it yet.
Héctor furrowed his brow.
—I don't like this —he admitted in a low voice—. That everyone treats me like some kind of pet of Anastasia. Like I'm only here because she said so. I want… I want them to see me as someone useful. Not just as someone to be protected.
Hermes stopped. He turned to him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
—Listen, boy. Being protected by someone like Anastasia is no shame. But if you want to be seen as more than that, then start building it with your own hands. Little by little. Day by day.
Héctor nodded, but the shadow of frustration still lingered.
—And what am I supposed to do? Scrub cauldrons? Count dry leaves?
Hermes chuckled softly, a brief and warm sound that broke some of the tension.
—You could start with gardening. The roses on the northern side need someone to care for them. I'll get you the tools. It's not little, Héctor. Sometimes, the simplest things are the ones that bloom the most.
The boy didn't reply, but for the first time that morning, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
—Alright… but if I'm taking care of the garden, I want to choose the flowers.
—That's already thinking like someone useful —Hermes replied with a wink.
The day advanced slowly, carrying with it a tense calm, as if the air itself knew something had changed. Without Anastasia in the camp, the Rizz divided the tasks with more diligence, following the instructions she left before leaving. Hermes oversaw everything with a firm but serene gaze, making sure each group fulfilled their duties. Some gathered medicinal herbs; others organized supplies or reinforced the perimeter defenses.
Héctor spent most of the day in silence. He didn't speak again about Mourian or the music, but his gestures showed a different kind of focus, as if something within him had awakened to a truth he didn't yet know how to explain. Hermes, attentive without seeming so, watched him from afar. He didn't pressure him. The boy needed time to process what he had felt that morning.
Some of the more seasoned Rizz began reinforcing the improvised weaponry. Blades of tempered steel were sharpened, and some tips were coated with compounds extracted from ancient containers. Others, younger and less experienced, helped fortify the entrances to the clearing where the tents stood. The atmosphere, though seemingly calm, was full of contained gestures, of glances that lingered half a second longer than usual. Everyone felt it. A subtle tension, like the kind that precedes a storm.
As the sun began to set, tinting the sky with golden and lilac hues, a soft mist started to creep between the trees. It was a harmless fog, common in the lands of Norwyn near the edge of the continent, where Solangea ends and Cryogea begins. It was a cold zone, though not as harsh as the north where the Whispering Mountains rose. But that afternoon, the mist seemed denser. More persistent.
In the last hours of the day, the children were sent to their tents. The campfires burned brighter, and the sentries were doubled. Hermes, leaning on his cane, walked the paths between the tents at a slow pace. Every so often, he murmured something to the guards stationed at key points. No one spoke more than necessary. Only what was required.
When night finally fell, it did so with a silence that felt unnatural. There were no insects singing. No wind. Only an absolute muteness that began to settle deep in the bones.
In the farthest shadows of the forest, just where the mist grew thickest, a pair of figures stood still. Then three more. And then others. They didn't speak. They made no sound at all. They just watched, hidden among twisted trees and roots like claws.
Their eyes, red or hollow, locked onto the camp. Huestes and impure vampires waited for the signal. The moment weakness appeared. They had waited long. They knew the ancestral was gone. They knew the noble blood was unprotected. This was their moment.
Or so they thought.
From within the camp, hidden among the deepest shadows, a figure had already sensed them.
And Mourian had no intention of showing mercy that night.
—It seems this time… I won't have to hold back —he murmured, calmly adjusting one of his leather gloves.
A faint smile crossed his lips, without warmth, only the echo of an old satisfaction. His lady's instructions were clear. And in his cold silence, fulfilling them was almost a privilege.
An opportunity to unleash what for centuries he had only known how to restrain.
Near the center of the camp, two figures walked in parallel, with the same seasoned cadence of those who had trained more often than they had slept.
—It's not common for Lady Anastasia to be away —commented Kirel, adjusting the strap of her dagger while glancing toward the perimeter.
Her dark brown hair, cut just above her shoulders, stirred slightly in the breeze. Her eyes, alert, scanned everything. Though young, her posture spoke of experience. An agile body, honed reflexes, and a composure that had already made more than one veteran lower their voice when she passed. Kirel was Hollen's right hand, and everyone knew it.
—Perhaps that's all it is —he responded in a deep, measured voice—. A natural silence. The forest sleeps from time to time.
Hollen had the presence of a wolf who no longer needed to bare its fangs. He was a broad-shouldered man, his face marked by ancient scars and eyes so dark they nearly blended with the night. His leadership wasn't shouted—it was obeyed. Few words, but every one of them carried weight. He had trained Kirel since she was old enough to hold a sword.
She paused for a second, gazing toward the edge of the mist.
—I don't know, master. I've been in this clearing many nights. This one… doesn't feel the same.
Hollen turned his head slightly. For an instant, his eyes studied her.
—I know.
Both fell silent when they saw Hermes approaching along the path. The old man had a slight frown. His pace, though unhurried, lacked any hint of carelessness. When he reached them, he made no greeting. He simply went straight to the point.
—Organize the younger groups. Gather the non-combatants in the central tent. And triple the watch.
Kirel arched a brow.
—Is it because of Lady Anastasia's absence?
—No. It's something else —Hermes replied, his gaze fixed on the forest—. Something I cannot yet name… but it is already here.
Hollen nodded without needing further explanation and left immediately. Kirel, her expression serious, followed him with firm steps, her hand already resting on the hilt of her sword.
Hermes turned then and saw Héctor standing a few steps away, watching everything with a look of confusion.
—Boy —the old man said, approaching—, today you're not to stray far from me. This is no night for a young soul to wander alone.
—Is it because of Mourian? —Héctor asked, his unease poorly concealed.
Hermes shook his head gently.
—No. It's because of what we have not yet seen… but that already watches us.
The boy swallowed hard, nodded silently, and moved to stand beside Hermes. The old man placed a hand on his shoulder. His touch was firm, like an anchor.
—When the night falls silent like this… there are things that prefer not to be named —Hermes murmured.
And deep within the forest, where the mist was thickest, eyes stained with blood and eager for chaos continued to watch. Waiting.