Home is where the Nest is <3

by RedInTheDepths

Summary:

When Scott awoke to his lineage gone and his home in ruins, he never felt more alone than ever before. He will try his best to build up a new coven, a new family... and make this place home once more. Now if only these humans would stop thinking all vampires are evil..

Chapter 1

The Silence didn't just exist—it SCREAMED.

It was a deafening, metallic ring.

The echoing sound trapped in the suffocating blackness.

It was the sound of millennia, and it was his first conscious experience.

Inside the crypt, the body began its terrifying reawakening. First, a tiny, involuntary twitch in the fingers, then a violent, full-body shudder that rattled his bones against the unyielding stone. Finally, the eyelids snapped open. Two sky-blue orbs, sharp, raw, and alight with the sudden, agonizing clarity of life, fixed on the stone ceiling above. His mind clawed its way back through a fog thicker than grave dust.

It wasn't until the realization hit—truly, undeniably awake after what felt like decades—that the panic set in, a visceral punch to his non-beating heart. He tried to move, but the space was a cruel, narrow vise, his limbs pinned and useless. A profound, bone-deep weakness crippled him, the same agonizing feebleness that had shackled him the day he was turned. His stomach howled with emptiness, a hollow drumbeat of starvation, and his throat scorched with a searing, desperate need that transcended pain.

Get out. He had to get out.

His hands, trembling with a primal, desperate urgency, scrabbled against the cold, heavy stone slab that sealed his confinement. With a guttural grunt and a final, explosive surge of ancient strength—a strength he prayed was still there—he heaved. The slab shot upward, scraping agonizingly against the rock sides before crashing down onto the crypt floor. The thunderous CLATTER shattered the silence, echoing like a cannon shot, and announcing his brutal return.

He slowly rose, pushing himself upright until his back straightened against the oppressive ceiling. The air that greeted him was stale and cold, thick with the smell of wet decay and dry neglect, a monument to a forgotten history. The main crypt, once a grand, torch-lit chamber, was now a desolate shell. It was choked by a thick, beige shroud of dust, and draped in unsettling, gossamer tapestries of cobwebs.

Scott didn't hesitate. He slid from the broken confinement of the coffin, the splintered wood scratching against his clothes, and immediately accessed the hidden compartment beneath. His hands, moving with practiced efficiency that belied his current weakness, retrieved the precious contents: a handful of distilled blood wine bottles, which he secured first; a small pouch containing basic tools; and a new set of clothes, magically preserved and smelling faintly of lavender. He shed the grave-soiled garments, hastily tucking them into the hidden compartment, and swiftly dressed. His fingers meticulously adjusted the cravat, tying the knot until it perfectly concealed the vulnerable hollow of his throat—a necessary, formal gesture of protection.

A new gravity settled over him. Satisfied with the familiar, formal cut of his coat, even without the benefit of a mirror, he became silent and predatory, moving toward the crypt exit. He needed eyes on his castle, needed to survey the world outside this tomb. But the true terror was the silence inside his mind: Why was he severed? Why could he not feel the pulse of his family bonds, the metaphysical tether that should have drawn him home?

Scott moved through the crypt's corridors, observing the violent assault of time on the stone. The walls weren't just cracked; they were splitting, forced apart by the relentless, invasive coils of tree roots that had aggressively punched through the bedrock. Water, cold and glittering like tiny, unwelcome tears, wept through fissures in the floor, turning the stone path slick and treacherous.

He rounded the corner of the final hall. Ahead, a soft, pale light spilled down the stairwell at the far end, a beacon that betrayed the world outside: daylight. Scott let out a shallow breath, the air rasping in his dry throat. Good. The sun's full, potent power wouldn't completely burn him, given his present, debilitating weakness. It was a grim, temporary comfort.

He began the slow ascent. Raising a hand instinctively, he shielded his eyes, which felt like raw wounds struggling to adjust to the foreign brightness. But as he slowly lowered his guard, the sight that met him was far worse than any blinding glare.

His ancestral home, the very heart of his family's domain, was an image of utter desolation. The castle was reduced to rubble, the protective walls barely recognizable mounds of shattered rock. The meticulous garden was now a wild, untamed jungle, the flimsy remains of the fences struggling weakly against the explosive foliage. A cold, profound ache settled over his non-beating heart. The destruction wasn't just physical—it was a gaping, inexcusable wound in his soul.

Scott took a slow, unnecessary breath, the familiar, human ritual helping to steady his profound shock. His mind, cold and efficient, began to plot the course of survival and revenge. Rebuild. That was paramount. Form a new Coven and Brood. Essential for power. Find his family. A deep, non-negotiable need. But above all, there was the hunger. The gnawing, agonizing need for sustenance took immediate priority.

He navigated the wreckage of his home with focused, careful steps, pausing only briefly. Amidst the shattered stone and decay, he spotted a strange, glowing beacon, an anomalous piece of technology or magic. It pulsed with a muted, unfamiliar white light. He logged the detail but kept moving; its mystery could wait.

Leaving the ruins, he crossed the rickety, half-destroyed stone bridge that miraculously still spanned the gorge. Once on the other side, the hunt began. He plunged deep into the overgrown woods, his heightened senses immediately locking onto prey. He found a cow, heavy with milk, and a pair of rooting pigs. The kill was swift, silent, and absolute. He drank deeply, the thick, hot vital fluid flooding his system, extinguishing the agonizing burn in his throat and washing the feebleness from his veins.

As he meticulously wiped the last smear of blood from his coat with a square of silk, he felt a powerful, heady thrum of energy pulsing beneath his skin. He was still only tier 1 in power, but the crippling weakness was gone, replaced by vibrant strength and clarity of purpose. He needed to stay sated, but also blend in. Taking a deep, calculating inhale, he caught a new scent on the wind, sharp and distinct: Humans. Close by.

Scott walked slowly, tracking the pungent, musky scent of humanity that hung on the crisp, midday air. As he moved, his mind ceaselessly processed the magnitude of the devastation. "Six hundred years, maybe more, since I last woke," he mused. "The castle is dust. Logic suggests the town should be too. So why are there humans nearby?" The evolving scent trail, now sharp and undeniable, led him steadily toward what he remembered as Oakhurst.

After a tense ten minutes, he reached the forest edge and surveyed the plains. The quaint, sprawling town of his memory was gone. In its place stood a crude, rickety, aged wooden palisade, its timbers splintered and gray, encircling perhaps half or two-thirds of the land the old town had occupied. "Did the population shrink so drastically that they had to contract like this? Or were they simply afraid?" he wondered, the inexplicable change unsettling his historical assumptions.

He approached the rough enclosure and slipped through a clearly defined entryway. But instead of a functioning settlement, he was met by ghosts. Inside the walls lay a vast, burned-out ruin—structures easily a century or two old, reduced to rough, soot-stained outlines of former homes and shops. The air tasted of ash and abandonment.

The only relatively intact feature was the town center, dominated by a broken stone tower with a crumbling spiral staircase twisting precariously at its core. And there, nestled beside the shattered steps, was the twin of the curiosity he'd seen at his castle: a strange, softly glowing beacon, humming with a near-silent, irritating electrical whine in the debris. The current human activity he smelled was happening somewhere beyond this ancient destruction, but this ruin was the answer to his questions. Something catastrophic had happened here.

The strange beacon would have to wait. His immediate curiosity was reserved for the humans he smelled nearby. Adopting the theatrical air of a snobbish noble tourist, Scott deliberately began to wander the ruined palisade, his expression a carefully managed look of incredulous disdain for the desolation.

As he closed the distance, the sharp sound of arguing voices cut through the stillness. Peeking past the skeletal, charred remains of a building, he observed the group: a fierce ginger woman, her posture rigid with annoyance; a practical-looking brunette man in what appeared to be modern doctor's attire (the fabric looked too soft, too utilitarian for his taste); and a haughty blonde man who radiated the irritating, self-important arrogance of a spoiled noble son. Curious. A collection of types, Scott noted.

He approached slowly, ensuring his grand, anachronistic entrance was noted. The ginger woman paused mid-argument, her gaze snapping directly to him. "You're also new, aren't you?" she challenged, her voice edged with suspicion and exhaustion.

Scott deliberately turned and glanced behind his shoulder, feigning confusion as if she addressed a ghost. Then, with a slow, affected "Oh," he turned back, a practiced realization dawning on his face. "Well, I was merely passing through this… area," he said, drawing out the last word with distaste. "But yes, I suppose I am new to this place. You live here? I'd be genuinely surprised."

"No one is from here," the doctor stated flatly, his voice carrying the heavy weight of weary experience. The woman repeated the phrase, her expression locking his with an intensity that held both warning and challenge.

Scott spent a calculated few minutes in conversation, extracting names with ease: the blonde noble was Martyn Woodhurst, the doctor was simply Legundo, and the ginger woman was Cleo. The conversation had momentarily circled the curious beacons before the humans’ own distractions—the utterly mundane chaos of their predicament—took over.

He shifted the focus. Catching sight of movement across the wide ruin, he casually gestured toward the distant group. "Do we know who any of those people are? The ones moving about over there?"

Cleo’s posture instantly hardened. "Lunatics. Absolute lunatics," she declared, adamantly shaking her head. "I wouldn't go near them."

"Are they... wrong 'uns?" Martyn asked, his tone morbidly fascinated.

"They are very... well," Cleo huffed, struggling for the right word. "One of them is actively looking for Bigfoot."

Just then, the topic shift was interrupted. A man with dark, raven hair and a tailored coat—almost a butler's livery, Scott noted—detached from the other group and approached them. Scott, seizing the moment, offered a slight, predatory smile to the newcomer. "Are you, perchance, the one with the Bigfoot fixation?"

The man hesitated. "Uh, no. I think that's one of the others."

"This is the Butler," Cleo interjected, using the title as a shorthand that Scott found almost insulting. The man introduced himself as Abolish, and the conversation, predictably, fractured and changed course once more, shifting to the immediate, desperate concerns of survival.

The conversation soon drew two more curious figures: a young man with striking purple eyes and light brown hair, and a practical-looking young woman with matching brown eyes and hair. Scott, enjoying his established role as the mocking outsider, immediately focused on the man. "Well, perhaps you are the one with the Bigfoot obsession?" he inquired, his expression perfectly layered with sophisticated amusement.

"I don't think so," Cleo replied, struggling to stifle a genuine chuckle.

The purple-eyed man stepped forward, seriousness overriding politeness. "Don't listen to the 'Bigfoot gal,' okay? She's downplaying the seriousness of the situation right now."

Scott widened his eyes, pushing the joke further. "Wait, are we debating whether they're searching for people who have large feet, or if the individuals themselves possess unusually large feet? I'm genuinely confused." The question hung in the air; nobody, in the chaos of their shared circumstances, was certain of the exact bizarre truth.

To break the pause, the young man finally initiated proper introductions. The newcomers were Avid (the purple-eyed man) and Drift (the brown-haired woman). In a gesture that was either oddly generous or profoundly naive, Avid then produced and happily gifted bunches of garlic to everyone. Scott, maintaining his facade, handled the pungent bulbs with deliberate, cautious nonchalance, quickly storing the anti-vampiric herb in his coat's inventory where it couldn't touch his skin. Foolish child, he thought, masking his cold rage.

The subject then shifted to survival—specifically, food finds. Cleo’s eyes lit up with professional pride. "Actually, this is my specialty," she announced, stepping into the center of the group. "I'm a farmer. If you supply the seeds, I will establish a productive farm for all of us." This proposal cut through the chaos with immediate, practical value. One by one, the group eagerly stepped forward, emptying their pockets and inventories of every seed packet and viable vegetable they had found, passing the resources over to the newly appointed farmer.

"I confess, manual labor is not among my few, practiced talents," Scott drawled with a theatrical sigh of relief. "That sounds absolutely excellent."

The group shifted focus and headed inside the broken tower. Avid declared his intention to "inspect and consecrate the beacon," or so he announced to the room. To Scott's ancient, suspicious ears, the word choice sounded oddly self-important and vaguely inappropriate—like a child playing priest. Choosing to avoid the ritual and the confined space, Scott politely excused himself and slowly drifted toward the periphery—a group of people he hadn't yet been introduced to.

He arrived just in time to witness a moment of cringe-worthy intimacy: a woman was in the midst of recounting her entire tragic backstory. Scott stopped short, his inner thoughts screaming. 'Yikes. Not sure I want to get caught up in whatever raw, emotional drama that is.'

Nevertheless, he joined them, enduring the tail end of the monologue and engaging in a few minutes of detached conversation to acquire the essential information: names. The woman with light brown hair and teary blue eyes was Pearl. The young, pale man with dark brown hair and scholarly attire was Pyro. The young woman with vibrant red hair and golden-yellow eyes framed by thick glasses was Shelby. Then there was the older, distinguished man: Renhardt Dogmourne (who preferred Ren), characterized by his blue eyes, long brown-and-gray ponytail, and matching mustache. Finally, the bearded man whose name was inexplicably Sausage, who introduced himself by his authorial pseudonym: Mr. M.

Just as the introductions concluded, an immediate, powerful shift swept across the entire ruin. An oppressive, ominous feeling surged outward from the center of town. Humans around him began murmuring about a pleasant warmth settling over them, but Scott felt only a terrifying, alien cold aura coiling around his immortal soul. It was a violation.

'What in the hell just happened? What did those incompetent fools DO?' Scott's silent, furious thought echoed the profound magical disturbance he felt.

As confusion settled over the group, questions about the source of the feeling and the beacon began to fly. Scott spoke up with genuine haste, eager to distance himself from the supernatural event. "Yes, they were performing some ritual on it over there, but I don't involve myself with that nonsense," he declared, affecting a dismissive, worldly tone. "None of that spiritual magic stuff is up my alley."

The shared mystery spurred immediate action. Everyone began moving toward the town center, drawn to the tower. However, Pyro and Ren lingered, their curiosity about Scott seemingly outweighing the urge to investigate the phenomenon. After a brief but intense conversation, Ren suggested they make practical use of the remaining daylight: "It would be wise for us to organize and gather essential supplies before the sun sets."

Agreeing, Scott, Ren, and Pyro started toward the exit, only to encounter Martyn joined by two new figures.

The immediate conversation quickly became complex, spiraling from discussions of family names and the town's true designation to the contentious issue of land ownership. Scott's attention fixed on one of the newcomers: a woman with long brown hair, sharp brown eyes, elegantly dressed in a black gown with a distinct red cravat and matching red flower. Her statement cut through the friendly debate with stark authority: the Military claimed ownership over the entire Oakhurst territory.

The Military woman's claim instantly sparked a flurry of questions. Why was she here if the land was claimed? She coolly explained her presence: her purpose was to establish an outpost designed to "overlook the land," a statement that carried an unsettling tone of surveillance and control.

As the conversation took another complex turn, Legundo walked over to join them. Ren, weary of the politics and eager for action, finally took charge. He spurred the larger group toward the forest, emphasizing the need to gather critical supplies before nightfall. Ren led the majority away, the Military woman falling in behind him.

However, Legundo remained, joined by a new, quiet figure: a man with tanned skin, brown hair, and warm brown eyes. He introduced himself as Owen, revealing he had worked these very woods as a lumberjack in his youth, long ago. Deciding to join the supply run, the trio left the ruins.

Owen immediately began conversing with Legundo about the threat of wolves as they started gathering materials. Scott, meanwhile, strategically separated himself. Despite his earlier, sincere aversion to "manual labor," he needed both resources and a credible cover. He pulled his simple stone axe from his inventory.

Choosing a large, thick tree, Scott executed an unusual, highly efficient technique. He didn't chop the base; instead, he carefully began carving hand- and footholds up the massive trunk, climbing like a spider-monkey. Once high enough, he started chopping the tree down from the top. He needed the materials, but more importantly, he needed to blend in—a display of competence and effort was essential to avoid suspicion.

 

Chapter 2

Scott worked with a fluid, terrifying efficiency, his movements powered by a strength that was utterly unnatural. The stone axe in his hands was not a clumsy tool; it was a devastating extension of his hidden, practiced power, a weapon disguised as labor. He focused intensely on making his actions look strenuous but swift, rationalizing his incredible speed as a simple, aristocratic distaste for the protracted, sweaty process.

He reached the canopy, the cold, rough bark of the trunk abrasive against the fine wool of his coat. He targeted the tree's thickest limbs first, severing them with three focused, powerful, near-silent blows each. There was no whack-whack-whack of an amateur; only three muted snaps of fiber and bone. The branches tore through the foliage below with a dry, ripping sound, like heavy cloth being shredded, before hitting the ground with a shuddering THUD-CRASH. Scott simply considered his top-down technique an exercise in superior geometry, the kind of quick learning any gentleman would acquire under duress.

Below, the voices of Legundo and Owen drifted up, a muffled concern focused on the immediate, mortal danger of wolves and the encroaching night.

When the massive trunk finally leaned and began its inevitable, slow descent, Scott released his grip. He fell forty feet with the same controlled, almost insulting grace he would use to descend a staircase, his landing a barely audible flex of muscle and sinew on the pine-needle littered earth.

The tree hit the ground with a bone-jarring THWOOMP that shook the very foundation of the ruined settlement. The sound was immediately followed by Legundo shouting, "Scott! You did that incredibly fast! Are you alright?"

Scott stepped out of the immediate, rolling dust cloud, meticulously brushing a flake of soot from his shoulder. "I have no desire to be stuck out here after dark, Doctor," he called back, injecting a touch of weary impatience into his tone. "I simply prioritized efficiency. This should suffice for my personal needs." He began processing the felled wood, performing the cuts flawlessly, the axe blade singing against the grain, and attributing his speed to 'sheer motivation to cease the labor.'

---

A shout from the forest edge announced the return of Ren and the rest of the supply group.

Just as they reunited, a collective, drawn-out gasp swept through the group, a sound that immediately put Scott on edge. The sun had completely vanished, and the rising moon was not the familiar silver disc. It was a terrifying, vibrant, ominous red, hanging low and huge, a silent, bloody eye staring down at the ruined settlement. The entire landscape, the soot, the pale faces, and Scott's dark coat were suddenly drenched in a deep, disturbing crimson light.

Fear instantly gripped the humans. Martyn muttered a shaky prayer, his fingers automatically tracing a cross, and Cleo instinctively shielded her eyes as if the intense color of the light itself could burn.

A woman’s clear, sharp voice cut through the murmuring. It was the Military woman, Apo, who walked with the stiff, professional gait of someone always under orders.

"I'm Apo," she said, finally introducing herself as she approached Scott, her own dark eyes fixed on the bizarre sky. She didn't ask a question; she simply stated the fact with professional certainty. "And this is not standard."

Scott watched the unnatural red light paint his coat, feeling the subtle, cold difference in the air, the way the moonlight now carried a strange density. "I agree, Apo. It is theatrically unnecessary," he replied dryly.

Before Apo could press him further, Legundo stepped forward, calm and entirely pragmatic, his voice cutting through the panic with the weight of scientific authority.

"It's a partial eclipse," the doctor stated, gesturing with deliberate control toward the moon. "The sun's light is being refracted through the Earth's atmosphere—specifically, through all the dust and particulate matter kicked up by... whatever happened here." Legundo’s tone was certain, a stabilizing presence. "It creates a phenomenon known as a 'blood moon.' It's dramatic, yes, but astronomically, it’s nothing more than dust and orbital alignment."

Legundo's scientific assurance worked like a balm. The physical tension visibly eased across the group, substituting a brief, almost religious awe for outright panic.

"Scott, I need you back inside the palisade," Ren called out, relieved. "Apo, coordinate the gathering of materials. We need shelter, and we need it now."

Scott offered Apo a curt nod. "I maintain my earlier statement that decay is the enemy of all things," he said, offering a non-answer to her unasked question about his strange competence. "I simply learn quickly when my personal comfort is at stake."

He turned away, spotting Shelby—the young woman with the vibrant red hair and golden-yellow eyes—moving purposefully away from the main group. She wasn't just collecting; she was planning, dragging a heavy, charred timber with an almost giddy determination.

---

Scott quietly followed her into the ruin, interested in her unusual level of focus. "Are you looking for a suitable space for a tent, Miss Shelby?" Scott asked, his voice adopting a softer, curious tone to match the twilight setting.

Shelby looked up, her glasses slightly askew, and her golden eyes were alight with an unnerving enthusiasm. "A tent? Oh, heavens no! I'm building a house! You need protection against the elements and, like, cryptids, you know?" She dropped the beam with a sharp grunt of effort that belied her small frame, brushing the dust from her cheek. "If there are magic beacons that turn the moon red, there is absolutely, definitely a Bigfoot nearby. And if you're building, you want walls."

Scott watched her, genuinely fascinated by her ability to turn a crisis into a cheerful construction project. "A house," he drawled, amused. "A commendable ambition, Miss Shelby. But that is a tremendous amount of manual labor."

"I work fast!" Shelby replied, already sweeping a clear patch near a solid stone foundation. "The floor is easy—just sweep and lay a tarp. But I need walls." She looked at him expectantly, her expression shifting to one of pragmatic assessment. "So, did you find a good spot to sleep? Because I noticed you're not exactly suited for camping. That cravat looks really flammable, by the way."

Scott stepped closer, letting his aristocratic disdain for the situation show on his face. "I confess, Miss Shelby, that I have been... away for quite some time, and I am short on modern accommodations. And frankly, while I can lift those beams," he gestured to the pile of processed wood, "I do not find the task enjoyable. I prefer my exercise to involve less dirt."

Shelby paused, truly considering his request. She looked at his pristine clothes, his deliberate movements, and then back at the nearby pile of perfectly processed lumber.

"You brought in more wood than anyone else in half the time," she pointed out, her voice bright with possibility. "You might hate manual labor, but you're a heavy-lifting machine. Look, I need someone to help me raise these beams right now. If you help me with the heavy lifting and maybe take the first watch—you seem like you don't sleep much anyway—you can have the other side of the room. We can be roommates." She grinned, an open, confident invitation. "I'll do the interior design."

Scott stared at the determined, practical, and utterly unique young woman. A safe, defensible space offered with no strings attached save light labor and guard duty? A temporary, respectable cover? And he would be close to someone who believed in the supernatural without realizing he was one of its oldest examples.

"Roommates," Scott repeated, a slow, calculated smile spreading across his face. The perfect camouflage. "Miss Shelby, you have yourself a deal. I shall, with reluctance, lift the beams, and you shall design my escape from the elements."

He rolled up his cuffs with a sigh of mock reluctance, revealing the tightly muscled forearms beneath the tailored jacket. He approached the heaviest support beam she had been struggling with. He didn't strain, but he did pretend to, his back stiffening dramatically as he simply palmed the beam and lifted it into position against the old stone foundation as if it were a walking stick.

Shelby's golden eyes widened. "Okay. Maybe 'heavy-lifting machine' was an understatement!" she gasped, instantly returning to her task with renewed vigor. "Now, if we put the door here, and maybe a little window opening for, like, Bigfoot surveillance..."

As Shelby started directing him with enthusiastic, if eccentric, instructions, his mind was already calculating load-bearing weights and sight lines for defense. He was still the predator, but for tonight, under the glow of the red eclipse, he was also the reluctant carpenter.

Under the vast, unsettling glow of the red eclipse, Scott and Shelby began construction. What would have taken two mortal hands a day became an hours-long, hyper-efficient operation fueled by Scott's ancient, applied strength. The air was charged with a strange mix of sawdust, cooling soot, and the metallic tang of the crimson light.

"See, I think the north-facing wall needs a little extra structural stability," Shelby directed, pointing with a long, un-charred timber. Her golden-yellow eyes, magnified by her glasses, were bright and focused, wholly engrossed in the task.

Scott gave a theatrical sigh, then simply palmed the timber—a piece easily three times his weight—and drove the end deeply into the packed earth using a controlled burst of power. The wood settled with a muffled thump of finality.

"Utterly secure, I assure you," Scott murmured, already retrieving a large, flat slab of stone. "Though I maintain this fixation on structural integrity detracts from the necessary aesthetics."

"Aesthetics keep the rain out, Scott, but sturdy walls keep the big hairy man out!" she countered cheerfully, moving on to arranging the stones for the foundation.

As they worked, Scott encouraged her to talk, gauging her earnestness. She was a torrent of enthusiastic, slightly manic energy.

"I wasn't here two hours before I saw tracks," she confided, her voice dropping to an excited whisper as she helped him fit a beam. "Not wolf tracks. Not bear tracks. Giant, bipedal footfalls! Oakhurst is nestled perfectly between a river and dense forest, and you know what that means? Primal habitat! I’ve been researching this for years, Scott. I told the others, but they think I’m crazy." She didn't look offended, just slightly disappointed that they lacked her vision. "I believe he lives in these woods. Bigfoot is the key to all the cryptid truths."

Scott's lips curled into a subtle, private smile. Cryptids. The girl was looking for a furry ape while sharing a room with a sixteen-hundred-year-old apex predator. Her dedication to proving the "truth" was utterly endearing and wildly useful.

With Scott’s unnatural ability to lift, set, and hammer, and Shelby’s surprisingly knowledgeable directions, their small studio-like shelter took shape quickly. They utilized a strong, unbroken section of the old stone foundation as a secure back wall and framed a small, surprisingly sturdy cabin from the charred timbers. Shelby ensured there was a tight-fitting wooden door and a tiny, glass window near the roofline, which she immediately designated her "cryptid surveillance portal."

Within a couple of hours, the basic structure was complete, offering excellent protection from the elements and any common terrestrial threats. Shelby, beaming with professional pride, immediately laid out a tarp and a small blanket in her corner.

"There!" she announced, pulling out a sealed package. "Home sweet home. Now for dinner. I managed to salvage a very dry, but very filling protein bar!" She settled down, tearing open the wrapper with obvious satisfaction.

Scott politely declined the offer of a protein bar. "I find I require sustenance of a more... complex nature," he said smoothly. "I shall take my first watch now. I need to stretch my legs and survey the perimeter.

Leaving Shelby happily munching, Scott slipped out into the deepening night. The red light made every ruin look like a scene of carnage, the shadows sharp and unsettling.

He began a slow, deliberate circuit of the remaining structures. Just as Apo and Ren had organized, the scattered humans were taking tentative steps toward establishing a settlement. Scott noted the progress with cold, analytical interest:

• Sausage and Owen were building a surprisingly practical, shared lean-to against a robust section of the palisade, combining Owen’s knowledge of wood with Sausage’s apparent strength.

• Martyn and Abolish were each working alone, both attempting to build simple box shelters, though Martyn looked perpetually frustrated with his own ineptitude.

• Avid and Drift were building a tight, functional structure together, showing mutual cooperation and efficiency.

• Cleo and Pearl were working side-by-side near the newly designated town farm plot, Cleo meticulously clearing ground while Pearl hauled rock for a protective barrier.

• Apo and Pyro had chosen a large, intact foundation near the old town square—a highly defensible, strategic location.

• Legundo and Ren were each constructing simple, personal shelters, choosing separation over shared space.

Everyone was distracted, busy, and increasingly exhausted. Perfect.

Scott moved silently toward the palisade edge, utilizing shadows and cover with practiced ease. Once sufficiently sure that the sounds of hammering and digging would mask his exit, he carefully slipped through the rough entryway and was absorbed by the shadows of the forest.

The world immediately changed. The human scents were replaced by the damp, loamy smell of earth and old forest, and the vibrant, hot scent of life.

He moved deeper into the woods, his senses now operating at full capacity. He didn't track large game; he needed an immediate, contained dose of sustenance without drawing attention. His focus narrowed, locking onto the distinct, small, and predictable pulse of blood.

It didn't take long. In a brush-filled thicket near a partially submerged creek bed, he found a small, terrified covey of wild chickens.

The kill was a blur of silence and speed, over before the birds could even squawk. He took only enough of their vital fluid to sustain his current energy output, leaving the weakness fully extinguished and the agonizing need sated. The chicken blood was thin, common, and lacking the complex vital energy of a cow or a person, but it was enough to keep him sharp.

He then paused, performing an act of pragmatic resource management. He meticulously harvested the raw meat from the carcasses. The scent of copper and fresh earth hung heavy in the air as he worked. It was a tedious task, but necessary. He couldn't risk leaving a bloody trail, nor could he rely on finding prey during the day, should he need to move or encounter a dangerous foe while the sun was up.

With controlled ease, he contained the raw meat, packaging it tightly and placing it away in his inventory—a small, carefully managed cache of mortal food to maintain his facade or use in an emergency.

Scott wiped his hands clean, savoring the feeling of his renewed, controlled power. The craving had been silenced. It was time to return and observe the true source of danger: the magical beacon.

Sufficiently sustained, Scott returned to the ruined palisade, moving with the renewed, silent agility of a hunter. His primary goal was no longer food or shelter, but intelligence.

He immediately noted that the tower was unmanned. The sounds of the settlement were muffled, consisting mostly of the gentle scritch-scratch of Shelby hammering small nails, the occasional low murmur of conversation from the shared shelters, and the general settling of exhausted bodies. The red eclipse still cast its eerie glow, bathing the ruins in a theatrical, dangerous hue. Everyone was focused inward.

Perfect.

Scott moved swiftly and silently across the rubble-strewn square. He approached the broken stone tower, using the shadowed remnants of walls and the towering, crumbled spiral staircase as cover. He scaled the first few steps of the rubble with practiced ease, his senses reaching out like invisible tendrils.

He was within a 15-foot radius of the artifact when the change hit him. It wasn't a physical blow, but a cold, sickening sensation—the unnatural equivalent of being exposed to a vacuum. An immediate, subtle, but profound weakness settled over him. His heightened senses felt dull, almost numb, the quickened pulse of his immortal strength seemed to flatten, and the protective metaphysical aura around his soul thinned noticeably.

Scott stopped, crouching low behind a fractured stone arch. His internal alarm screamed.

This beacon, he realized, the furious thought coiling in his mind. This is not just a mechanism. It is a filter. It is actively dampening my power.

He watched the artifact. It was no longer emitting the blank, cold white glow he had seen earlier. Now, the air around it shimmered with a warmish, vibrant gold color, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the silent, purified energy it contained.

He moved closer, forcing himself to ignore the discomfort. His weakness intensified slightly, a chilling reminder of his vulnerability. How? The question burned hotter than his thirst. How did those incompetent, fragile humans manage to purify a source of magic I haven't even had the time to properly investigate?

He forced himself to approach the device, tentative and wary. He extended a gloved hand and gently, barely, touched the pulsing gold surface. Nothing happened—no shock, no resistance, only the continued, profound discomfort against his vampire essence. He quickly withdrew his hand, his irritation mounting.

Nervously, he listened and focused, stretching his superior hearing out across the camp. The good news: no human was moving toward the square. The deep sighs, the soft sounds of bedding, the lack of immediate, focused conversation all confirmed that the settlers were, indeed, settling in for the night. They were distracted and tired.

Spurred on by the need to understand this immediate threat to his survival, Scott crouched low, almost kneeling in the soot-stained debris. He closed his eyes and pushed his focus, not using brute strength, but a focused, delicate application of his vampire senses—trying to discern the nature of the beacon, to pull information from the threads of magic that composed it.

It worked.

A message, stark and cold, slammed directly into his mind. It was a purely psychic transmission, delivered with the mechanical, non-negotiable certainty of a lock clicking shut:

'Town beacon has recently been purified. Unable to desecrate for 48 hours.'

Scott opened his eyes, the gold light reflecting in his sharp blue irises. The weakness was a direct result of the purification, the lock on his ability to immediately influence or destroy the device. Forty-eight hours. Two full days where this anchor of anti-vampiric energy would sit, humming in the center of his new domain.

The discovery cemented his strategy. He needed to understand what purification meant, who performed the ritual, and how to counteract it. For now, however, he had a safe shelter and a trusting, if slightly eccentric, roommate.

He silently slipped away from the tower, the weakness receding the moment he cleared the 15-foot mark. He was a predator once more, but a predator who now knew he was being stalked by an unseen, golden threat.

He returned to the small, newly built cabin. The faint, warm light of a small, carefully shielded lantern glowed from inside.

Scott slipped through the tightly fitted wooden door, closing it softly behind him. Shelby was already asleep in her corner, curled up with her glasses off, a protein bar wrapper discarded nearby.

Scott went to his own corner, pulled a sheet of ancient, dark velvet from his inventory, and draped it carefully over the small surveillance window. The red light vanished, replaced by the deep, contemplative shadows he preferred. He settled down, not to sleep, but to think and observe, the memory of the golden light a cold fire in his mind.

The red eclipse finally surrendered to the pale, diffuse light of dawn. Scott was already awake, having spent the night analyzing his new shelter's sight lines and planning his movements. He waited until the inevitable, practical clamor of the humans forced him out of his contemplative silence.

Shelby stirred first, rubbing her eyes before retrieving her glasses. "Morning, Roomie!" she chirped, instantly energetic. She pulled on a thick jacket. "Time to go find some cryptid evidence and maybe some breakfast. See you back here tonight?"

"A truly excellent plan," Scott drawled, slipping out the door before the smell of her protein bar could offend him.

The entire surviving population quickly coalesced in the town center, a bustling, chaotic mix of exhaustion and newfound purpose. They gathered near the stone tower, seemingly oblivious to the humming, golden power source at its base.

Ren and Legundo, the natural organizers, were coordinating the day's tasks.

"Listen up, everyone," Ren announced, holding a dull, heavy piece of metal. "We need to expand. Legundo and I discovered something peculiar. The land here isn't rich in iron, but in silver."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the group.

"It’s strange, highly anomalous geology," Legundo clarified, turning the metal over in his hand. The metal was cool and bright even in the early light. "The silver is easily worked and can be used in place of iron for structural needs, but obviously, it’s a much pricier material—not that currency matters here. It might have some specific other uses we haven't determined yet."

Scott’s internal antennae immediately went up. Silver. The ultimate conductor of divine energy, the traditional bane of werewolves, and a toxic irritant to powerful vampires. The presence of such a rare element in abundance, coupled with the purification beacon, was not an accident. The land itself was now a defensive weapon.

The groups began to form: Cleo and Pearl were committed to clearing the farm; Owen and Sausage were taking on more forestry. Apo, the Military woman, was organizing a proper scouting expedition with Pyro.

It was then that Scott’s attention fixed on the young man with the purple eyes: Avid.

Avid, sensing the shift to action, dramatically stepped forward, puffing out his chest. "We need to prioritize protection against the real threat," he warned, his voice straining with a sudden, misplaced fervor. "I'm talking about the fiends that prey on the living! The vampires!"

His sudden pronouncement was met with general bewilderment, then light chuckles.

Avid didn't take the hint. He pointed a finger—not at any specific shadow, but directly at the group. "I know they're out there. And I am prepared! I am a Vampire Hunter!"

Scott watched him, a slow, indulgent smile spreading across his face. Avid was charmingly ridiculous, his striking features currently twisted with the intensity of his conviction. A truly delightful specimen.

Scott smoothly drifted toward Avid. "A Vampire Hunter, you say?" he inquired, his tone layered with mocking curiosity. "How intriguing. Tell me, young man, what exactly qualifies one for such a noble, if frankly outlandish, profession?"

Avid flushed a brilliant, immediate red. It was a perfect mix of embarrassment at being singled out and fear at the sudden, close presence of the elegantly dressed stranger. "My training!" he stammered. "And my knowledge of their weaknesses! Like, um... sunlight, and garlic, and... being generally disliked!"

"Ah, the trifecta of a true professional," Scott deadpanned, leaning in just close enough for the barest hint of his post-hunt strength to register. "And what does this 'Vampire Hunter' plan to hunt with? A small bouquet of pungent bulbs? Do you, perhaps, intend to tickle them to death with your intense disapproval?"

Martyn snickered openly. Even Apo allowed a small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lip. The townsfolk clearly regarded Avid as an earnest, slightly gullible boy who had seen too many old movies. Scott, however, found him exquisitely entertaining. The way the boy’s cute face would flush red in embarrassment or fear was addictive. Avid was harmless, yet held information. He would be Scott’s little, terrified hobby.

Eventually, the groups finally departed. Shelby and Cleo went one way, the mining parties another. Scott, maintaining his persona as the aristocratic outsider who refused to be chained to a group, announced his own intentions.

"I find crowds to be... detrimental to my health," he declared. "I shall take my leave. I require a private survey of the surrounding land."

He headed in the opposite direction, ostensibly exploring, but his true purpose was strategic. He moved silently through the woods, taking his time to gather additional meat and supplies, efficiently snapping up more chickens and rabbits and carefully packaging the meat into his inventory cache.

He found an exposed cave face and casually mined a few chunks of the strange, heavy silver ore, adding the samples to his collection for later study. He needed to know its exact composition and properties. It was heavier than standard iron, its surface cool to the touch.

His explorations took him far afield. He stumbled upon a small island situated in the center of a large, glassy lake. Upon the island stood another stone tower, and within its crumbling walls, Scott spotted a second, unactivated beacon. This one was entirely neutral, emitting a cold, dull white glow—the state of the one in Oakhurst before the purification ritual.

Scott paused at the lake’s edge, contemplating. He could desecrate it now, preventing any future purification and establishing a locus of dark power. But doing so would announce his presence and his abilities prematurely. He was still within the 48-hour window where the Oakhurst beacon was immune to his influence.

He left it alone for now. Patience, he reminded himself. First, I identify the priest who flipped the switch.

He did come across Apo's scouting group briefly, exchanging terse, non-committal nods that satisfied the need for accountability. He then slowly looped back toward Oakhurst. The sun was beginning its descent, and the scent of woodsmoke and organized activity now hung in the air. The humans were adapting faster than he had anticipated, and he found a strange, grudging respect for their resilience.

He had much to process. The silver, the twin beacon, and the persistent, if foolish, little Vampire Hunter. It was going to be an interesting night.

Scott returned to Oakhurst as the afternoon was drawing on, the air beginning to cool. He found Shelby at their small, functional cabin, examining a few large, smooth river stones she had gathered earlier.

"Roomie! You're back!" Shelby chirped, her glasses catching the waning light. She looked utterly pleased with herself and their progress. "Did you find any cool cryptid habitats?"

"Only signs of industrious rodents and a peculiar amount of silver," Scott replied, sliding easily into his corner. "But tell me, Miss Shelby, your day sounds far more productive. What did your scouting party unearth?"

Shelby launched into an enthusiastic recap of their findings, her hands flying as she described the strange discoveries.

"Okay, so there are these weird tomb-like structures dotted all over the landscape—we counted maybe eight of them!" she explained. "Inside, there's always a single chest and a magical book. Cleo's group found one, too. Some of the books are for enchanting gear, like boosting weapons or armor. But the other books? They're totally different."

She leaned in conspiratorially. "Apparently, one of the guys—not in our group—accidentally absorbed a book and suddenly had, like, superpowers! It's bonkers! I haven't read mine yet, but it's totally thrilling. Maybe Bigfoot wrote it!"

Scott listened, his pleasant, intrigued demeanor masking a growing, cold fury. Magical tomes giving power? These resources were once sacred, carefully hidden, and now they were scattered about for mortals to consume like common berries.

Shelby continued with more unsettling news. "Oh, and we found a few other tower structures with beacons! The white, neutral ones. Ren figured out that anyone can consecrate them, so it made it really easy. We have three beacons going now, counting the one in town!"

Scott forced a wide, friendly smile. "Three beacons! That's wonderful news for town safety! If only I had found something so cool myself, Miss Shelby. I do feel a little miffed that my grand exploration only yielded rocks."

"Well, you should check out the area I found," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "It's near a dead oak forest. That's where I found my book. I didn't explore much, so you might find more tomorrow."

Scott noted the location with grim precision. A corrupted, dead oak forest—perhaps a place where the purification magic had struggled to take hold. "Perhaps I will, Miss Shelby. Thank you for the tip."

As the last golden shafts of afternoon light started to settle, Scott stretched, feigning casual restlessness. "I think I shall meander a bit," he said.

Shelby, however, was already grabbing a simple wooden tray. "Me too! I need to harvest more building supplies to expand the house. Maybe I can find a flat piece of slate for a kitchen counter." They exchanged a smile and a wave, and both set out into the twilight settlement. Their parting was entirely casual.

Scott spent the next hour around the central area, exchanging superficial pleasantries with Apo about the quality of the silver ore, inquiring about Legundo's health, and generally being the "amiable, if peculiar, gentleman of leisure." He was subtly gleaning information about who had absorbed which book.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, bruised purples, when Avid stormed out of nowhere. His purple eyes were wide with genuine terror and rage, and his cute face was flushed with a darker, angrier crimson than Scott had ever seen. He stopped directly in front of Scott, forcing everyone nearby to look up.

"It was you! You fiend!" Avid shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria.

Scott raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I beg your pardon, young man? Did you misplace your Bigfoot sketchpad?"

"Don't play dumb!" Avid demanded, gesturing wildly toward the cabin. "Shelby's gone! I saw her house was empty, and she isn't answering! You were the last one with her! You did something to her!"

The crowd, which included Ren and Apo, immediately grew tense. A missing person was serious, and Scott's exotic appearance made him an easy target for suspicion.

"And how, precisely, does Miss Shelby's absence connect me to being a... what did you call it? A 'fiend'?" Scott questioned, his voice losing all traces of his lighthearted teasing and dropping into a serious, cold tenor. "Why would I attack Shelby? She is my roommate, and she provided excellent shelter."

He looked directly at Avid, his eyes razor-sharp. "Furthermore, she went out to harvest wood earlier. Surely, someone else has seen her since I did. Why am I the only one you blame? Does my cravat make me a murderer?"

Avid didn't listen. He was past rational thought, driven by panic and his misguided ideology. "It's obvious! You're a vampire! You targeted the person who trusted you! We need a search party, and Scott is guilty!"

Ren, stepping forward to mediate, looked severely worried. "Avid, calm down. Scott is right. Shelby went out to gather resources. But we are worried. We need to search."

The entire town mobilized. Scott, maintaining his role as the worried, falsely accused roommate, joined the search party, efficiently covering the grounds in the opposite direction of his hunting path. They searched for a good hour, combing the immediate perimeter and shouting her name, but Shelby was nowhere to be found.

They reconvened in the town center, frustrated and exhausted.

Avid, still hysterical, continued his performance. "He's hiding her! Look at him! He's too calm! This is all part of the Vampire plot!" Avid stammered, presenting supposedly damning "evidence"—mostly Scott's lack of sweat and his overall fastidiousness.

Scott stood his ground, radiating an air of patient, injured dignity. "Miss Shelby is a strong, responsible person. I trust my roommate. She will show up. Perhaps she merely got sidetracked by a very large footprint in that dead oak forest she mentioned. We should save the panic for when there is actual proof of malice, not merely inconvenient absence."

He maintained his firm belief that Shelby was simply delayed, choosing to look like a supportive, trusting friend rather than a callous murderer. But internally, the wheels of suspicion were turning. Was she genuinely missing? Or was this a calculated, elaborate move by the 'purifiers' to test his loyalty, or frame him?

 

Notes:

Vampire Terminology:

Sire: A vampire that takes the Elder or parental role, in a Brood, of turning, training and guiding their new Childe.

Childe: Also known as a Fledgling when under 50 vampiric yrs old, The Childe is the younger, newly turned vampire in a brood.

Coven: a community or group of vampires residing within a domicile or town, usually consists of at least 2+ broods.

Brood: A Vampire Family of those tied together by Sire and Childe bonds.

Vitae: An Older Vampire's life blood that is used to sustain a Childe for the first day of their turning while their body adjusts.

Sire's Echo: This is what the very first thirst or hunger pains a Childe experiences is called. Their instincts and body calling out and craving their Sire's Vitae for sustenance.

Chapter 3

The settlement was tense, the air thick with fear and suspicion. Groups stood huddled, illuminated by weak lantern light, with the community roughly split. Half the people, including Avid and Martyn, eyed Scott with deep suspicion, fueled by his polished composure and the missing roommate. The other half, led by Ren and Legundo, were more inclined to believe Scott’s assertion that Shelby, being a capable person, was merely delayed or lost in the dark, though their worry was rising rapidly.

Scott remained near the tower, subtly maintaining the appropriate air of an aggrieved, concerned friend. He met Avid’s intense, furious gaze with a look of wounded dignity.

"If I had murdered her," Scott stated to the weary crowd, his voice carrying clearly, "I assure you, I would have been much more efficient in disposing of the evidence. I would hardly have invited the whole settlement out to witness my failure."

Avid, his face pale with frustration, was opening his mouth to issue another fervent accusation about Scott's "unnatural calm," when a sudden, collective murmur drew every eye to the far, ruined entrance of the palisade.

Out of the rising, night mist, a figure stumbled into view.

It was Shelby.

She was hauling a massive, rough-hewn beam over her shoulder and dragging a net full of smaller, jagged stones behind her. She looked utterly exhausted, her vibrant red hair damp, her glasses crooked, but blessedly, completely unharmed. She dropped the heavy load with a tired groan, oblivious to the panicked tableau she had walked into.

The moment Shelby was undeniably visible, Scott moved. He dropped his sophisticated composure instantly, moving with an accelerated burst of speed that looked to the gathered humans like the sheer, human force of overwhelming relief. He rushed over to her.

"Shelby! Miss Shelby, are you quite alright?" Scott demanded, immediately taking on the persona of the frantic, mother-henning roommate. He gently steadied her, his gloved hands immediately hovering over her shoulders to check for injury. "We have been out of our minds with worry! Do you know that this entire settlement was preparing to murder me for your supposed disappearance? I was accused of being a blood-drinking fiend!"

The crowd—Ren, Apo, Legundo, and a completely dumbstruck Avid—poured toward them, relief instantly overwhelming their suspicion.

"I'm fine, I'm so sorry!" Shelby gasped, rubbing the back of her neck. "I got a bit turned around. I found the perfect slate deposit for our counter—but it was much further than I thought. Then the sun set, and I just kept walking to haul the supplies. I'm sorry, I should have said something!"

Her sincere explanation was enough to instantly deflate the remaining tension. Apo sighed deeply in relief, and Ren clapped a hand to his forehead.

As the general flood of well-wishes settled down, and the others began moving Shelby’s supplies, Scott turned slowly to face Avid. He let a small, wounded, if slightly proud pout settle on his lips, emphasizing his recent ordeal.

"Well, now," Scott said, his voice quiet and disappointed, deliberately drawing the entire situation back to the young hunter. "It seems my innocence has been quite spectacularly proven, Avid. I do believe I deserve an apology for having been nearly lynched for the murder of my dear, resourceful roommate."

Avid was a complete mess. His fear had been replaced by intense embarrassment, making his face flush a deep, painful scarlet. Scott's closeness—his intimidating height and the quiet, expectant way he waited—was utterly overwhelming. Avid struggled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He couldn't meet Scott's eyes.

Finally, he choked out the words, barely audible: "I... I'm so s-sorry, Scott." He finished with an embarrassed pout that mirrored Scott’s own fake expression.

Scott smiled, a gentle, playful curve of his lips that was dangerously charming. He leaned forward quickly, closing the small gap between them before Avid could react, and delivered a teasing kiss directly to his cheek.

"Apology accepted," Scott murmured, his breath warm against Avid’s skin, before stepping back, leaving the hunter frozen and utterly frazzled in the middle of the crowded square.

Scott offered a satisfied nod to Ren and Legundo. "I believe I shall retire now. A man needs his rest after nearly being wrongly executed." With a final, casual adjustment of his cravat, he walked back to the cabin, leaving Avid standing in a state of mortified, stunned silence.

Scott walked toward his and Shelby’s home, his thoughts a delightful mix of planning and amusement over his 'situationship' with Avid. He found the boy's fear-fueled adoration adorable, musing on the potential of turning him into a mate someday. For now, however, he needed to find solid recruits. After quickly checking in with Shelby, he wandered back into the town center and found Owen and Pyro.

Owen explained his plan to go exploring in the morning, seeking company. Pyro, the young scholar, eagerly volunteered, hoping to find historical subjects for his college thesis. Scott, intrigued by the scholarly young man, offered the dead oak forest that Shelby had mentioned as a possible destination and joined the two.

Along the way, Scott subtly gathered information about Owen. He confirmed that Owen claimed to have been a lumberjack in Oakhurst thirty-five to forty years ago. The man seemed oddly interesting, but something felt strange and didn't quite align with his story. Scott filed the observation away, focusing on the mundane chatter as they walked.

They soon reached the destination. Shelby had accurately called it the dead oak forest; the trees were a ghostly grayish tone, their pale white insides exposed by peeling bark. The forest itself appeared to be in a state of thriving life while simultaneously looking dead and rotting. It was a corrupted ecosystem.

As they traveled, they found a tower with a beacon, just as Shelby had described. They all approached, gathering around the base of the structure.

Owen suddenly knelt, leaning toward the stone. An annoyed look instantly crossed his face. He glanced up. "Could you both back up a bit?" he asked, his voice strained.

Pyro, listening immediately, backed up and stepped out of the beacon's range. Scott, however, refused, feigning confusion while holding his ground. He watched Owen. Owen tried to kneel once more, and seemed to brighten slightly, before realizing that he was still within the artifact’s dampening field.

Scott’s suspicion crystallized. He knelt as well, focusing his senses on the beacon. He realized immediately that the corruption rate of the beacon had increased, a clear sign that dark magic was being exerted nearby.

"Oh, this is unfortunate," Owen muttered, standing and brushing off his trousers, his eyes now narrowed and wary.

Scott stood as well, dusting off his pristine pants with a deliberate air of superiority. "A bit. But I believe I was here first." He gave Owen a smug tone and a barely hidden, fanged grin.

Owen glanced up and gave a sneer. "Oh, I think two hundred years begs to differ."

Scott threw back his head and gave a hearty, booming laugh that echoed in the dead woods. He leveled a look at Owen, as if to say, Try me. "That all? Try well over six hundred, my dear." He watched as what little color remained in Owen's face evaporated in the chilling realization that he was trespassing in the established territory of an elder, ancient vampire.

While the two vampires were locked in this silent power dynamic, Pyro wandered a few yards away, happily making notes on the strange foliage.

Owen, subdued but desperate, stalked closer to Scott, asking softly, "Can I, just have a nibble at least? I'm thirsty."

"Alright, I guess I can allow that," Scott sighed, granting the favor of an Elder. "But just a little nibble."

Owen lunged. He was quick, but his approach was rough and unpracticed. He latched onto Pyro’s neck with brutal, greedy speed drinking down a few quick hasty gulps. Pyro instantly thrashed, screaming, "What the hell!" He managed to knock Owen free with a panicked blow.

Scott’s jaw tightened in disgust at the clumsy display. Crude. Messy. Amateurish.

Owen looked startled and ashamed, but Scott ignored him, moving with a controlled grace that commanded attention. Scott's voice dropped into a soft, melodic tone as he cast the trance, instantly calming Pyro. The trance took hold immediately, easing the terror in Pyro's eyes. Scott gently pulled the boy into an embrace, his fingers delicately tracing the deep, ragged puncture wounds Owen had left.

Owen watched the entire scene, frozen by a mixture of shame and professional awe. He saw the casual, effortless application of the trance—a subtle power he clearly hadn't mastered—and recognized the vast gulf between his own messy survival and Scott’s ancient finesse. The sight of Scott consoling the victim he had just brutally attacked made Owen look down, his posture now completely one of deference to a master.

"My dear, let me feed, then I'll nurture you into something better than you have ever been," Scott murmured to Pyro, instilling confidence and calm. He bit Pyro’s neck with controlled precision, drinking just enough to stabilize his own power while stopping just as the pulse began to falter.

Then, with a deliberate shift of his mouth, Scott injected his venom, initiating the turning. Scott held Pyro gently, stroking his hair, as the venom began the slow, internal work of transformation. The skin color shift was barely perceptible, but the process was underway.

"You will clean up your own mess, fledgling," Scott ordered Owen, his voice quiet but absolute, gesturing to the traces of blood on Pyro's collar. "And you will learn control. You will serve as my Coven's scout. Welcome to the Brood."

Owen, now thoroughly humbled, nodded immediately. "Yes, Elder." He moved to obey, meticulously wiping the bloodstains from Pyro's clothes. He had found his master and a path to power he never knew existed.

Scott watched over the two figures. Owen, chastened and moving with meticulous care, cleaned the blood from Pyro’s neck and then scrubbed his own mouth with the back of a hand, erasing the evidence of his clumsy feeding. The sheer haste and lack of control Scott had witnessed, coupled with Owen’s sudden, abject deference, confirmed a suspicion that had been forming. Owen was no adult vampire; he was simply still a fledgling, and a distressingly young one at that.

Scott, despite his innate aversion to dirt, remained seated on the ground, holding Pyro gently while waiting for the turning process to complete. It would take a few minutes for the venom to fully take hold. As he waited, he fixed his gaze on Owen.

"How old are you, really?" Scott asked, his voice stern and his expression serious. "In vampiric years, that is—the time you've been awake and learning."

Across the way, Scott noticed the nearly imperceptible way that Owen’s shoulders shifted nervously. Owen mumbled something Scott couldn’t quite catch.

"Speak up," Scott instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

Owen scrunched his face in acute embarrassment, then spoke louder, the confession tumbling out in a rush. "Two days... but I was asleep two hundred years."

Scott was genuinely stunned, a rare feeling for a vampire of his age. He wondered how on earth this poor fledgling had been so new to his transformation that he was able to fall into that deep slumber, only to awaken now, with the world in chaos. It explained the awkward feeding, the raw hunger, and the shocking lack of finesse. Scott now had two newborns on his hands, one newly turned and one barely older.

"Where is your sire?" Scott asked, his voice softening with concern and professional curiosity. "Did you at least get Vitae for the first day after turning? You would have needed it when experiencing the Sire's Echo."

Owen looked up, confusion clouding his gaze. The complex terminology was clearly foreign to him. "My Sire died when I was turning," Owen whispered, looking down quietly to his lap, his voice wavering with residual trauma. He clearly did not want to speak on the matter further.

Scott sighed, the sound carrying a lifetime of weariness. He truly was a newborn, orphaned fledgling.

Scott motioned Owen closer to him, watching as the erstwhile lumberjack nervously moved to stand in front of him. "Would you like me to take over as your Sire? To teach you and train you?" Scott explained, his voice cautiously soft. "If you haven't had a drop of Vitae yet, I wouldn't be surprised if you puke up your meal soon. Vitae is detrimental to a newborn fledgling’s health."

Scott didn't want to force the choice on Owen, but the reality was harsh: if Owen didn't take a sire soon, his body would likely begin rejecting all food and blood until he consumed Vitae—the magical, infused blood of an adult vampire—and he would eventually starve and die, unable to sustain his new immortal form. Scott's unbeating heart ached at the thought of a newborn fledgling dying alone and starving simply because they lost their sire too soon. This was an Elder's responsibility.

The silence stretched, heavy and profound, broken only by the gentle sound of the wind rustling through the dead, gray-white leaves of the forest. Owen was thinking, his eyes flicking nervously toward Pyro, then back to Scott. Scott used the time to observe the man—no, the fledgling—watching as a cascade of confused emotions flitted across his face: shame, grief, desperate hope, and profound fear.

As he watched, Scott felt a sudden, gentle snap in his mind—a warm, unfamiliar sensation as a bond snapped into place. He quickly looked down at the figure in his arms and couldn't help but coo, giving an endearing, protective look to his new Childe, Pyro. The turning process was complete, and the Sire/Childe bond had successfully formed between their minds and souls. Pyro would be rousing soon, and with it would come questions, which Scott was prepared to answer with patience and clarity.

Owen finally let out a shaky, unnecessary breath. "What... what happens if I don't take a sire?" he asked softly, the question laced with a morbid curiosity.

Scott shifted his attention, maintaining the gentle, serious demeanor he used for crucial negotiations. He explained the inevitable: how the body, stripped of the necessary Vitae, would begin to violently reject all sustenance, leading to horrible suffering and eventual starvation and death. He knew it wasn't what Owen wanted to hear, but the fledgling deserved the truth, unfiltered.

Owen couldn't help but give a sad, disbelieving laugh, a brief, hollow sound. "I guess that makes the choice easy," he concluded, his sadness replaced by a firm, desperate determination. "I don't wanna die. I don't wanna waste the last thing, the last bit of my sire that I have left. If you'll have me, can you be my new sire?"

The words were a promise to himself: he wasn't having Scott replace his first sire, but simply gaining another. Scott gave a genuine, gentle smile.

"I'm happy to be your sire," Scott said softly, his voice imbued with sincerity and authority. "I hope I do your first sire proud in raising you. Now come here. I need to inject my venom so we can form a bond."

Owen quickly knelt beside Scott, his nervousness replaced by immediate compliance. Scott leaned into his new fledgling's neck, gently nuzzling his fangs against the flesh before digging in. He didn't drink a drop; instead, he immediately forced his venom in, just as if he were turning a new Childe, but with the explicit intent to form a Sire/Childe bond. The venom, infused with his magical essence, was the conduit for the connection.

As he pulled away, Scott knew his venom was working fast. He could feel a second, distinct bond forming quickly in his mind—a different texture than Pyro's new bond, more urgent, more scarred by grief and fear. He now had two fledglings: one fresh and trusting, and one wounded and reliant.

Scott gently withdrew, satisfied. The foundation of his new Coven was secure. Now, the teaching would begin.

Notes:

For all my fellow peeps on BMR, hope you enjoy <3

Chapter 4

Scott sat patiently, holding his newest Childe, focusing his mental energy on the delicate, final moments of the turning process. The second bond with Owen had just clicked into place—a pragmatic, necessity-driven connection—but all of Scott's attention was currently dedicated to nurturing the fresh, fragile bond with Pyro.

Slowly, Pyro began to stir. His eyelids fluttered, a dazed, confused expression settling on his features. The trance had mercifully dulled the immediate trauma of the feeding, ensuring his transition was as gentle as possible.

Scott let out a low, soothing sound—a combination of reassuring coos and soft trills—sending waves of positive emotions and unconditional praise through the newly established bond. He felt the mental feedback, a faint curiosity mixed with deep comfort, as Pyro subconsciously reacted to the loving encouragement.

Finally, Pyro’s eyes fluttered fully open. They were no longer glazed from the trance but were slightly dull but still normal—the temporary mark of a freshly turned vampire.

"There you are, my dear," Scott said softly, his hand gently stroking through Pyro's hair. Pyro leaned into the touch instinctively, letting out a slight, instinctual whine that resonated through the bond, a primal sound of a Childe recognizing his Sire.

After a moment, Pyro finally broke through his turning daze and asked, his voice weak and confused, "What happened? I was... making notes..."

Scott sighed, a look of tender regret crossing his face. He maintained eye contact, his voice low and apologetic. "I am truly sorry you experienced such a violent introduction. Owen... Owen fed on you. A little aggressively, I'm afraid. He hadn't been trained or known better. I had to intervene."

Scott explained his choice, maintaining the soothing tone. "I felt it was my responsibility to save you by completing the turn. You are now my fledgling. You are a vampire, my dear. And I will now care for you and train you—everything you need to know about our kind."

As he spoke, Pyro groaned, the sound of profound physical discomfort. A sharp, piercing pain, immediately followed by an overwhelming, burning thirst, ripped through his body. The Sire's Echo was starting.

"It's starting, the Sire's Echo," Scott explained, his voice calm and steady, easing the panic in Pyro's mind through the bond. "It is the first feeding a fledgling experiences. Your body will reject all other sustenance now. It needs my blood—my Vitae."

With the words, Scott lifted his own wrist to his mouth, sinking his fangs into the sensitive flesh of his inner forearm. His Vitae—his potent, life-force infused blood—began to flow freely, glistening like dark rubies under the faint light.

He brought his wounded wrist to Pyro's lips, gently tilting the boy's head. "Now, drink deeply," Scott cooed, enticing him to take the vital liquid.

Pyro, driven by the intense, non-negotiable need of the Echo, latched onto Scott's wrist. He drank deep, desperate, and shaky gulps. The relief on his face was immediate and profound as the Vitae settled the burning thirst, replacing the pain with a warm, magical current of comfort and strength.

Off to the side, Owen, who had been standing guard, became visibly strained. The thick, coppery, magically infused scent of Scott's freely flowing Vitae in the air was a cruel agony. It brought the other fledgling's own starved hunger to the front, making his body tremble. He was on edge, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes fixed on the precious crimson flowing from Scott's wrist.

Scott held Pyro until his newest Childe was satisfied and stable. He knew he would have to feed Owen next; the temptation was too strong, and Owen's need was too critical to ignore. The needs of his Brood came first.

After a few minutes, Pyro's frantic gulps slowed to a steady, satisfied rhythm, allowing Scott to gently pull his arm away. Scott immediately shifted his focus, his gaze softening as he looked at Owen.

"Come here, little one," Scott said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He motioned his other fledgling over, shifting his body to provide a comfortable, welcoming space.

Owen's movements were hesitant and barely restrained, the desperate, unrelenting hunger overriding any learned caution. He quickly crawled into Scott's lap, a large man reduced to the primal need of a starved infant. Scott immediately lifted his bleeding arm, bringing the potent Vitae to Owen’s eager mouth.

Owen latched on. His feeding was desperate and needy, punctuated by strained gulps, as if he feared Scott would pull away at any moment.

Scott couldn't help the sad look of worry that crossed his face. He knew it would take time for Owen to fully trust him; the fledgling would likely be on edge about abandonment or losing his new Sire. Scott didn't blame him; losing one's Sire would scar and traumatize any Childe, let alone a newborn fledgling who hadn't even had the chance to stabilize. Scott held Owen close, humming softly, his free hand stroking the man's hair gently as he desperately fed.

Scott was consciously depleting his own reserves, knowing he would be ravenous after this. But he had centuries of training and restraint; he could manage a few days with sparse hunting. The well-being of his Coven came first.

Off to the side, Scott could see that Pyro was finally rousing from his feeding daze, becoming more lucid and aware, closer to his normal scholarly self. He was sitting up, gingerly touching the bite marks on his neck, his eyes reflecting a newfound sharpness.

Scott waited until Owen’s feeding slowed to a satisfied, quiet suckle before gently pulling his wrist away. He held Owen close for a moment longer, ensuring the Vitae had fully settled the crippling hunger.

He looked over at the newly awakened scholar. "How do you feel, my dear?" Scott asked Pyro, his voice soft and tender.

Pyro blinked, his pale eyes searching Scott's face. He felt a profound sense of calm and a strange, powerful energy thrumming beneath his skin—a complete contrast to the confusion he had felt just moments before. He touched his neck again, then his own pulse.

"I... I feel strangely well," Pyro admitted, his voice quiet. "The fear is gone, but I can think clearly. And the hunger... the hunger is a concept, not a need. And the silence—" He looked around the forest, which seemed impossibly detailed and sharp to his new senses. "It's all so loudly quiet." He paused, then his scholarly curiosity immediately kicked in. "And the bond? I can... feel you, can't I?"

Scott gave a soft, reassuring smile, pleased by Pyro's immediate curiosity and lucidity. He gently pulled his hand away from Owen, who, sated and weak, was now resting heavily against him.

"Yes, that is the Sire/Childe bond that forms upon the turning of a new fledgling," Scott confirmed, his voice laced with the patience of a seasoned teacher. "It connects our minds and our life forces, primarily to sustain you and allow me to guide you, particularly during these first few weeks."

He shifted Owen to a more comfortable position in his lap. "But that is only the most basic connection. A brood or coven can have any number of vampires with many different types of bonds."

Scott took his time, explaining the complexities of vampiric social structure. "There are sibling bonds, which you and Owen can form to ensure mutual protection and clear communication. There are familial bonds, like those of parent to child or sibling to sibling, which deepen trust and emotional reliance. And yes," he added with a glance toward the dozing Owen, "there are even mateship bonds, which are, shall we say, more dedicated and profound."

"To form these bonds," Scott continued, holding up his wrist, "you simply need to share your venom with the intent of that specific partnership. For a sibling bond, the wrist will suffice; you do not have to use the neck. It is entirely up to you and Owen if you wish to have a deeper connection, but I highly recommend the sibling bond. It will make us a stronger, more efficient unit."

He looked from Pyro to Owen, whose breathing was evening out in a deep, post-feed rest. "The basic Sire/Childe bonds are the normal ones formed to start with, as they are essential for your survival, but we will discuss the others when you are both ready."

Pyro took a moment to absorb the new knowledge, his eyes reflecting a scholarly excitement over something so new and intricate to his new way of life. He glanced at Owen, considering the complexity of the sibling bond, before settling back against Scott's side.

Scott watched over the two of them, keeping his bond with Owen soft and reassuring while waiting for the newly fed fledgling to rest up and adjust to his Vitae-filled system.

It didn't take long. Owen soon roused from his meal-induced, exhausted rest. As awareness returned, a horrified flush spread across his face, not from blood, but from intense embarrassment. He realized that Scott was still babying him, cradling him in his arms like a child.

Owen tried to fight the hold, his body stiffening as he attempted to wriggle free and insist that he was a grown man, not a weak child that needed mothering.

Scott, however, was having none of it. His patience, while vast, had limits when it came to the safety and discipline of his Coven. He immediately snapped at Owen—not physically, but through a cold, sharp mental command and a matching tone of voice.

"Stop that nonsense immediately, fledgling," Scott commanded, his grip tightening just enough to enforce his authority. "You are only a few days old. You were on the edge of starvation, you are un-knowledgable of our culture, and you just survived a turning without the required resources."

Scott shifted, ensuring Owen was still firmly held. "You will have to deal with my supposed 'mother henning.' I am your Sire, and what I do, I do for your preservation. Furthermore," Scott insisted, his voice softening only slightly with a note of undeniable truth, "your inner instinct will crave this affection at times. You are no longer just a man; you are my Childe. You will accept the care until I deem you stable enough to stand alone."

Owen instantly wilted. The combination of the Vitae-driven obedience and the crushing authority in Scott's voice silenced his protests. He settled back into the embrace, thoroughly scolded, embarrassed, but undeniably safe.

Scott waited until both of his fledglings were calm and compliant. Owen remained nestled in his arms, chastened and submissive, while Pyro stood slightly apart, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the dead forest.

"We have spent enough time here," Scott stated, his voice returning to its normal, smooth register. "You two are still too fresh to be left alone, and we must not be noticed arriving in tandem. Pyro, you will walk ahead. Your task is reconnaissance. Learn which humans are grouping, what they are saying about the silver, and who possesses the ability to use those magic books."

Pyro, energized by the Vitae and eager for purpose, nodded immediately. "Understood, Sire. I will maintain my cover as the historian."

"Excellent," Scott approved. "Owen, you will follow behind me. You need to gather intelligence on the physical defenses—who is using the silver, where the main stockpiles are, and who is doing the most labor. You are the lumberjack; blend in."

Scott gave Owen one final, gentle squeeze before releasing him. "We are now three separate, observant members of the settlement. No contact until nightfall. Go."

The three vampires dispersed, slipping out of the corrupted woods and making their way back to Oakhurst separately. They timed their arrival perfectly—just as the main groups were filtering back into the palisade, tired and dusty from their day of mining and scouting.

Scott, arriving last, strode through the entrance with the weary, slightly annoyed air of a gentleman who had endured a strenuous, pointless hike. He immediately headed toward his and Shelby's cabin.

He found Shelby inside, organizing her new slate counter and looking mildly discouraged.

"Scott! You're back," she said, brightening. "Did you find anything cool in the woods?"

"Only a very irritating tower and an abundance of boring moss," Scott lied easily. "But I did find this."

Scott reached into his inventory, pulling out several pieces of the raw chicken and rabbit meat he had harvested the previous night—carefully cleaned and packaged, looking perfectly fresh. He ignored the ravenous hunger pains as the smell of the meat filled the space once he had pulled it out, he would hunt later with his Childe's/ He currently though had no desire for his roommate to consume any more of those dreadful protein bars.

"I managed to secure some decent game," he offered, placing the package on her newly cleaned counter. "You can at least cook this. It must be preferable to those compressed rations you consume."

Shelby’s eyes widened, her enthusiasm returning full force. "Oh my god, yes! This is perfect! Thank you, Scott! I was getting sick of those chalky bars. You're a lifesaver."

He spent a pleasant fifteen minutes bonding with her, listening to her theories on cryptid sightings and affirming her belief that the "dead forest" was definitely a nexus of spiritual activity. Their easy rapport was essential cover. He learned that the humans were already arguing over how to divide the magically enhanced books, confirming they were unaware of the true danger they possessed.

After leaving Shelby happily prepping her raw meal for cooking, Scott announced he was "taking a constitutional" and wandered out into the cooling settlement. His true target was singular: Avid.

It didn't take long to find the young hunter. Avid was attempting to nail a board to his crude shelter, looking tense and distracted—clearly still reeling from the public embarrassment and the close kiss Scott had delivered before.

Scott began his slow, deliberate hunt. He didn't approach directly. Instead, he started by merely stalking the boy. He would slip silently into a shadow just 15 feet from Avid's shelter. When Avid would turn suddenly, feeling a prickle of alarm, Scott would be gone, only for Avid to catch the briefest flash of Scott’s dark coat disappearing behind a ruin thirty seconds later.

This continued for nearly half an hour, raising Avid’s anxiety levels until the poor boy was sweating and jumping at every creak of the ruined wood.

Finally, Scott made his move. He emerged from a deep shadow just as Avid fumbled a nail. He stood close—closer than was socially acceptable—his presence a solid, intimidating block of stillness.

"Trouble with manual labor, young man?" Scott murmured, his voice velvety and low.

Avid yelped, nearly dropping his hammer. His face instantly flushed a brilliant red. "Scott! What are you doing? Don't sneak up on people!"

Scott merely smiled, an unsettling, predatory expression that Avid, in his terror, mistook for aloof charm. "I was merely observing your technique. It lacks... precision." He leaned in, his lips near Avid's ear, allowing the faintest hint of his chilling breath to touch the boy's skin. "Do you still believe I am plotting murder, Avid? Or perhaps... you were merely projecting your own desire to see me again?"

The flirtation was so unexpected, so bold, and so confusing that Avid’s brain completely short-circuited. "I—I... I was just fixing the wall!" he stammered, oblivious to the deeper meaning of the question, but intensely aware of the overwhelming presence of the elegant man next to him. "And you need to stop doing that! You're going to get someone hurt!"

Scott gave a soft, amused chuckle, finding the boy’s distress delightful. He reached out and lightly tapped the hammer Avid was clutching.

"Until tomorrow, my tiny Vampire Hunter," Scott whispered, turning and walking away, leaving Avid standing paralyzed, hammer clutched in his hand, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

Excellent, Scott thought. Distraction maintained. Now he needed to check in on his fledglings before night completely fell.

~~~

The sudden snap of the Sire/Childe bond still resonated pleasantly in Pyro’s mind—a deep, grounding sense of safety that had completely overwritten the terror of Owen’s clumsy attack. His body felt impossibly light, energized by the rich vitae. The world, previously a place of dusty ruin, was now a tapestry of hyper-detailed sights and sounds. The faint scent of the silver from the nearby ground was a sharp, almost metallic taste on his tongue.

Focus, Pyro. Reconnaissance.

He had split from Scott and Owenin the forest before nearing the edge of the palisade, instructed to observe and gather intelligence under the guise of the meticulous historian. The first thing he noticed was the shift in perception. Where before he would have needed to strain to catch conversations, now every low murmur in the twilight settlement was distinct.

He approached the area near the largest central ruin, where Ren and Legundo often gathered. He pulled out his small, worn leather journal and began sketching the peculiar, pale oaks, feigning scholarly focus.

His sharp hearing immediately picked up on a hushed conversation emanating from a cluster of people near one of the newly constructed shelters—three people Pyro recognized: Legundo, Cleo, and the fastidious butler, Abolish.

    "It's the intention that matters," Abolish was stating, his voice tight with conviction. "The central beacon only required the pure intention of neutral, god-given human will to be consecrated. That is why it worked for Ren and why it worked for Apo."

    Legundo sighed, rubbing his temples. "We understand that, Abolish. But the magic books are the real concern. We've seen what happens when people absorb them."

    Cleo interjected, her voice pragmatic. "It doesn't matter who absorbs what, as long as it helps. Those books give us the power to fight off any dark forces that would try to desecrate the consecrated beacons. The books are our shields."

Pyro froze, his pen hovering over the page. He immediately grasped the implications:

    1. The beacons were purified by simple human will/intention, meaning anyone could do it, making them easily and rapidly consecrated across the map.

    2. The magic books were the human answer to dark forces—they provided the power necessary to defend the purity of the beacons from desecration (i.e., from Scott).

    3. The identity of the individual who performed the initial purification on the town beacon was likely not a unique magical event, but simply the first person with the purest intent.

Pyro noted everything down, knowing everything would be important to his sire. 

He wandered toward the main supply area, ostensibly gathering samples of the strange local ore. He approached the large pile of newly mined silver which Apo's team had stacked.

As he got closer, a faint, cold hiss registered on his heightened senses—an active repulsion against his vampire essence. He gingerly picked up a chunk of the silver ore. The material was cold, and he felt an internal revulsion, a slight, tingling burn on his skin. However, due to his extremely low power levels as a newborn fledgling, he was able to hold it and even handle it without severe pain.

It doesn't bother me much, he thought, but I have a feeling that if I were stronger, or older, this would hurt me and repel me away entirely. He realized that the silver was a passive, low-level defense meant to affect only the most powerful vampires, or perhaps wear down those who lingered too long.

Pyro made his final observation near the edge of the camp. He saw Apo and Ren poring over a large map, their posture one of military strategy.

    "The tombs are linear," Apo stated flatly. "They’re not random; they were placed as a defensive line against something moving in from the north. The book we recovered today—the one on Conduit Magic—is stored safely. No one touches it until we understand the cost."

Pyro jotted down the key words: Tomb structures are linear. Defensive line. Conduit Magic.

He had enough. Scott was up against humans capable of rapidly consecrating safe zones and arming themselves with powerful defensive magic.

He wandered off towards his and Apo's abode to bide his time until his Sire was ready to meet.

~~~

Owen moved through the decaying woods on legs that felt surprisingly steady. The vitae coursing through his veins had banished the desperate, clawing hunger, replacing it with a quiet, controlled strength. He was a two-day-old fledgling, recently traumatized and deeply embarrassed by his clumsy feeding, but now he had a purpose and, more importantly, a Sire who cared. He focused entirely on the tasks Scott had given him, pushing aside the shame of his earlier failure.

His mission was simple: gather intelligence on the physical defenses of the settlement. Who was using the silver, where the main stockpiles were, and who was contributing the most labor. Scott had told him to blend in, and Owen knew he was good at that. With his rough clothing and calloused hands, he certainly looked the most normal of the three of them.

Owen chose to approach the settlement by observing the various construction sites. He carried a large, dead branch, feigning an exhausting trip from the far side of the forest.

He quickly assessed the labor distribution. Cleo and Pearl were focused entirely on the farm plot by the fountain, meticulously clearing land and beginning the construction of a heavy stone perimeter—a clear priority on self-sufficiency. Apo was finishing the construction of her and Pyro's shared shelter. It was the most strategically defensible structure, utilizing the thickest foundation walls and placing the windows high. For Avid and Martyn, Owen smirked slightly as he watched Avid attempt to hammer a nail and fail repeatedly. Their labor was chaotic and inefficient. Minimal threat, maximal noise.

With Sausage and the Others, the heaviest, most dedicated labor was being done by a few men, notably Sausage and a quiet individual named Drift. They were hauling the main structural timbers and the largest stones, showing consistent, intense effort. These were the physical backbone of the settlement.

Owen approached the central area, feigning an exhausting trip and dropping his heavy branch near the supply caches. He needed to get close to the materials without drawing suspicion.

Instead of focusing on one large stockpile, Owen took note of the scattered piles and the application of the silver ore. The material was everywhere—small chunks waiting to be smelted, rough bars, and finished implements.

He immediately noted a peculiar inefficiency in its use. Almost every laborer was wielding a silver-tipped axe, shovel, or pickaxe. Ren and Legundo were clearly prioritizing the production of durable tools, utilizing the silver's strength and sharpness. Martyn was clumsily trying to repair his own shoddy armor with thin silver plates, seemingly using it for its perceived strength and not its magical properties.

His own observation was that Silver was viewed primarily as a superior, high-end construction and working material for strength and durability. But despite its abundance, few people were using the heavy silver bars to reinforce shelters or build palisades. Most defenses were still relying on standard wood and stone. The exception was Apo's shelter with Pyro, which utilized some silver bars for window reinforcement.

His conclusion was that the humans were imbeciles. They were wasting it. The humans were using the rare, magically potent silver for mundane tools that would break or be lost, rather than dedicating the material to large-scale, stationary magical defense (which Scott knew would hurt him far more). They had the material for protection, but lacked the magical knowledge to apply it strategically as a defense against vampires.

Owen mentally noted his findings, he would inform Scott when they all met up later that night.

Chapter 5

The settlement had finally fallen into a deep, exhausted silence, the darkness outside the palisade thick and consuming. Only the faint, dying crackle of distant embers and the soft, ragged snores from the crude, temporary shelters broke the stillness. Scott, the lingering memory of his calculated manipulation of Avid a faint, satisfied thrum, felt the sharp, familiar surge of protective impatience for his Brood. The time for the Coven to consolidate was critical.

He slipped out from behind the rough palisade, his movement less walking and more a dissipation of shadow, moving like whispered smoke against the dark backdrop of the dead woods. He chose a spot near the very edge of the dead oak forest—a place where the air was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of pine needle rot, just far enough that the passive concentration of silver in the town's soil wouldn't immediately irritate his new Brood's nascent vampire systems.

He paused, sending a soft, distinct mental pulse through the Sire/Childe bonds—a gentle, almost musical signal that was part commanding summons and part deep, affectionate anchor.

It took only minutes for his fledglings to arrive. Pyro, guided by the intense, intellectual clarity of the bond, materialized first, his new movements fluid and quick, barely rustling the leaf litter. He offered a respectful, silent bow. Moments later, Owen emerged from the deeper, blacker shadows, his posture still a stiff, wary blend of deference and nervous, profound relief at being near his Sire.

Scott immediately stepped forward, the centuries-old Elder momentarily dissolving into the devoted, fussing Sire.

"Come here, both of you," he murmured, his voice laced with genuine relief and a possessive warmth that resonated bone-deep. He reached for Pyro, gently tilting his head to inspect the now-healed marks on his neck, his fingers stroking through the soft hair. "Are you holding up? Any lingering internal burn from the turn? Tell me, my Childe, is the Echo quiet now?"

Pyro leaned into the touch instinctively, a small, grateful gesture that settled a tremor in Scott's heart. "I feel perfectly stable, Sire. The Echo is a deep, comforting hum now. No pain, just... a potent, boundless energy thrumming beneath my skin."

Scott then moved to Owen, grasping his chin firmly and scrutinizing his eyes for residual strain. He ran a strong, stabilizing hand over Owen's thick hair. "And you, Owen. You have been running on fumes for days. Is the Vitae sitting right? No return of the hunger pangs?"

Owen, despite his residual masculine pride, accepted the intense scrutiny fully. "No, Elder. The Vitae... it stopped the burning immediately. I feel strong. And I managed to blend in easily." He offered a small, awkward, but genuine smile, clearly basking in the focused validation.

Scott beamed, giving a satisfied nod that visibly settled both fledglings. "Excellent. We start the training proper tomorrow, but for now, the reports."

Scott turned to Pyro first, appreciating his detailed, academic approach. "Pyro, what did your scholarly eye observe regarding their defenses and magical sources?"

Pyro presented his findings crisply, adopting a formal report tone.

"The beacons are not secured by complicated magic, Sire, but by simple, pure human intention or will. This means any dedicated human can consecrate a beacon rapidly, potentially turning large areas into a swiftly spreading threat," Pyro stated, a faint nervousness coloring his tone at the severity of the threat—the idea that everyone could become an active enemy.

"The magical books are seen as power sources to actively defend the beacons against our darkness. The humans are arming themselves, not just building walls. Some are granting abilities to fight or increase harvest, while other books simply improve their armor or weapons," Pyro continued, a faint, metallic edge entering his voice, betraying his worry that he might be incapable of defending against a magically enhanced human. Scott gave him a reassuring look and sent clear, calming thoughts through the bond.

"Apo and Ren are strategically mapping the tomb placements, the ones that they are finding the books in, viewing them as ancient defensive lines to integrate into their protection scheme."

Scott tapped his chin thoughtfully, the sound a soft click in the silence. "So, intent is the core enemy, and the books are the shields. Noted. This requires finesse, not brute force."

Scott then looked to Owen. "Owen, what about the physical construction and the application of their silver reserves? Where is the material weakness?"

Owen, regaining the focused competence of his old profession, delivered his report with efficiency.

"The most critical labor is being done by Apo’s team and the stronger members, Sausage, Ren and Abolish. The other laborers are inefficient," Owen stated, his tone tinged with a gruff admiration for their sheer physical perseverance.

"The humans are wasting their silver. It is being used heavily for simple tools—axes, shovels, armor plating—not for critical, large-scale defenses in their buildings," Owen said with an amused, low chuckle, acknowledging the relief this brought them—the humans were not immediately ready for a siege.

"They view silver as a superior material for durability, not as a specialized magical repellent. They are using up their reserves on items that will be lost or broken, rather than creating stationary defenses that would truly cripple us."

Scott’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, showing just a hint of fang. "Perfect. They have their best key for defense, but they treat it like a common hammer. This ignorance is our greatest advantage."

He stood, placing a commanding hand on the shoulder of each fledgling. "You both performed excellently. You have provided me with the full scope of our enemy: they are armed with pure conviction and potent tools, but are strategically blind. Rest now. Tomorrow, we begin your proper education. The Coven will thrive."

Scott felt the sharp, insistent pang of his own hunger—a hollow ache that even centuries of control could not suppress entirely after such a Vitae expenditure. He needed to hunt, and soon.

He looked at Pyro and Owen, his voice dropping to a low, decisive tone. "My thanks for the excellent work. Now, I must hunt. My reserves are low." He offered them a choice, though he could already predict their eagerness. "You may return to the settlement and rest, or you may accompany me. The choice is yours."

Before he could finish, Pyro was nodding eagerly, his new energy vibrating beneath his skin. "I would be honored to observe, Sire." Owen, always more guarded but driven by a desperate need for validation, added quickly, "We want to stay with you, Elder."

Scott’s elegant smile widened. He found his fledglings' desire to cling to him endearing. "As you wish. Then consider this your first practical lesson."

Scott turned and led them deeper into the forest, away from the quiet, slumbering town. The woods here were ancient and thick, the air cool and damp, muffling all sound.

"We hunt tonight for sustenance, not sport," he instructed, his voice barely audible above the rustling of the leaves. "A vampire does not rely on sight alone. You must learn to track by scent and sound, even in pitch darkness."

He paused, testing the wind, his nostrils flaring slightly. The faint, earthy scent of warm hide and pasture grass drifted past him. He focused, his ears straining until he pinpointed a slow, rhythmic shuffling and the quiet chewing sounds.

"Ah," Scott whispered, a thrill of the chase brightening his eyes. "Four cows, a ways off. Simple, quiet prey."

He shushed the fledglings with a subtle hand gesture and began to creep forward. His movements were liquid, silent instruction—a lesson in control and efficiency. The two fledglings followed, doing their best to mimic his silent grace, the thrill of the hunt mixing with the inherent fear of disappointing their Sire.

They entered a small, dimly lit clearing. A small herd of cows, unaware and lethargic, stood grazing beneath the partial moon. Scott immediately activated his trance, projecting a wave of potent, hypnotic calm over the small herd. The cows froze, their large eyes glazing over slightly, perfectly docile targets.

Scott walked up to the nearest cow, its hide still warm from the day. He paused, placing a gentle hand on its massive flank. "Thank you for your sacrifice," he murmured, a genuine moment of respect before he swiftly bent down and sank his fangs into the cow's neck.

He drank deeply, the raw, unrefined warmth of the animal blood a potent rush after days of restraint. He fed only enough to stabilize his own power—a fraction of what he required—before pulling away.

He motioned Pyro forward. "Your turn, Childe. Finish this one off. But control the flow. Feed until you are full, not until you are reckless."

Pyro, energized and compliant, latched onto the cow, finishing the deed with impressive precision, drinking deeply until the beast was still.

Scott moved to the next cow, repeating the process. He partially drained it, then stepped back, motioning to Owen.

"Your turn, Owen. Take your fill. You need this more than he does."

Owen, still hesitant but driven by instinct and his Sire's command, moved forward. His feeding was less elegant than Pyro's, but the Vitae had done its work; he managed the thick animal blood without immediately rejecting it, taking deep, steady gulps.

While his fledglings feasted on their halves, Scott claimed the remaining two cows, methodically and completely draining them. He felt the centuries-old, elegant power return, a dark, satisfying fire warming him from the inside out and sharpening his senses once more.

He watched his Coven finish feeding, a profound sense of satisfaction settling over him. He had his Brood, and they were nourished.

As the powerful rush of animal blood subsided, Pyro and Owen gently withdrew from the carcasses. Scott, fully sated and feeling the potent hum of his restored Elder power, immediately brought them back to task.

"Excellent control, both of you," Scott praised. "But waste is a luxury we cannot afford in this land."

He reminded them of the grim reality of Oakhurst: every material mattered, every resource treasured. The three of them set to work quickly and efficiently. They harvested the meat from the four cows and carefully skinned them for the leather, bundling the materials tightly. As they worked, the remaining bloody carcasses began to disintegrate—a faint, unsettling, chemical hiss that bespoke the land's corruption—leaving no trace of their feast.

Once they were clean and settled, their thirst satiated, Scott's posture shifted. The satisfied, pragmatic hunter gave way to a deeper, more ancient sorrow.

Pyro and Owen watched their Sire closely, the atmosphere suddenly chilling. Pyro noted the subtle way Scott's shoulders hunched, and the normally sharp focus in his eyes grew distant, clouded by an invisible grief. Owen, sensitive to emotional shifts after his own recent trauma, felt a profound wave of melancholy and familial emptiness resonate through their bond—an emotion far deeper and more complex than anything he’d ever known.

Scott began to move, his pace no longer the silent creep of the hunter, but a slow, distracted, almost stumbling march. He didn't speak, simply walking deeper into the most ruined section of the forest. The fledglings followed without question, their curiosity spiked by the sudden, intense vulnerability of their powerful Sire.

After what felt like a long, arduous journey through thicket and fallen stone, the trees parted abruptly. Before them lay a devastating sight: a crumbling, broken stone bridge spanning a vast, dark ravine. And across that abyss, dark and skeletal against the moon, stood the monumental ruins of an ancient, massive structure.

Pyro gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary. His new, scholar's mind immediately cataloging the scale of the destruction. He instantly recognized the immense masonry—the very structure the humans called the 'Castle' and the site of the vast catacomb crypt Apo and Ren were mapping.

Owen’s reaction was less intellectual but more visceral. As he looked across the chasm at the ruins, the deep, pervasive sorrow he had felt from Scott intensified into a crushing, possessive ache within his own breast. The resonance in the bond was unmistakable: this place, now violated and ruined, had been the sacred, lost heart of his Sire's world.

Scott stopped abruptly at the edge of the broken bridge, his gaze fixed on the shattered silhouette of the Castle.

"The Castle," Scott murmured, his voice strained by history, barely a whisper carried on the cold wind. "This ruin... the one the humans are digging in, the one they treat as a playground and a strategic point..." He paused, visibly struggling against the surge of centuries-old grief. "...It was my home. My legacy. My family's seat."

He was visibly torn. His instincts, the powerful, ingrained survival mechanism of the Elder, clashed violently with the desperate desire of the Sire to provide a secure nest.

His Instinct as an Elder demanded reclamation. This was his, and his power was intrinsically linked to these stones, urging him to cross immediately, regardless of danger.

But his Pragmatism as a Sire warned him: the ruins were exposed, compromised, and directly contested by the silver-mining, magic-wielding humans. He could not risk his newborn Coven for a pile of nostalgic rubble.

Scott stared across the broken bridge, his mind searching for the path forward, paralyzed by the weight of what he had lost and what he now needed to build.

The silence at the precipice of the broken bridge was broken only by the cold wind whistling through the jagged stones of the ruins. Scott remained frozen, a magnificent figure burdened by the weight of a shattered past.

Pyro, driven by a deep, protective empathy—a core emotion amplified by the new bond—took a hesitant step closer.

"Sire," Pyro murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "It is a ruin, yes. But it is yours. And we are yours." He looked across the broken chasm with newfound resolve. "We can take it back from them. We have learned their weaknesses."

Owen, his lithe frame now moving with quiet intent, stepped up beside Pyro, placing a reassuring, steady hand on Scott's rigid arm. The gesture was one of shared strength.

"We will help you reclaim it, Elder," Owen vowed, his voice gruff with loyalty. "We can’t fix this instantly, but we can procure the resources. We are stronger now. We will build you a new home. A new nest."

The flood of unwavering confidence and deep, pure familial loyalty sent a warm current through Scott’s fractured composure. He felt the ancient, self-imposed isolation crack. He looked from Pyro’s determined eyes to Owen’s steadfast commitment. They weren't just Coven; they were his family, his brood, willing to shoulder his burden.

Scott finally let out a slow, controlled breath, the sorrow retreating beneath his Elder authority. He gently turned to face them fully.

"Thank you, my Brood," Scott said, his voice low and intensely sincere. "Your faith is... deeply comforting." He nodded toward the ruins. "Then consider it done. We will not dwell in the shame of a past failure. I formally ask you, my Childe: help me build a new home. A new nest. We will start again."

As Scott finished his vow, both fledglings simultaneously froze. Pyro’s sharp eyes widened, and Owen blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Sire," Pyro whispered, his gaze fixed on Scott's face. "Your eyes..."

Owen squinted. "They're... different. Did that happen just now?"

Scott lifted a quizzical hand to his face, unaware of any immediate change. He had been focused entirely on his emotional state.

Pyro elaborated, the historian overcoming his shock. "Before, they were a beautiful, gentle sky blue, Sire—easy to look at, easy to trust. Now... they are a vibrant, undeniable dark red. A luminous, vivid scarlet."

Scott finally realized the scope of the change. After draining four large animals and stabilizing two fledglings with massive amounts of Vitae, his power had surged beyond tier 1 power level, his meticulously subdued threshold easily surpassed. The subtle human disguise he maintained—the deceptive sky blue—had failed.

He instantly projected his will inward, attempting to lighten or change the color, but the deep, vital red did not change, retaining its alarming vibrancy.

"Ah," Scott conceded, a wry, slightly annoyed smile playing on his lips. "An unwelcome side effect of power restoration, I'm afraid. This is a vampires true, natural color, visible only when one's vampiric power has surpassed a tier level from feeding their reserves to be freshly replenished." He ran a hand over his face. "This makes blending in with the humans... significantly more complicated."

The vibrant scarlet was a neon sign in the dark, a drastic change from his previous subtle hue. He was now an impossible figure to ignore.

"We will have to manage this," Scott stated, his mind already shifting from emotion to strategy. "It means fewer trips into the settlement for me, and far more relying on your observation skills." 

The remainder of the night was dedicated to practical matters. With the full moon beginning its descent, Scott led his fledglings across the shattered remnants of the bridge, using his superior balance and speed to navigate the treacherous gap.

The immediate inspection of the castle ruins confirmed Scott’s fears: the structure was nearly useless for immediate shelter, ravaged by time and human activity. However, they pressed on, scavenging for any usable materials.

Scott’s primary focus was the crypt—the catacomb beneath the main hall. As he navigated the lower, dust-choked halls, his hand brushed against something smooth and surprisingly light. He pulled it free from the rubble: a human skull, preserved surprisingly well by the crypt’s dry conditions.

A sly, strategic idea struck him. He lifted the skull and, with a quick, elegant motion, comfortably fitted it over his head. The bony mask was perfectly sized, completely obscuring his facial features. The vibrant, tell-tale scarlet of his eyes was instantly hidden within the shadowed sockets.

A dry, amused chuckle escaped him. "Well, this solves one problem," Scott announced, his voice muffled slightly by the bone. "I cannot hide my power, but I can certainly hide my face. This will let me make essential trips into town—and, perhaps, allow me to spook my adorable Avid without having to rely entirely on seduction."

Usable materials in the ruins were scarce; they found little more than tangled cobwebs, which Pyro meticulously broke down and bundled into rough lengths of string.

Scott, using the wood he already had stored, quickly crafted a sturdy double-sized chest and a basic crafting table. He placed them deliberately in a sheltered, stable area of the ruins—just far enough away from the dull, glowing, un-consecrated white beacon that sat dormant in the central courtyard.

He was momentarily tempted to desecrate the beacon now, but restraint won out. The longer he could operate without the humans realizing an opposing force was actively working against them, the more time the Coven would have to prepare their true home.

Scott carefully emptied his inventory into the newly placed chest: tools, weapons, and their precious supply of raw cow meat and leather. He then cast a layer of preservative magic over the meat, ensuring their crucial food supply would not rot. This preserved meat, he knew, would be vital for sustained power during any inevitable siege or prolonged hunt failure.

While Scott organized their initial base: Owen, finding purpose in physical labor, immediately started work on the overgrown old garden. He used his strength to systematically clear the dense foliage, tangled roots, and dead trees that had overtaken the space. His goal was to clear the entire area, creating a blank slate for the Coven’s future building plans.

Pyro, true to his intellectual nature, sought out the most efficient way to acquire necessary materials. He ventured deep into the crypt, testing the walls until he found a lower corridor suitable for excavation. He then began carving a mineshaft directly into the rock floor, leading down into a natural cave network. He began the slow, tedious work of mining different ores and stones, begrudgingly harvesting the ubiquitous silver for use, since genuine iron was frustratingly absent.

Scott felt a surge of energy watching his newly solidified Coven turn their loyalty into tangible action. The silence of the night was now filled with the rhythmic clink of Pyro's pickaxe below ground and the heavy thud of Owen's clearing work nearby. It was the sound of a family building its future.

Scott wasted no time. He moved to his new crafting table, swiftly fashioning several basic wooden pickaxes for the arduous task ahead.

He turned his focus to the central courtyard, where the old walls lay in mountainous piles of decaying stone, rubble, and broken brick. He plunged a pickaxe into the nearest pile with focused intensity, channeling his Elder strength into the menial task. The air was filled with the gritty sound of mortar crumbling and stone cracking.

He worked methodically, dismantling the remnants of his past structure to fuel the needs of his future one. Each time his inventory became heavy and cluttered with stone, brick, and unusable chunks of rotten wood, he would walk over to the double chest to empty the supplies. He was determined to keep the crafting area clear and the supplies organized—a foundational principle of a well-run nest.

As he worked, Scott's gaze was drawn frequently to Owen, who was wrestling the overgrown garden back into submission. There was a raw, primal satisfaction in watching his fledgling apply his immense strength to the task. Owen was completely focused, his jaw set, pulling out tangled vines and ripping up stubborn, silver-laced roots. The sight was deeply comforting; Owen was finding purpose and validation in the physical labor, channeling his inner turmoil into the necessary work of their reclamation.

The Elder Vampire worked tirelessly until the piles of debris began to recede, systematically cleaning the slate for the construction of his new, stronger Castle. He knew they couldn't risk construction during daylight, so they would use every remaining moment of the night.

The air grew perceptibly cooler, and Scott felt the subtle shift in the forest's energy—a quiet warning that the protective darkness was waning. The precise, internal clock of the Elder Vampire told him they had, at most, a few hours left before the first streaks of dawn would herald the waking of the human settlement.

Scott ceased his demolition work. He focused his powerful presence, reaching out through the deep, anchoring Sire/Childe bonds, sending a clear, insistent mental call: Stop. Return to me. The night's labor is done.

They had made a significant start, but Scott had been careful to ensure the work—the cleared garden, the dismantled walls, the new chest—looked like plausible, isolated progress that a focused human builder might achieve. They couldn't afford a blatant, massive change that would draw too much scrutiny.

Scott finished emptying his very last haul of fragmented stone and debris into the double chest. Just as he closed the lid, Owen wandered over from the garden, his rough clothing dusted with soil and sawdust, his own inventory brimming.

Owen began stowing his collection: wood, plants, seeds, and long, salvaged vines. Scott watched his strong, dedicated movements with a deep, silent pride that radiated through the bond.

"Excellent work, Owen," Scott said softly, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder. "The clearing is necessary, and your thoroughness ensures we have a clean slate. You are highly efficient, my Childe."

Owen straightened, the praise settling the remaining insecurity in his stance, replacing it with quiet satisfaction.

It took only a few more minutes for Pyro to emerge from the shadows near the ruins' central crypt. He walked toward them with the composed step of a scholar who had just completed fieldwork.

"The mineshaft is sealed and marked for safety, Sire," Pyro reported immediately, his eyes bright with purpose. "I ensured the entrance is discreetly secured down below. It should be undetectable from above."

Scott nodded, impressed by his quick thinking. "Quick thinking, Pyro. Safety is paramount." He offered a warm, genuine smile. "You dug deep and quickly. That is impressive progress for a newborn. Good work."

Pyro, energized by the dual praise, quickly emptied his haul—a mix of rough stones, slate, and metallic ores—into the chest alongside Owen’s findings. The organized chest now represented their collective future: meat for power, stone for walls, and silver (begrudgingly) for tools.

"We have done enough for one night," Scott declared, his vibrant red eyes scanning the still-dormant clearing. "It is time to return. We must be gone before the sun can reveal our presence."

~~

Scott, now wearing the bony facade of the skull over his face, carefully guided his fledglings back toward the settlement. The 30-minute walk through the fading night was spent in quiet conversation. Pyro discussed the geology of the crypt, eager to understand the composition of the stones, while Owen talked about the practicalities of lumber selection and structural support.

Beneath the pleasant surface of the conversation, Scott’s mind was furiously charting their course. The sudden revelation of his scarlet eyes had intensified the need for strategic turning.

He needed to expand the Brood, but should he turn for comfort or for need?

His two leading comfort choices weighed heavily in his thoughts: Shelby: A sweet-hearted companion who already lived under his roof, possessed a genuine love for the supernatural, and would be easy to supervise. Avid: The timid, frazzled vampire hunter, whose growing affection was a delightful, confusing element. Scott’s imagination painted vivid scenes of Avid squirming, in awe, or simply forced to confront his own true feelings.

Scott deliberately kept these internal deliberations from his fledglings. Their recent human existence might cloud their judgment; he couldn't risk them viewing potential Brood members through the lens of their old, moral attachments.

It was almost dawn by the time they reached the forest's edge, the faint gray light of the rising sun beginning to dilute the night sky—they had less than an hour of true darkness left. Scott stopped abruptly and pulled both fledglings close, nuzzling gently against each of them—a small, intimate, familial gesture that spoke volumes about his pride.

"Be safe, Owen, Pyro," Scott said with deep sincerity. "We'll meet sometime during the day. Try your best to blend in and, perhaps, even make friends with these humans. I may be my usual obnoxious self, annoying Avid today, so don't mind me."

He paused, then pulled the skull mask out of his inventory to show them. "This," he announced, presenting the morbid, grinning bone, "is my new camouflage."

He carefully situated the skull over his head. The bone settled perfectly, obscuring the startling red of his eyes and lending his elegant posture an eerie, unsettling air. The fledglings instantly began to stifle their laughter. The mask was ridiculous, yet entirely on brand for the way Scott delighted in tormenting Avid.

With a final, meaningful look, all three vampires scattered, slipping into Oakhurst and back into their respective, temporary domiciles just as the birds began to wake.

Scott quietly creaked open the door to his and Shelby's home and settled into his space. His mind, still buzzing with construction plans, craved organization.

Looking in his inventory, he put together some materials he had gathered to craft a makeshift journal. He took his time, using the pages to begin sketching a detailed design for the future Castle. He mapped out preliminary measurements, drew elegant, high towers, and painstakingly detailed the features he wished to incorporate—a perfect fusion of old-world grandeur and new-world defenses.

By the time Shelby was rousing from a restless slumber, Scott had a rough, elaborate sketch of his architectural vision.

Shelby let out a startled gasp as she finally focused on the figure sitting calmly at his desk—the elegant Scott, now wearing a chilling bone mask.

"Scott! What on earth is that?" she exclaimed.

Scott played it off with easy charm, his voice muffled by the bone, adding a theatrical flair to his words. "This? I found this delightful piece of history in the forest yesterday. I've decided to spend the day terrorizing Avid with it." He leaned in conspiratorially. "It’s funny, and it’s slight retaliation for his absurd accusations about your supposed 'murder.' A man has to defend his reputation, after all."

Shelby, though unsure, didn't fight him. "Well, it's your choice. It's... a good plan, I guess."

She then brightened, shifting the topic. "Listen, there’s going to be a house tour and judging later today to rate everyone's homes! I was really hoping you'd be here. I'm excited to show off our little house, especially with how hard I worked!"

Scott smiled beneath the skull. He had done the bulk of the resource gathering and heavy lifting, but he was more than happy to let Shelby take the credit. He didn't want any recognition; blending into the background was far more valuable than a good score.

"Of course, my dear," Scott replied smoothly. "I shall attend, if only to ensure my frightening appearance helps lower the judges' expectations of everyone else."

Doors creaked open, the metallic clatter of tools echoed across the courtyard, and the collective aroma of burning wood and stale rations filled the air. Scott, now a striking and unsettling figure in his elegant attire crowned by the grinning skeleton mask, sat calmly inside his and Shelby's shelter, reviewing his rough Castle sketches as Shelby busied herself preparing for the house tour.

As the morning wore on, Scott needed to establish his cover and maintain the necessary distraction.

Eventually, Scott announced his departure with a casual wave to Shelby and slipped out into the bustling settlement. He moved with a deliberate, unnerving stillness, the macabre mask hiding every flicker of his powerful eyes.

His target was singular: Avid.

Scott initiated his stalk immediately. He didn't rush or chase; he simply maintained an unnerving proximity. Avid would be attempting to gather water or check on his shelter, and Scott would suddenly appear, perhaps standing silently fifteen feet away, his head cocked slightly, the hollow sockets of the skull mask fixed on the young hunter.

Every time Avid would spin around, feeling the prickle of intense observation, Scott would be there—a silent, immovable figure of mocking elegance. Avid would yelp, nearly drop his bucket, or stumble back a step, his face flushing with a mix of fear and acute embarrassment.

The rest of the townspeople quickly noticed the peculiar dynamic. Ren, Apo, and Cleo exchanged amused or bewildered glances. When approached by anyone curious, Scott delivered the exact same explanation, his voice slightly muted and distorted by the skull.

"Ah, yes. I merely decided to give young Avid a proper spook today. A bit of fun, perhaps in slight retaliation for the rather tedious murder accusations he made yesterday. One must have an outlet for frustration, you see."

Most people found the sight bizarre but ultimately harmless. Scott was an eccentric noble, and this was merely a harmless display of pique. They left him alone, figuring a strange man venting frustration on a nervous boy was better than a strange man causing real trouble.

Avid, however, was having a terrible morning. He was becoming acutely nervous and jumpier with every encounter, his movements sharp and erratic. The presence of the masked man was a source of mounting terror, constantly reminding him of his humiliation the previous day.

Yet, amidst the overwhelming anxiety, a strange, inexplicable heat would rise in his chest. The attention—bizarre and cruel as it was—was intensely focused. It created a strange, dizzying feeling that Avid couldn't place, a reaction that made the whole ordeal even more frazzling than it should have been.

Scott, watching his target from behind the mask, felt a deep, inner satisfaction. Distraction maintained.

Later in the morning, Scott subtly used the bonds to call his fledglings for a discrete, brief meeting, choosing a secluded spot behind a large, ruined section of the old market.

Owen and Pyro slipped in, relieved to be away from the daylight stress and the distracting bustle.

"Reports," Scott commanded softly. "Any complications from the silver or the daylight?"

Pyro shook his head. "None, Sire. The daylight is merely muted. I spent the morning reviewing the construction materials I gathered yesterday."

Owen shrugged. "The silver tools feel slightly cold, but nothing crippling. I’ve established my routine as a lumberjack—I will be heading out shortly to gather timber."

Scott nodded, his red eyes glinting ominously from the sockets of the skull. "Good. The plan remains the same. The focus of the day is threefold:"

1. Scott: Continue the Avid distraction. Maintain my cover as the 'eccentric noble.'

2. Owen: Procure heavy, structural wood near the Castle site. Use the daylight for necessary physical labor.

3. Pyro: Focus on soft intelligence and the house tour. Observe the humans' internal power structures and gather more data on the magic books and their abilities.

"The house tour is a gift," Scott added. "It will force the humans to reveal the layout of their defenses. Pyro, observe everything. Owen, ensure the timber is flawless. I must go terrorize my tiny hunter."

Scott gave a quick, sharp nod, and the Coven dispersed, blending back into the chaos of the waking human town.

 

Chapter 6

The midday sun beat down on Oakhurst as the townspeople began to gather for the House Judging, a necessary distraction from the looming threats of the land. Scott, still wearing his eerie skeleton mask, hung toward the back of the growing crowd. He ensured he was always within Avid’s peripheral vision.

Watching his little hunter constantly jump and squirm, the slightest shift in Scott’s posture making him flinch, was not only endlessly amusing but was lighting a fire within the Elder—a primal urge he had long since forgotten. It was similar to the thrilling tension of the hunt, and he knew he would never tire of teasing dear Avid.

Scott gave a slight, internal shake to pull himself from his musings as the crowd finally calmed and Avid, still frazzled but determined, took control of the judging.

Avid announced they were starting the house tours, and the crowd slowly made their way to the first stop: Sausage and Owen’s structure. It was a surprisingly decent two-story building, though a little cramped. Sausage, unfortunately, made the amateur mistake of inviting everyone inside to look.

"Amateur," was all Scott could think, maintaining his distance but casting a keen eye over the open doorway. He quickly assessed the home, checking for any obvious structural flaws or any suspicious elements his fledgling might have overlooked. Thankfully, Owen had done clean work; nothing seemed amiss.

As everyone gathered outside for the final judgment, Avid revealed the true judging criteria: not beauty or functionality, but Vampire Defense.

A wave of groans and grumbles swept the crowd, but the judging continued. Avid gave the first house a mediocre 3/5, citing a lack of silver integration and only one entrance. This pattern continued for several houses, though the inhabitants quickly learned from Sausage’s mistake and denied entry, forcing Avid to judge based on exterior defense only.

As the crowd approached Avid’s own house for judging, everyone was distracted—some by resentment, others by curiosity regarding Avid's defensive choices. Scott, hanging at the back, noticed a sudden commotion.

He saw Pyro in the thick of the crowd. Pyro had been following Scott’s directive, taking meticulous notes on house construction and sketching random architectural features. Suddenly, Pyro’s scholarly focus shattered. He lost his concentration, and for the very first time, his nascent vampire ability surged forth without warning.

In the middle of the crowd, Scott watched in abject terror as his fledgling transformed into a bat.

The shift triggered the core distraction power: a flurry of 8 to 10 bat mimics—perfect, winged shadows—immediately erupted from Pyro’s space, scattering wildly.

Scott had not yet trained his fledglings in their natural abilities, let alone warned them about the shift’s signature distraction effect.

Mercifully, Pyro couldn't hold the form for more than a fraction of a second; his concentration instantly collapsed. He shifted back mid-air before any human eye could process the transition, stumbling backward and falling hard onto his butt, looking exactly as if the sudden swarm of bats had startled him into falling.

Scott, his heart hammering with a terrifying primal beat, knew he had mere seconds to intervene.

Scott strode forward with his most dramatic, exaggerated gait, his elegant black coat swirling and the skeletal mask lending him an air of ominous urgency. He planted himself squarely over Pyro, blocking the humans’ view of the fallen fledgling.

"I don't know if this house is up to code, Avid," Scott drawled loudly, his voice echoing from the skull. He reached a gloved hand down to Pyro. "Were you bitten by any of those creatures, Pyro? Some bats carry rabies, you know."

The distraction was brilliant. The humans immediately forgot Pyro's clumsy fall and focused entirely on the sudden, winged chaos. They instinctively recoiled from the potential health threat.

"It seems that your house has an infestation, Avid," Scott concluded, sweeping his hand toward Avid's shoddy roof line.

The humans instantly fell for the trick, assuming the bats had made nests in the roofs during the night. Several people, including Ren, drew swords and began swinging at the vanishing shadows, though their priority was avoiding a bite. No one wanted to risk rabies, saving Pyro from immediate, fatal exposure.

Scott maintained his perfect facade of the concerned, slightly over-dramatic gentleman. He gently but firmly helped Pyro up, ensuring the fledgling was fully shielded from the lingering stares of the townspeople.

"Good heavens, man! Are you alright?" Scott exclaimed, his voice ringing with exaggerated alarm through the skull. He draped a comforting arm around Pyro’s trembling shoulders, making a great show of comforting the "poor scholar" who had apparently been attacked by rabid bats.

Pyro, an intelligent man even as a newborn vampire, instantly recognized his Sire’s desperate attempt to get him alone. He immediately indulged the theatrics, making himself tremble slightly and stumbling with convincing disorientation as Scott guided him away from the chaos.

"I... I think so, Sir," Pyro stammered, his eyes wide with feigned fright. "They came out of nowhere! A sudden, terrible rush."

"Nonsense, come now," Scott insisted, practically steering him toward Pyro and Apo's house, which had thankfully already been judged and was safely behind the main crowd. "We must get you inside and check for bites. This house inspection can wait."

Pyro quickly opened the door to his shelter and ushered Scott inside. The moment the door creaked shut and the latch clicked home, Scott shed the facade of the indifferent eccentric. He removed the skull mask, and his vibrant, intense red eyes—so recently concealed—locked onto Pyro with an alarming ferocity.

Scott slammed his palm against the door-frame, the sound a sharp, sudden crack that echoed in the small space.

"What in the Everlasting Night were you thinking?" Scott hissed, his voice dropping to a low, powerful rumble that vibrated with barely contained terror. The sheer relief of Pyro being safe clashed violently with the terrifying risk his fledgling had taken.

He immediately started to mother hen over Pyro, his hands flying to the fledgling's neck, shoulders, and arms. He inspected every inch of him with frantic precision, muttering worried questions about his well-being.

"Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Why did you lose control of your focus in the middle of a crowd of hostile humans?" Scott demanded, running his hands over Pyro's collarbone and ribs.

He momentarily paused his physical inspection to reach out through their bond, not checking a non-existent pulse, but conducting a swift, deep scan of Pyro’s vampiric power level. Scott was furiously calculating how much Vitae power Pyro had wasted on that panicked, failed transformation, trying to determine if the exertion had damaged his fragile, two-day-old system. The waste was secondary to the risk, but the power drain worried him deeply. He would likely need to feed his fledgling more Vitae again if he has trouble downing his next meal.

Scott finally slowed his frantic inspection, his hands resting on Pyro’s shoulders, the furious pulse of his relief now mixing with deep concern. He waited for Pyro to speak, his scarlet eyes boring into the fledgling's.

Pyro, still recovering from the shock of the shift, gave a stuttering, completely unnecessary human breath before he spoke. "I... I didn't even realize I'd done it," he explained honestly, his voice still shaky. "I was just so focused on my notes, trying to sketch the defensive elements of Avid's roof-line, and I had the briefest thought of wishing I had a better angle to see higher up when it happened."

The sincerity in Pyro's voice was absolute. Scott understood immediately. His fledglings were newborn. They didn't know their own potential, nor the specific powers they possessed, let alone the ones they could obtain later. The desire for a higher vantage point had instantly triggered a primal, instinctual transformation.

This is too dangerous. They need to be taught. Now, Scott thought, the realization striking him with the force of a physical blow. He brought his hands up to cup Pyro's face, his tone softening to a tone of stern urgency.

"Never do that again, Pyro. Do you understand me? Never lose focus of your form in daylight, especially in a crowd." Scott felt a wave of internal terror wash over him. I don't know if my undead heart could take another heart attack like that.

He stepped back, reclaiming his Elder composure. "We cannot afford any more surprises. The basic abilities must be mastered immediately. Tonight, we begin the training in earnest. You will learn what you are, and how to control it."

Scott took a few deep, stabilizing breaths—a purely human calming habit, but necessary to ground his frayed nerves. He ran a hand through his blue hair, momentarily abandoning the skull mask on the nearest table. The terror of Pyro's almost-exposure was visceral, leaving him genuinely distraught.

In his mind, he sensed the immediate feedback from the Coven: Owen, though physically distant near the lumber site, registered the powerful surge of Scott's panic and now sent waves of worry and sharp curiosity through the bond.

Scott quickly focused his mental energy, broadcasting soothing reassurances back to his other fledgling. I am fine. Pyro is fine. We will meet and discuss everything tonight. Focus on the lumber. It wouldn't do to keep the events secret; Owen needed to be warned immediately about the involuntary shift to prevent him from making the same catastrophic mistake.

He let out a heavy sigh, the sound escaping his lips quietly as he debated his next move. He had been secretly hoping to execute the turning of a third fledgling—either Shelby for convenience or Avid for pleasure—tonight, but now he hesitated.

"I need to push back my immediate plans," Scott murmured, half to himself, his frustration evident. "I was hoping to turn a third tonight, but you and Owen need focused training far more urgently."

Pyro instantly stiffened. "Another fledgling, Sire?" he questioned, his voice laced with surprise and a hint of concern. "You were planning to expand the Brood so quickly? You hadn't mentioned bringing another person into the Coven."

Scott met Pyro's gaze, acknowledging the lapse in communication. Scott would have to get used to having a brood again, people that need included in decisions, it wouldn't do to have upset fledglings just because he didn't give them a chance to voice their opinions and be involved with planning.

"It was a tentative plan, yes. A third member would speed up resource acquisition and provide greater security, but you are right; I should have discussed it. However, the current instability outweighs any benefit."

He looked at Pyro, his scarlet eyes softening with parental concern. "We must secure ourselves first. The turn can wait. Tonight, we will focus solely on you and Owen. You need to know how to control the instincts that almost cost us everything today."

Scott then quickly changed the subject, turning his mind back to the immediate danger outside the door. "Now, Pyro, you must rejoin the tour. The humans will question our prolonged absence."

Scott swiftly settled the skeleton mask back over his face, the bony facade instantly obscuring the startling scarlet of his eyes and restoring his air of unsettling composure. He gave Pyro a pointed look—focus now—and together they slipped out of the shelter and blended back into the edges of the crowd.

They managed to catch the tail end of the judging as the assembled townspeople gathered before the last stop: Pearl and Cleo's large house situated prominently next to the bustling farm plot.

As Scott and Pyro walked up, they watched the scene unfold. Avid, emboldened by his role as judge, moved to step inside Cleo's door to inspect the interior defenses. Cleo instantly went hostile.

"You are not coming in here!" Cleo shouted, a look of fierce protectiveness crossing her features. She brandished a sword and started chasing the startled judge, swinging the steel with genuine, unrestrained aggression for his trespassing attempt.

Scott was forced to violently suppress a burst of laughter that threatened to rattle the skull mask. The absurdity of the tiny, furious gardener chasing the frazzled judge was delightful, but beneath his amusement was a slight, professional worry that Avid might genuinely get hurt—which would ruin Scott’s distraction plan and, perhaps more disturbingly, his own fun.

Pyro, however, was completely lost to mirth. The combined stress of the near-exposure and Scott’s intense panic had been fully displaced by the sheer ridiculousness of the sight. He was full-on laughing, the sound bright and uncontrolled, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. The bat fiasco was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the immediate, joyous distraction of human absurdity.

Avid was clearly terrified of provoking the furious gardener further. He attempted to give Cleo a low score for refusing inspection, but each time he announced a number she disliked, Cleo would snarl and slash the air dangerously close, dealing a minor, painful nick to the poor judge. Avid, nursing a small cut, finally conceded defeat. He threw his hands up and, through gritted teeth, announced, "Fine! You get a perfect 5/5!"

Cleo instantly puffed up proudly, a satisfied smirk replacing her hostile glare. Transgressions seemingly forgiven, she swaggered back toward her farm plot, sword still gleaming in her hand.

The house judging was officially over, and the crowd began to disperse, talking excitedly about the ridiculous climax.

Scott, however, paused, his head cocked beneath the skull mask, simply observing Cleo as she fiercely guarded her farm. He wasn't sure what to make of her volatile nature, but her sheer physical strength and unhesitating willingness to fight were undeniable assets. He concluded that as soon as he felt his Brood was in genuine danger, he would be vying to turn her and get her on his side. She was strong.

As he contemplated Cleo, Scott committed a cardinal error he rarely made in the cursed settlement: he took a deep, tentative sniff of the air. Usually, he avoided this, as Avid had planted garlic, fucking everywhere, fouling the sensitive vampire atmosphere.

Boy, was he glad he did.

A strange, wild, and intensely familiar scent—one he hadn't encountered in decades—hit him. It was earthy, musky, and carried the unmistakable tang of wet, primal dog.

Scott stilled completely. How had he missed this on the first day? The intensity of the silver and garlic must have masked it. He took in another, purposeful, scenting breath, filtering out the distractions of smoke and sweat. He focused his ancient senses, tracking the origin of the powerful odor.

The scent trail led straight to Cleo and Pearl's house, the very structure Cleo had just violently defended. And Cleo herself was clearly outside, working the farm.

Scott’s mind spun. Focusing on the scent that was strongest inside the house, he made the identification.

It was Pearl.

A werewolf was in town.

The Elder Vampire's senses sharpened with a mix of astonishment and potent strategic excitement. A creature of brute, living power—a natural predator—was hiding right under the humans' noses. This changed absolutely everything.

"A werewolf," Scott murmured quietly beneath the skeleton mask, the word a reverent hiss. "How utterly fascinating."

The revelation of a werewolf nestled inside the most volatile structure in the settlement sent a thrill of strategic excitement through Scott. This was not merely a new variable; it was a potent, powerful wild card.

Scott knew the deep lore of the shifting creatures. Lone werewolves tend to gravitate toward like-minded creatures when unable to find or form a functional pack, seeking stability and strength in other powerful entities. If he handled this correctly, Pearl could become a powerful, tentative ally.

Scott's mind raced, calculating the potential advantage. The typical vampire stance—to "murder all the humans" and treat anything non-dead as prey—would instantly alienate her. He needed to prove he was different.

• The Condition: As long as Scott showed Pearl he wasn't planning on mass slaughter, he could most likely secure her as a temporary, tentative Coven member.

This, coincidentally, made the chances of securing Cleo even better. Scott had keenly observed the human couple; they had gotten together so fast, they were already thick as thieves and clearly obsessed with each other. If Pearl joined the Coven, Cleo would inevitably follow.

Scott allowed a calculating, triumphant smile to spread beneath the bone mask. He realized he didn't even have to commit the difficult act of turning Cleo himself.

• The Backup Plan: Hell, if he couldn't convince or manage to turn Cleo, he would strongly encourage Pearl to Infect her so that she would at least have a lifelong packmate—and the Coven would gain a second, fiercely loyal feral member.

This was a far better, far more powerful expansion than turning a single, skittish human like Avid. The werewolf was their new, immediate priority.

Scott gently elbowed Pyro, who was still slightly distracted by the Cleo/Avid farce. "Find Owen," he instructed quietly, his voice low and urgent through the mask. "We need an immediate, unscheduled meeting near the lumber site. I just realized something, and it changes everything."

Having dispatched Pyro with the urgent order, Scott took a calculated chance. He needed to ensure his primary distraction—Avid—remained available and that his public image didn't veer too far into purely malicious territory. He would take a moment to 'mend things' with the hunter.

Scott tracked Avid down after his humiliating and painful encounter with Cleo. He wouldn't risk removing the skeleton skull—it was his necessary armor against the revealing light and the revealing red of his eyes—but he could project genuine concern.

It only took him a few minutes to locate Avid's small house. Scott could hear him inside: a low, miserable sniffling punctuated by sharp, pained hisses. Avid was most likely tending to the cuts Cleo had given him, alone and in misery. Scott held back a sigh; he did, genuinely, feel a slight pang of concern for the cute little hunter.

Walking up to the house, Scott gently knocked on the door, his movements measured and careful, before calling out.

"Avid? Are you there? Are you alright?" Scott called out, infusing his tone with sincere worry.

He heard Avid instantly go silent inside. After a few moments, some shuffling was heard as Avid slowly approached the door. Eventually, the door opened just a sliver, and Avid peeked out. His familiar purple eyes were slightly red-rimmed and glistened with un-shed tears, and a few still trickling down his cheeks; he was clearly upset and nursing his injuries.

"What do you want, Scott?" Avid mumbled gruffly, attempting to sound hostile but failing, his voice thick with complaint.

Scott gave a soft, disapproving tut. Despite the strict, unwritten vampiric rule of No Entry without Permission, Scott reached forward, pushing his arm through the barely open sliver of the doorway. He gently brushed a tear from Avid's cheek with his thumb, ignoring the unpleasant pressure and burn that radiated up his arm from entering the human space without invitation.

"I came to check on you, Avid," Scott explained softly, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Cleo did attack you, and even if she held back her full strength, I'm sure she wasn't gentle. I'm sure it hurt, and it wasn't pleasant." Scott kept his focus entirely on showing compassion, trying to prove he wasn't just a pompous noble asshole intent on tormenting him.

Avid was utterly stunned by the unexpected intimacy. He blinked, a deep blush rising to his cheeks as the warmth of the attention momentarily eclipsed his pain. He hadn't realized someone—especially the man who had tormented him and made him feel such strange things—could be so kind.

Scott’s eyes, hidden behind the skull, quickly scanned the hunter's visible injuries. He noticed several cuts still bleeding sluggishly, and his gaze snagged on a thick, dirty bandage around Avid's neck that Scott had never noticed before.

"Can I come in and help?" Scott asked, his voice careful and gentle. "Tend to your wounds, I mean? It must be difficult to do alone, especially one-handed." He held his breath, praying Avid would say yes, but knowing he wouldn't blame or judge the hunter if he said no.

Scott watched the turmoil on Avid's face—the man shifting nervously in place, clearly debating if the risk of letting the strange, masked noble inside was worth the temporary comfort. Scott didn't know which factor tipped the scales. Was it the genuine sincerity in his voice? The fact that he had never actually caused physical harm? Or perhaps it was simply the truth that Scott was the only soul who had bothered to check on him.

After a few tense moments, Avid blushed deeply and stepped back, opening the door a bit more. He spoke softly, "Y... yeah, you can come in, Scott."

Scott acknowledged the permission with a slight, silent nod and stepped inside. Despite the urgent mission, the Elder Vampire couldn't help but survey the small space. It was tight and cramped, clearly designed less for comfort and more for defense. Blocks of unrefined silver were inlaid in the flooring every few feet, creating a perpetual, low hum of discomfort that Scott felt pressing on his senses. He noticed that most of the fixtures and furniture, even the simple bed frame in the corner, had been crafted from silver.

The observation renewed Scott's curiosity. What had made the little hunter so utterly obsessed and terrified of vampires?

Scott carefully took hold of Avid's uninjured hand, his touch warm and steady, and guided him over to the bed, urging him to sit down. A makeshift med kit lay open on the coarse blanket.

Then, in a gesture that he would absolutely deny to anyone who asked, Scott took off his gloves and slipped them into his pocket. He wanted the contact to feel real, human.

Scott then knelt in front of Avid—a powerful figure humbling himself before the nervous human. He carefully took the supplies from the kit and began meticulously tending to the cuts along Avid's arms, cleaning and bandaging them with the same focused, gentle precision he would use on his own fledglings. His movements were skilled, demonstrating a care that deeply contradicted his tormenting public persona.

~~~~

Avid had thought nothing could be worse than the relentless scrutiny of the house judging, but the morning had quickly descended into sheer, nerve-shredding chaos.

He had been standing proudly near his own shelter, preparing everyone to begin judging his own home he had worked hard on, when he felt the familiar, unnerving presence of Scott's blue eyes (hidden, of course, behind that horrible, grinning skull mask) burning into his periphery. Then, the real terror began.

Suddenly, a massive, flapping swarm of black shapes erupted from the middle of the crowd.

Bats.

They were everywhere, a whirlwind of wings and shadows that sent a shiver of primal fear down Avid's spine. He flinched violently, covering his head, convinced they were aiming for his neck. The resulting chaos was immediate: screaming, drawing of weapons, and the sudden, clumsy fall of the strange, pale scholar (Pyro).

Then, Scott had materialized. The masked figure stepped forward, completely blocking the fallen man from view, and his voice boomed, chillingly theatrical speaking of rabies and a possible infestation in his roof.

Avid had been too preoccupied with terror to fully appreciate the deflection, but the fear of disease was very real. He spent the next few minutes scanning his roof and trying to ward off the remaining shadows, his hands shaking. Scott’s accusation of an infestation felt like a direct, malicious judgment on his ability to keep a clean home.

The bat incident had barely faded when Cleo's house came up. Avid, trying to regain some control over the judging, had pressed his luck by trying to inspect the interior.

That was his second mistake.

Cleo, a woman who already looked perpetually angry, erupted in a terrifying, feral fury. Her sword flashed, and Avid yelped, darting back. Every score he tried to give was met with a dangerous slash. He felt the sting of the blade against his arm, the painful nick near his shoulder, and the overwhelming fear of being cut open in front of everyone.

He just wanted to be done with the judging. He finally screamed the 5/5 and fled the scene, his entire body trembling from the humiliation and the burning sting of his wounds. He scrambled back to his house, slamming the door shut, and collapsed onto his silver-framed bed, tears of pain and utter frustration stinging his eyes. He grabbed his small, makeshift med kit and started hissing and sniffling as he applied antiseptic to the fresh cuts.

He was miserable, bleeding, and utterly alone, when he heard a gentle, unexpected knock on the door.

Then came Scott's voice. "Avid? Are you there? Are you alright?"

The voice was soft, laced with a sincerity that cut through his defensiveness. Avid froze. It must be a trick. Yet, no one else had bothered. He peered out the sliver of the doorway, his eyes red and wet.

Scott, still wearing the unsettling skull, spoke with such deep, focused concern that it disarmed Avid entirely. The unexpected affection—the way Scott gently brushed the tear from his cheek—sent a confusing jolt through Avid. He hadn't realized anyone, least of all his tormentor, could be capable of such kindness. The attention was overwhelming, making him flush scarlet.

When Scott asked to come in and help, citing the difficulty of tending to wounds alone, Avid's resistance crumbled. His pride fought the decision, but his deep need for comfort and relief won out.

"Y... yeah, you can come in, Scott," he mumbled, stepping aside.

As Scott entered, Avid watched, fascinated, as the large man studied his cramped, silver-lined sanctuary. Then, Scott did the most surprising thing of all: he took off his gloves—an intimate gesture—and knelt before him.

Scott’s hands, devoid of fabric, were surprisingly warm and steady. He worked meticulously, treating Avid's cuts with a care that was almost parental. Avid watched, mesmerized by the strange contrast: the man who stalked him with a death mask was now tenderly binding his wounds. The attention made his heart pound, a dizzying mix of lingering fear and profound, confusing gratitude.

He was too stunned to question Scott’s focus on the bandage around his neck or why this man who claimed to be an eccentric noble had the precise, gentle skill of a medic.

~~~~

Scott worked meticulously, his attention focused entirely on the small cuts that crisscrossed Avid's arms. He carefully used the precious, sparse antiseptic from the hunter's kit, which sadly brought forth a sharp, stinging hiss from Avid each time the liquid touched the raw flesh. And each time, Scott would instinctively apologize, his voice soft, and try to be more gentle, even though he knew the pain wasn't his fault.

After a few moments of tending to the minor cuts, Scott glanced up, his eyes moving between Avid’s face and the dirty, soiled bandage wrapped around his neck. He debated if he should push the issue, or offer to help with it.

Avid, meanwhile, was utterly distracted, gazing down at Scott with a strange look. His face was slightly flushed, and his purple eyes seemed soft and unfocused. Was he smitten with him? Scott thought with an inward surge of pleasure. If so, he would be more than happy to reciprocate later.

Scott finished cleaning and bandaging the superficial wounds on Avid's arms and looked up properly this time.

"There we go," Scott said gently, offering a soft, reassuring smile, despite knowing Avid couldn't see his face behind the skull. He tilted his head curiously, as if only just noticing the other injury. "Do you have another wound, Avid?" he asked gently, pointing toward his own neck. "It looks like the bandage on your neck is really dirty. Would you like me to help with that?"

Avid gave a slight deer-in-the-headlights look, his hand instantly flying up to nervously touch his bandaged neck. He paused, clearly frightened, before giving a quiet, stuttered "Sure."

Scott got up off the floor and, pushing the med kit aside on the bed, sat down beside Avid. He carefully took the edges of the dirty bandage and began to gently unwrap his neck.

The moment the bandage was fully removed, a wave of cold, rank air hit Scott’s sensitive nose. He was instantly shocked—a deep, chemical horror mixing with primal recognition.

Looking down at Avid's neck, right next to his jugular, Scott saw the wound. It was not a simple cut; it looked as if something had torn a large chunk of flesh from him. The edges were raw and jagged, and the wound was weeping clotted, sluggish blood, tainted with a distinct black, necrotic edge.

Scott took an imperceptible sniff, analyzing the rot, and had to hold back a violent, reflexive gag. He knew that awful, rotting aura. He knew that stench, its distinct, cannibalistic nature.

The Elder Vampire's mind screamed the only possible answer: Ghoul.

How was this poor man alive? How the fuck did he survive a Ghoul attack?

Scott felt the familiar, cold dread of a primal, ancient horror. He forced himself to maintain his control, carefully continuing to tend to the ragged, putrefying tear in Avid's neck like any other injury. He knew, with the chilling certainty of an Elder, that this was futile. Ghoul wounds were almost impossible to heal, and almost always lethal. The necrotic tissue would continue to consume the body, inevitably leading to death or, worse, driving the victim mad enough to commit cannibalism and complete the transformation into a Ghoul itself.

The wound was terrifyingly close to Avid's jugular, his carotid artery, and his brain. It was a profound miracle that the hunter had not yet succumbed to the maddening, cannibalistic rage. Scott felt an overpowering surge of sympathy for the man who had been suffering silently for years.

The urge to turn him—to deliver him from this impossible sentence—was stronger than ever before. Vampirism wouldn't heal the wound, but it would stop the spread of the necrosis, stabilizing him and removing him from the immediate, mortal danger.

"Avid... can I," Scott started, his voice a soft, low rumble as he gently washed the tainted edges of the tear, "can I ask how and when you got this wound?" He had to know the timeline, had to know how long this boy had been suffering under this slow, horrific curse.

Avid took a shaky breath, the effort visible. "Uh, y... yeah, sure. I, uh, I got it as a boy. When I was a kid, me and my friend, her name was Elle. We used to love playing in the woods. And one night we wandered a little too far in." His eyes grew distant, focused on a painful memory. "I don't remember what happened, but Elle dragged me out. Said a creature attacked us, attacked me. We were all sure it was a vampire."

Avid then lowered his voice, his confession thick with both shame and determination. "It's just never healed, and I get bad cravings. I usually have to hunt for animals to keep myself sane. I plan to hunt down the vampire that did it, kill it in hopes it will make the wound go away."

Scott listened silently, his unbeating heart aching for this poor man who had simply been dealt the wrong hand in life and was chasing the wrong monster. Avid was dedicating his entire existence to a misdirected vengeance.

Scott carefully applied a fresh, clean bandage to the terrifying wound, his touch feather-light.

"I... I don't think a vampire did this, Avid," Scott said softly and seriously, the playful teasing gone entirely, replaced by the somber truth of an Elder. "I think you were attacked by something far worse."

 

Chapter 7

Avid immediately grew serious and nervous, the warmth of Scott's care quickly replaced by deep-seated terror and defensive denial.

"You can't know that for sure, Scott," Avid insisted, his voice hardening, desperation overriding his shyness. "You don't know how bad and cruel vampires can be, just how dangerous they are! It has to be a vampire. It has to be."

Avid was adamantly, terrifyingly convinced. He couldn't dare to think what could possibly be worse than the monster he had dedicated his life to fighting. The known evil was preferable to the monstrous unknown.

Scott grew quiet. He looked at the fragile man, at the frantic fear in his eyes, and knew instantly that pushing the subject would be disastrous. Avid was too emotionally unstable, too dedicated to his misbelief to absorb the truth of the anything else, let alone a Ghoul now. It would shatter his delicate sanity.

"You are right, Avid," Scott conceded softly, carefully not meeting the denial with argument. "I cannot know for sure. You have suffered greatly, and you are far more experienced in fighting creatures in this land than I am."

Scott secured the bandage with finality, letting the subject drop. He would not fight Avid on this; the time was not yet right. His priority was securing Avid, not correcting his theology. He stood up, towering over the sitting hunter, the skull mask resuming its quiet, imposing presence.

"Rest now, Avid," Scott commanded gently. "And if that bandage feels warm, the discoloration spreads, or if the pain changes... can you tell me. Please? do you understand?"

Scott waited, holding his breath, the silent weight of the skull mask pressing on the moment. He watched Avid's face—the purple eyes nervously judging his intentions, trying to discern if this was another elaborate trick. Finally, the sincerity of Scott's plea broke through the hunter's paranoia. Avid understood that, bizarrely, this strange man was genuinely concerned about the necrotic wound.

"Y-yes," Avid murmured, nodding slowly. "I... I will let you know if anything changes." He shifted slightly on the silver-framed bed, his body language signalling that he was emotionally drained and ready to rest.

Scott gave a soft, grateful whisper. "Thank you, Avid. I hope you rest well."

He stepped backward toward the door, not turning his back until he was out of the direct line of sight. He quietly slipped out of the hunter's house and, with the practiced care of one exiting a fragile sanctuary, gently closed Avid's door on his way out, leaving the hunter to his much-needed respite.

Scott didn't hesitate. He immediately bee-lined his way out of the crowded settlement, his long stride quickly eating up the distance between the town and the designated lumber area. His mind was racing, the gravity of the new discoveries—the werewolf and the Ghoul infection—compounding the earlier shock of Pyro's uncontrolled shift. He had so much more to discuss with his Coven now.

His turning plans had irrevocably changed. Avid was not merely a desirable pet; he was a ticking time bomb. Not only was he in danger of dying, but he was also at risk of the necrosis further spreading and the infection taking over, turning him into a ghoul which would make him slaughter and devour everyone in Oakhurst, possibly even infect them. No one was safe right now. Scott was worried—not just for his Coven, but for the three potential coven mates he wanted (Shelby, Pearl and Cleo), and, most importantly, he felt a sudden, terrifying premonition that he would lose control if Avid died or turned into one of those soulless creatures.

Determined, Scott settled his nerves, pushing the emotional turmoil down, as he entered the lumber clearing. He spotted Pyro sitting on a felled log, animatedly chatting, while Owen was applying his brute strength to the task, rhythmically chopping a larger log into smaller pieces.

Scott slowly approached, and without a word of greeting, he immediately took off the skeleton skull, tossing the macabre mask carelessly onto the mossy ground. He didn't care if a distant human scout saw him; he needed his fledglings to see his unmasked face, his expressions, and the stark urgency in his vibrant red eyes to understand every word of what he was about to say. He needed them to know he wasn't being secretive or trying to hide the true scale of the danger.

Owen and Pyro immediately took notice of Scott's approach and stopped their work, their faces lighting up with excitement and happiness at the sight of their Sire. They instinctively moved toward him, expecting the familiar physical reassurance Scott had started offering almost every time they were alone.

But as they drew closer, they both noticed the profound shift. First, they saw Scott's unmasked expression—intense, grave, and etched with undeniable worry, emphasized by the fierce glow of his red eyes. Then they felt his posture: rigid and tense, a stark contrast to his usual effortless elegance. Finally, they sensed the communication through the Bond—an artificial calm layered over a deeper, frantic terror. Something was profoundly wrong.

Pyro immediately stopped his advance, the playful ease vanishing. He wondered what catastrophic event could have possibly happened in the last twenty minutes since he’d left Scott to cause such an intense reaction.

Scott took a slow, shuddering breath, using the moment to fully gather his thoughts. He didn't offer a hug or praise. Instead, he simply extended a hand and motioned for them to follow him. He then turned and started walking with purpose toward their new construction site—the Castle ruins.

He needed the privacy and the strategic focus of their base to deliver this critical information.

The walk back to the ruins was agonizingly tense and quiet. Scott maintained a relentless, measured pace, his focus drawn inward, wrestling with the sheer weight of the new threats. His fledglings followed close behind, exchanging increasingly worried glances. They had never witnessed their powerful, composed Sire—the Elder—in such a state of visible distress. Neither Pyro nor Owen was brave enough to break the silence; they simply followed their leader home, hearts heavy with unspoken dread.

The short distance felt endless, stretched thin by anxiety. Finally, they crossed the remnants of the broken stone bridge and entered the courtyard of the ruined Castle.

Scott walked directly toward a nearby crumbling wall, and in an abrupt, shocking display of frustration, slammed his head into it.

The sharp, dull thud startled both fledglings violently. They immediately rushed forward, all training and terror forgotten, fretting over him, worried he had injured himself severely.

"Sire, what is it? What happened?" Pyro whispered frantically, reaching out a hand.

Owen grabbed Scott's shoulder, his grip tight with concern. "Are you hurt, Elder?"

Scott pushed off the wall, his scarlet eyes burning with a controlled, desperate fire. He faced his Brood, his tense posture now radiating undeniable danger.

"Listen to me," Scott ground out, his voice raw. "The game is over. The entire town—you, me, everyone—is in immediate and profound danger."

Scott let the declaration of the imminent threat sink in, watching the fear blossom in his fledglings' eyes. Their posture shifted from concern for him to rigid apprehension for themselves. As soon as Pyro opened his mouth to ask a frantic question, Scott raised a firm, silencing hand.

"Do not interrupt. We have no time," Scott commanded, his voice dropping to a low, intense clarity. He needed to build the narrative of the threat carefully, starting with the necessary, confusing truth about his actions.

"This begins with a confession of my own poor conduct," Scott started, pacing once within the cleared courtyard. "When I arrived in Oakhurst, I felt a strange, inexplicable attraction to one of the humans—the hunter, Avid. This interest has only grown stronger each passing day."

He detailed his motivations, explaining the confusing blend of sadism and devotion. "I teased him, I tormented him, I put him through every unnecessary anxiety precisely because his terror and his unique spirit ignited something ancient and powerful within me. It was a thrill, a hunt I had forgotten I enjoyed."

He paused, gathering himself, before revealing the latest events. "After the judging and Avid's run in with Cleo, I sought him out. I went to his house to 'mend things' and to ensure my distraction remained viable."

Scott described the small, silver-choked house, the painful sight of Avid tending to his own wounds, and the overwhelming vulnerability of the hunter. He described the moment he knelt, the moment he asked about the bandage, and the stench that hit him when it came off.

"I saw the wound on his neck," Scott continued, his voice grim. "It was large, jagged, and frankly, rotting. I questioned him about it. He confessed it happened when he was a boy, and that he and his friend believed it was a vampire attack. He has been driven to hunt, convinced that killing the vampire will cure him."

Scott looked at his fledglings, his eyes conveying the horror the words could not. "But it was not a vampire, my Brood. I recognized the necrosis, the taint, the stench. It is the aura of rotting death. The infection is from a Ghoul."

Pyro and Owen had listened in a state of growing confusion and processing, trying to reconcile their Sire's cruel public behavior with his unexpected vulnerability and care. They understood the attraction, if not the method. They understood the surveillance.

But at the word Ghoul, both fledglings went utterly still. The name carried an demonic, suffocating weight—a horror far beyond the petty dangers of human hunters or silver. The confusion instantly transmuted into absolute terror. The nature of the threat had just shifted from manageable conflict to existential catastrophe. Ghouls were spoken of as cannibalistic demons similar to zombies, only they were practically soulless and almost impossible to kill, similar to a vampire. They didn't have the weakness of being staked, and it was easy for a ghoul to infect another human and spread its contamination. There was horror stories of Ghoul hordes rising from no where and completely obliterating towns.

Scott was ready for the primal reaction, but the sheer force of it still set him on edge. As the terrifying realization set in and his fledglings grasped the magnitude of the Ghoul threat, their newborn instincts instantly kicked in. Both Pyro and Owen simultaneously let out a distressing, high-pitched keen—a sound of pure, unadulterated terror that grated against Scott’s ancient senses.

The sound instantly snapped Scott's Sire instincts into fierce protective mode. Logic vanished, replaced by the deep, ingrained need to shield his Brood from existential threat.

He instantly rushed forward, pulling both fledglings into his arms. He gathered them close to his chest, tucking their heads securely into his neck and shoulder, his massive strength serving as a physical fortress.

"Shhhhh, it's okay, I'm here," Scott trilled softly, his voice a low, melodic vibration against their ears. "You are not alone, dear ones. We are together. I will not let it get you."

Mentally, he flooded the bonds, pushing powerful waves of calm, warmth, and absolute safety into Pyro and Owen. He held them tightly until the frantic keening subsided, using his own steady presence to draw them back from the edge of panic.

Scott continued to trill and give soft, resonant assurances, holding his fledglings tightly and waiting for the profound, instinctual fear to recede. It took a while, but eventually, the powerful rush of terror began to dissipate. Pyro and Owen were able to regain control, pulling in deep, shuddering, calming breaths.

Scott rubbed their backs once more. "There you are. Welcome back, my dears. We still have more to talk about, but know this: I have a plan to help avoid this danger."

He gave them another precious moment to fully collect themselves before they all took a step back and sank down onto the ground near the ruined wall, neither caring about the dirt or the debris.

As soon as they were settled, Pyro and Owen immediately started asking questions, their voices tight with urgency. "How are we going to deal with Avid? What do we do about the wound? If he turns, will a Ghoul horde rise here?"

Scott raised his hand, gesturing for quiet, his expression intensely serious. He needed them to understand the gravity of the decision ahead.

"I don't want to let him die, nor will I risk him completing the transformation," Scott stated simply. "I am going to pull the boy aside and I will tell him the whole truth."

Scott laid out the difficult plan, his voice low and unwavering:

"I will tell him that I am a vampire. I will tell him what his wound actually is, and the existential danger he is in, and the danger he is causing to everyone in this town."

Scott paused, allowing the weight of that truth to settle on his fledglings. "Then, I will give him a choice. A necessary, brutal choice."

Scott looked directly at Pyro and then Owen, his red eyes piercing. "The first option is that I can make things quick. I can end his life swiftly and painlessly, ensuring the Ghoul transformation is never completed, and that he does not suffer the necrosis death. He will simply be gone."

"Or," Scott continued, the second option filled with desperate, forbidden hope, "I can turn him. Becoming a vampire would permanently halt the entire necrosis process. It would give him everlasting life and remove the threat to the town. But..." Scott’s expression grew shadowed. "The wound itself will never fade. It would remain on his neck, a constant, ugly mark of his survival."

Scott took a hasty, deep breath, running a hand over the back of his neck, visibly struggling with the ethical dilemma.

"My honest, personal opinion is that I do want to turn Avid," Scott admitted, the confession laced with urgency and affection. "It saves his life, it secures a powerful tool from a terrifying end, and it resolves my own... attachment to the boy. It is the best solution for him."

He then looked pointedly at his fledglings, his stance shifting from personal desire to Coven stability. "However, I also will not force my Brood to live with someone for an eternity that they had no choice in accepting. I know the history of our kind: Broods can easily be torn apart by infighting when a Sire ignores the desires and opinions of his Childe."

He affirmed the Coven's power structure: "You two are the foundation of this Coven, and you must trust the people we bring in. I promise you this: Before I turn anyone—be it Avid, Shelby, or anyone else—I will always get my Brood's opinion on the person first. I will never risk the integrity of us."

Scott waited, the atmosphere thick with the weight of the decision. He was placing the entire choice—Avid's fate, and the Coven's future dynamic—squarely on their shoulders. He listened intently, ready to hear his fledglings' opinions, worries, and concerns about accepting the nervous, obsessive hunter into their eternal family, prepared to appease or reassure anything he could.

"The choice is yours, my Childe," Scott concluded, his voice soft but absolute. "You can say yes, or you can say no."

The silence stretched as Pyro and Owen wrestled with their decision, both pulled into the difficult shadows of their human lives.

Pyro thought of his own youth—a time when every step was dictated, every career path forced upon him. His academic training was abnormal and often abusive; he still carried subtle scars on the backs of his legs from his severe tutors. He intimately understood the profound need to make a choice for oneself, which was precisely the opportunity Scott was offering Avid. The principle of the choice resonated deeply.

Owen was equally torn. His human past was dark, though not touched by the supernatural until the end. He had lived the majority of his life suffering from a debilitating illness, a disease that left his arms and legs covered in painful blisters and sores. He had been so terribly sick, yet he struggled daily at his hard job as a lumberjack just to make enough to feed himself. His first Sire, Louis, had given him the gift of vampirism—a clear, deliberate choice, and a cure to his sickness. Owen had never regretted accepting that gift; his only regret was failing to save his Sire.

Owen shook himself free from the painful memories, his decision made clear by his own history. Despite Avid's frustrating personality and hostile actions, Owen felt he deserved a chance to choose a future beyond suffering.

"I am okay with it, Elder," Owen stated firmly, his deep voice resolute. "He deserves the choice. If he chooses to join the Coven, I will accept him."

Pyro nodded along immediately, the historian's pragmatic side agreeing with the humanitarian concern. "I concur, Sire. I have no qualms about Avid joining. He may be obsessed now, but perhaps he will find a different, more constructive obsession once turned."

Scott gave a soft, genuine smile, a wave of profound gratitude washing through the bonds. "Thank you, my Brood. That means more than you know." He promised them, "I will give Avid the option soon, when I feel he is most receptive and understanding."

With the Avid question settled, Scott cleared his throat, moving the conversation to the next vital strategic discoveries.

"Now, onto the other matters, which are no less urgent," Scott said, his voice regaining its sharp, commanding tone.

He outlined his second major discovery: Pearl is a werewolf.

"This is an immense strategic advantage," Scott explained. "Lone shifters often seek stability. My plan is to draw her to our side—show her we are not the mindless destroyers she might expect. And since she is so attached to her partner, Cleo, this gives us a direct pathway to securing Cleo's loyalty as well."

Scott laid out the dual-pronged plan:

1. Recruiting Pearl: Offer a safe haven and a powerful allyship, securing the werewolf's assistance.

2. Securing Cleo: Scott presented the option of possibly turning Cleo at some point, or, the more intriguing option, encouraging Pearl to infect Cleo as a werewolf. "Though a shifter and a vampire would bolster our attack and defense factors significantly," he noted.

Finally, Scott brought up his long-held desire for a domestic addition.

"And lastly, there is Shelby," Scott said, his tone casual but firm. "She is kind and observant. She is already keen on, and quite taken with, the cryptids and supernaturals in the town. I believe she would take the transformation exceptionally well. She would provide excellent cover and domestic support for our nest."

He looked to his fledglings, asking for their initial thoughts on these new potential members.

Owen and Pyro exchanged a long, assessing look, silently communicating their thoughts on the new wave of potential Coven members.

Owen, taking the role of the senior fledgling due to his longer existence as a vampire, voiced his opinions first, approaching the matter with caution.

"The plan for Pearl and Cleo... I'm not entirely against it," Owen admitted. "A werewolf is powerful. But I am cautious. They are wild. We need to know how much control Pearl has. Cleo's aggression is useful, but it could be turned on us."

He then shifted to the third prospect. "As for Shelby, I am unsure. She seems like a loose canon who does what she wants based on emotion, not strategy. While her interest in the supernatural is convenient, her lack of discipline could expose us."

Pyro then offered his thoughts, which directly countered Owen’s:

"My concerns about Pearl are more academic," Pyro stated, adjusting his posture. "She has lived a long time. She might be very versed in vampires—in the lore, the animosity, and our vulnerabilities. She might not take kindly to us at all. And Cleo, as Owen said, might become aggressive and unstable if turned or infected."

However, Pyro was wholly in favor of the third prospect. "Shelby is keen, Sire. She is curious, and her interest means she would ask fewer questions and accept the transformation more readily. She would be an excellent, stable domestic front for the Nest."

The Brood had reached a stalemate, their opinions perfectly divided based on their temperaments: Owen, cautious of undisciplined humans and wary of wild shifters; Pyro, wary of knowledgeable enemies but eager for an easy, devoted new member.

"Well," Scott murmured, a small, calculating smile returning to his face. "A deadlock. This is precisely why I ask."

Scott nodded, acknowledging the validity of both their concerns. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, appreciating that his fledglings were thinking critically about the Coven's composition. He would address their worries not by dismissing them, but by highlighting the potential for the opposite, more favorable outcomes.

"You both raise excellent points, and I respect your cautions," Scott began, looking first to Owen.

"Owen, your concern about Cleo’s aggression is prudent. But remember, aggression is only dangerous when uncontrolled or misdirected. If we secure Pearl, Cleo’s aggression would be directed outward—against our enemies, never the Coven. Imagine a feral, loyal protector at our walls. As for Pearl," he shifted his gaze to Pyro. "Pyro, you are right; she may be knowledgeable about vampires. But knowledge cuts both ways. She knows our strengths, yes, but she also knows the truth: she is alone. A knowledgeable enemy is often the most pragmatic ally, provided they can be swayed from their established hatred."

"And Shelby," Scott continued, addressing both their opinions on his roommate. "Owen sees a 'loose canon,' Pyro sees a 'stable asset.' The truth likely lies in the middle. Her emotional nature can be a risk, but it also makes her deeply loyal and easy to influence. She will crave belonging and purpose. Her 'loose' nature, as you put it, Owen, means she will be less likely to question the move to the ruins or our unusual dietary requirements."

Scott paused, seeing that while his arguments provided new perspectives, they hadn't entirely swayed the deep-seated instincts of his fledglings. They still wore expressions of polite but persistent uncertainty.

Scott finally offered a soft, gentle look, letting the affection he felt for them flow freely through the bond.

"This is a delicate operation, and I will not force a single member into our family who causes either of you unease," Scott stated firmly. "Therefore, we will postpone any further turning plans. We have a clear priority now: Avid."

He concluded with the proposal: "Let us see how things proceed with Avid first. If he accepts my offer and joins the Coven, then we will have three opinions on the matter. His knowledge of the town's defenses and his unique perspective may be the exact factor we need to help us decide definitively on Pearl, Cleo, and Shelby."

The decision was deferred, relieving the pressure on Pyro and Owen.

With the strategic matters finally settled and the immediate path forward clear, the tension in Scott's frame melted away. He looked at his fledglings, recognizing the lingering anxiety in their eyes—a direct result of his earlier, panicked omission of comfort. He felt a deep surge of guilt for having ignored their need for affection earlier at the lumber area.

He immediately opened his arms wide and motioned for them to come close.

It took the two fledglings a moment to process the invitation, their expressions shifting from cautious readiness to relief. They instantly understood that Scott was finally in a mental state where he could give them the focused affection and attention they craved and needed.

They quickly scrambled close, Pyro curling up on one side, and Owen settling on the other, both leaning heavily into the solid, comforting warmth of their Sire.

Scott pulled them tight, tucking them against his chest. He began to give soft coos and melodic trills—deep, instinctual sounds of comfort and possession unique to the Elder. He ran his hands soothingly through their hair, simply holding them in the silence of their nascent home, allowing the protective bonds to flow freely and wash away the remaining terror of the ghoul threat and the shock of the morning. For a long, precious moment, they were just family, together and safe.

Scott wasn't sure how long they sat there, cuddling together with his Fledglings. Time seemed to dissolve in the powerful, comforting state of nesting. But by the time his mind snapped back to strategy and he began refocusing, the sun could be seen slowly beginning to fall behind the far mountain as night approached.

He adjusted himself carefully, sitting back slightly. By now, Owen and Pyro were snuggled comfortably into his lap, lightly dosing but clearly still anchored by the physical contact. Scott observed them, noting that they had instinctively entwined their hands together over his lap while they rested.

A feeling of profound satisfaction settled over him. He felt the two should form a formal sibling bond, believing it would only make their current Coven bond stronger and cement the already forming familial relationship between them. He could tell they had grown significantly closer since bonding with him, despite it only being a short time. He would certainly mention the idea once they were fully awake.

Scott carefully pulled his journal from his pocket, the soft leather cover a familiar texture. He propped it open and began going over his detailed design plans for the Castle. As the minutes ticked by, he made slight alterations to his sketches, refining the position of the ramparts and the layout of the crypt entrances. He meticulously noted the different materials he would need to use, marking stones that could be found by mining in the nearby mountains or specialized timber that could be harvested deep in the forests.

Eventually, the two fledglings began to stir. They slowly became aware of the small, rhythmic sound of the quill scratching on paper, followed by Scott's soft hums whenever he would change his mind on a design element.

Owen and Pyro blinked and locked eyes, both slowly realizing their surroundings. Their gaze then drifted down to their clasped hands. They seemed unsure of why they had entwined them, yet neither pulled apart immediately.

After a few moments, Scott looked down from his sketches. He reached down and gently rustled both of their heads, softly running his fingers through their hair.

"Welcome back, dears," he said softly.

Both fledglings gave soft, slightly groggy greetings as they slowly became more coherent. They remained nestled close to Scott, savoring the lingering calm. While vampires didn't need sleep to function, these small, impromptu nesting naps were a crucial way to help mentally calm down and reset oneself, especially as a fledgling dealing with the intense demands of the turn. It also powerfully helped strengthen and calm their bonds when something alarming happened to one of them, like Pyro's near-exposure earlier.

Scott continued to look over his notes for a final moment, then gave a soft, proud smile. He turned the journal so both fledglings could clearly see the elaborate sketches.

"These," Scott explained, tapping a delicate tower design with his quill, "are the blueprints for our new home. Our nest. It is to be your home as well, so I want your opinions. If you want to change anything or incorporate additions, I will be happy to adjust the plans."

The next segment of time passed in quiet, domestic bliss—a profound contrast to the chaos of the day. They simply enjoyed being in each other's presence. The fledglings began to excitedly comment on the sketches, asking about certain architectural features they didn't recognize from their human lives, or asking if something could be incorporated into the build. Pyro, the academic, questioned the structural integrity of the high arches. Owen, the pragmatist, immediately focused on the size and location of the defensive storage areas.

Scott listened patiently and made adjustments, explaining the history of certain designs, and agreeing to incorporate every practical or desired feature they suggested. It was the quiet, shared work of a family building their future.

Eventually, they had a roughly finalized set of sketches and build plans, Scott happy with everything his fledglings had decided was important enough to add. He stretched and shifted, his joints popping audibly from the improper posture he had maintained for his fledglings' comfort. Owen and Pyro finally sat up, and they all stood from the ground, brushing the dirt and debris from their elegant clothing.

Scott took a moment to bring up the idea of the two forming a sibling bond, telling them that he had seen how close they had grown. Pyro seemed interested but Owen was hesitant and nervous, unsure if he could handle another attachment. "You don't have to decide now of course, take your time to decide," Scott reassured them with positive reinforcement. Owen would think on the matter later.

Now that the atmosphere was less urgent, less rushed, and far more calm, it was time to address the near-catastrophe from the morning.

Scott turned to Owen, his expression turning serious once more. "Owen, while you were gathering timber, Pyro had a serious mishap in town. He inadvertently shapeshifted right in the middle of the crowd, almost exposing us all."

Pyro immediately flushed, his embarrassment palpable, and tried to cover his face with his hands. He most likely was ashamed and felt like the event was his own fault.

Owen immediately took a step toward Pyro, his brows furrowed with deep concern. "Pyro, are you alright? I felt a flash of panic through Scott's bond, but I didn't know what it was. Did the shift hurt you?"

Scott stepped forward and gently pulled Pyro's hands away from his face, gently giving a small caress. "No, my dear, he is alright, and pyro It was not your fault. It was mine. As your Sire, I should have spoken of and warned you both about your abilities sooner."

He began detailing the innate magical abilities of a newborn vampire.

"At Tier 1, the power level you both currently possess, your primary magical ability is bat transformation," Scott explained, ensuring their complete focus.

He meticulously detailed the mechanics of the shift: "The process can be activated in two ways: either by intense concentration on the form of a bat itself, or by the simple desire for altitude—the need for height or a better vantage point."

He looked directly at Pyro. "Your small, passing desire in town for a better angle to see the details of the roof—a desire for altitude—was precisely what activated the ability this morning."

Scott then elaborated on the critical defense mechanism Pyro had accidentally triggered. "The transformation comes with a built-in distraction: as soon as the vampire transforms, a group of bat mimics will appear in a flurry, dispersing immediately. This chaos is meant to distract anyone nearby from noticing the main bat escaping."

He looked sternly at both of them. "It is a powerful tool, but until you master the control, it is a risk. We will practice this extensively tonight."

Scott waited a moment for the initial fear and awe over the bat transformation to settle, answering a few rapid-fire questions from his fledglings about wing span and flight speed. He then moved on to detail the abilities that lay just beyond their current reach, giving them something to strive for.

"Beyond the transformation, there are other powers you will acquire," Scott explained, his voice taking on a proud, resonant quality. "The first is the Trance."

Both fledglings' eyes widened in recognition. They remembered vividly how Scott had seemingly tamed the small herd of cows when they had feasted the other night, how the livestock didn't flee or panic despite the horrific scene.

"Neither of you will be able to use the Trance yet," Scott clarified. "This power requires a greater concentration of Vitae, meaning you won't access it until you hit Tier 2 in power level."

He detailed the mechanics of the Trance: "Activating it will amplify your vocal cords and your inherent charisma over a situation or a target. It makes a victim instantly more malleable to suggestion and less likely to fight back. It bypasses resistance."

Scott gave a superior, confident smirk, tilting his head. "If mastered, it could make one's voice so alluring, so compelling, that even an entire army would surrender instantly." He paused, letting the boast hang in the air. Had their Sire done that once upon a time?

He then continued with the physical advancements awaiting them at the next level:

"When you hit Tier 2, your claws will also grow out and become a viable defense option. Your body will have built up enough Vitae that your nails will be able to grow and harden, becoming almost as lethal as daggers. They will be stronger than steel, a perfect, natural defense."

Throughout the entire explanations, Owen and Pyro asked questions about the Trance's duration, the range of the influence, and the practical combat uses of the claws. Scott answered them as best as possible, relishing the teaching role and the focused attention of his devoted Brood.

Scott finally closed his journal, having answered the last of their questions about the Tier 2 abilities. He gave his fledglings a warm, encouraging look.

"I think it is time for the practical lesson," Scott announced. "Now that you know a bit about what you're capable of, how about we practice transforming?" he said with an endearing smile.

Owen seemed immediately excited, his whole posture shifting with eagerness to engage in a physical challenge. Pyro, however, looked profoundly nervous, clearly worried he would repeat his earlier, disastrous mishap.

"Who wants to give it a try first?"

"Oh, I do!" Owen immediately jumped to his feet, eager to try something new.

Scott moved off to the side, giving Owen space. "Excellent. Remember the key is intense focus on the form, or a simple, pure desire for altitude. Don't strain yourself."

Owen closed his eyes and stood completely still, clearly concentrating with all his might. In a split second, with a faint whoosh, his large, muscular frame vanished, replaced by a small, lithe light brownish bat. The flurry of bat mimics instantly appeared in his place, scattering in every direction, faithfully mimicking the new form and shade before dissolving into the air.

Owen, now the small, fluttering bat, successfully flew in place, focused entirely on maintaining his flight and stability without too much effort.

Scott immediately stepped forward, his eyes alight with pride. He began praising his fledgling, slowly examining the tiny, light brownish form and checking him over for any signs of instability or distress.

Pyro himself was left standing in awe, utterly speechless that Owen had succeeded on the first, perfect try.

Scott watched Owen, who was successfully maintaining his bat form with admirable steadiness. "Alright, now try to maintain your form for now, Owen," Scott instructed softly, ensuring the fledgling knew he was doing well. He then turned his attention to his more nervous Childe.

"Ready to give this another shot, Pyro?" Scott said, giving a gentle, teasing smile. "Without the threat of a judgmental human crowd this time?"

Pyro blushed deeply at the reminder of his earlier mishap but nodded gently, stepping back slightly to give himself more space in the clearing. He took a shaky, unnecessary breath, trying to steady his nerves, before closing his eyes and focusing, this time deliberately, on achieving the transformation.

The shift took a bit longer than Owen's—a tense moment of stillness passed, perhaps because of Pyro’s initial anxiety and self-doubt. But finally, with a soft poof, the historian’s human form vanished. As the flurry of fleeting bat mimics dissipated, a fluffy dark brown bat, slightly larger than Owen's form and with notably thicker fur, was hovering steadily in place.

Scott immediately moved forward, his praise instantaneous and sincere. "Excellent, Pyro! Perfect concentration! You managed the shift flawlessly." He slowly inspected the new form, noting the distinct fluffiness and size, giving his fledgling warm praise just as he had done for Owen. "You both have a natural affinity for this, my dears."

Scott waited a few moments longer, giving both of his fledglings ample time to stabilize their forms. He offered a few more soft praises, ensuring they were confident in maintaining the shift. Once he was certain they were both steady, he gave a soft, encouraging smile.

"Ready to fly, my dears?" Scott said softly, his voice shifting slightly as he prepared for the transformation. "We'll take the long way back to town."

Without warning, Scott instantly shifted himself. His large frame dissolved, and his own flurry of pure white, albino bats scattered outward. In their place hovered Scott's bat form—a truly regal looking albino bat, significantly larger than his fledglings, characterized by distinct white tufts of fur on his chest and ears.

As soon as Scott completed his transformation, his enhanced ears adjusted, instantly picking up the higher-frequency soundwaves of his childes’ chatter. Pyro and Owen had been speaking to each other, excitedly chatting about the profound sensation of their own shifts and the strange new feeling of flight. Their excitement abruptly ceased. They paused and let out tiny, synchronized gasps as they took in the striking, magnificent appearance of their Sire's albino bat form hovering before them in the twilight.

Owen and Pyro immediately began squeaking and chirping, tiny voices in the twilight air, lavishing compliments upon Scott’s striking form. Scott couldn't help but be amused by his fledglings' unabashed admiration. He indulged them for a moment, sending a feeling of warm pride through the bonds, before reminding them of their trip.

"Follow me, dears. Keep up," Scott chittered, his voice higher and more resonant in bat form.

Scott instantly ascended, flying upwards to gain a comfortable altitude above the tree line. He watched patiently as his fledglings slowly adjusted, struggling for a few moments as they figured out how to translate hovering into efficient upward flight. It thankfully only took a few moments for them to find their rhythm. Scott sent them a mental wave of praise, signaling that they were ready.

He then set off on an elaborate flight pattern, looping and diving above the dense canopy of the forest, circling widely over some of the established beacon towers. Pyro and Owen struggled to keep pace, their movements less refined and far more exhausting, but they pushed themselves, knowing their Sire was only engaging in this difficult aerial exercise so they could adjust to and master their new forms faster.

As they looped over the landscape, Scott made mental note of the beacons below. He realized with a keen eye that several more of the un-consecrated towers had been purified since his initial assessment. It seemed the humans had been far busier and more effective in securing their territory than he had initially realized. The sense of urgency sharpened.

Eventually, their looping and exhausting flight pattern trailed over the town of Oakhurst. They made a few fast, low passes over the clustered houses. Scott carefully checked around the town, using his enhanced senses to confirm that no one was outside, awake, or observing the night sky.

Confirming the town was asleep, Scott decided where he and his fledglings should land: a secluded, stable spot near the outskirts that offered both concealment and an easy path back to their respective shelters.

As Scott flew down to the chosen, secluded area, he gave a quick, final warning to Owen and Pyro.

"Listen closely," Scott said softly, his bat-voice a concentrated chirp in the night air. "When you drop your shift, even though you can't feel your legs or feet in this form, you must imagine as if you are jumping down to the ground and mentally bend your knees slightly as you land. It will keep you from losing balance and falling awkwardly."

Scott then executed the instruction as an example. Mid-air, his regal albino bat form vanished. As he changed, his body dropped, but his landing was flawless. He seemed to fall in place and then immediately stride forward, appearing as if he had simply walked into the area and not flown at all.

Owen and Pyro hovered in their bat forms, looking at each other, clearly a little nervous but profoundly impressed by their Sire's effortless control. Then, one by one, they committed to their own attempts.

Owen went first. He focused, and his light brown bat form winked out of existence. When he materialized in his human form, he did seem to wobble slightly, a barely perceptible shift in his balance, but he maintained his footing perfectly.

Scott immediately offered praise. "Excellent control, Owen! Your concentration is superb."

Pyro followed, the memory of his earlier fall lending a touch of anxiety to his attempt. He shimmered back into his human form and, though he stumbled a bit, he managed to catch himself before falling.

Scott stepped toward him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Wonderful, Pyro! That was a strong recovery. You caught yourself. Practice will make that effortless."

Scott gathered his fledglings close for some final affection, nuzzling them gently. It was a silent acknowledgment of the bond and the shared danger they now faced.

"Be vigilant," Scott reminded them softly, his voice serious. "Be on guard around the humans. And remember our potential additions—be kind to them for now. We need to reserve judgment until the time is right."

He then detailed his own immediate plans. "I am going to spend my time watching over Avid for signs of his infection worsening. I need to be ready. I will find a time when I feel he will be more open to listening to me, more understanding, to give him his choice."

Owen and Pyro both wished him luck, their concern palpable, before parting ways and slipping quietly into the shadows toward their respective temporary homes.

Once alone, Scott let out a weary sigh. As much as he wanted to just call it a night and wait for the next day, he had a necessary task. His eyes were still a damning, permanent red, and they would no longer change back to the comforting blue shade unless he starved himself for a long time—a risk he couldn't afford. He absolutely needed his disguise.

Scott made it a quick, efficient trip back to the lumber clearing to retrieve the skull mask he had discarded in his panic earlier.

With the crucial bone facade secured once more, he returned to town and settled into his and Shelby's home for the rest of the night, taking his post as the silent, masked guardian, waiting for the sun to rise and the hunter to stir.

Notes:

Bat forms:

Owen: Lithe light brown bat
Pyro: Fluffy large dark brown bat
Scott: Royal albino bat

Chapter 8

The morning had started, as many did in Oakhurst, with a strange event. Shelby had woken to the sound of soft scratching—Scott was already awake, sitting at his small desk with a makeshift journal open. She had sat up, stretching, only to let out a startled gasp as her eyes focused on his head.

He was wearing a human skull.

Scott’s explanation—a found object to terrorize Avid and avenge the "murder" accusation—was delivered with his usual charming theatricality. Shelby accepted it, but it cemented a growing suspicion she had been harboring: Scott was definitely some kind of cryptid.

She loved the supernatural, and Scott ticked every box of an intriguing mystery:

• The Diet: She had never seen him eat anything in front of her. While he would store fresh meat in one of the chests, she only ever saw him preparing food for her. He was either a grazer or simply didn't need sustenance.

• The Sleep Schedule: He was always up before her, and she had never once caught him truly sleeping, despite her own varied schedule. He simply didn't seem to sleep.

• The Stamina: He could work tirelessly, helping her with the house, then vanish into the woods for hours, only to return without a drop of sweat.

The skull was just another piece of highly eccentric, non-human evidence.

As Scott went out to begin his day of "torment," Shelby prepared herself for the house tour. She watched through the window for a bit, and later, out in the crowded town square, she keenly observed Scott's behavior toward the frazzled hunter.

Scott, in his imposing skull mask, was relentlessly stalking Avid. He would appear in his periphery, stand silently, and make the poor man jump.

Shelby didn't believe the "retaliation" excuse for a second. The way Scott focused on Avid, the sheer effort he put into making the man flinch, was not rage. It was obsessive, intense, and deeply personal.

He has the biggest crush on him and doesn't know how to deal with it, Shelby deduced with a bubbly, romantic sigh. He's trying to scare him because he's embarrassed by his feelings!

She made mental notes of every dramatic appearance and every nervous jump from Avid. She was silently cheering on her roommate, hoping he could figure out his confusing feelings and confess eventually. She just wanted Scott to be happy, even if happiness meant pursuing the jumpy, aggressive vampire hunter.

Shelby spent the house judging excitedly showing off her home. When the strange bat swarm happened, she was momentarily startled, but then watched the chaos with fascination.

When Scott returned later—without the poor scholar, Pyro—she noted his strange urgency, even through the mask. She watched as he vanished out the door again shortly after, claiming a need to prepare.

She knew nothing of what Scott was dealing with. To Shelby, her handsome, slightly scary, non-sleeping roommate was simply a lovable weirdo who was probably going to confess his feelings to the vampire hunter after a truly bizarre day of courtship. She continued to look forward to the next day, hoping for a dramatic resolution to Scott's romantic tension.

~~~~

Cleo was entirely comfortable with a certain degree of violence and oddity in Oakhurst. She spent her days tending the farm with sharp focus and her nights close to Pearl, always alert, always assessing her surroundings.

From the moment Scott appeared wearing the ridiculous, grinning skull mask, Cleo noticed his behavior. Unlike the other townspeople who simply found him eccentric, Cleo found his obsessive focus on Avid highly amusing.

Every time she looked up from weeding her rows of carrots or pruning her precious garlic (a habit she found necessary but slightly irritating), she would spot the silent, masked figure lurking near Avid. The sudden appearances, the unnerving stillness—it was less like an angry noble and more like a determined hunter.

It reminded her keenly of how her adoptive mother had once courted a perspective human mate years ago. The courting rituals of certain species involved a great deal of testing, terrifying appearances, and possessive stalking before the eventual (and usually successful) claim.

“He’s got it bad,” Cleo thought, a small, grim smile playing on her lips as she watched Avid nearly fall over a water bucket when Scott appeared behind a ruined wall. She found the dynamic profoundly relatable, in a twisted, predatory way. Scott was testing his prey, seeing how much fear and excitement he could draw out.

She spent the day working near Pearl, often bumping shoulders with her, their silent companionship a steady comfort. She'd occasionally point out Scott to Pearl with a jerk of her chin, muttering, "Look at the skull-face. Still on the hunt."

The House Judging was a waste of time in Cleo's estimation, but she remained watchful. When the chaotic bat swarm erupted during Avid’s inspection, her eyes, already trained for movement and threat, scanned the immediate area.

She didn't miss much.

Amidst the flurry of black wings and the subsequent confusion caused by Scott’s rabies distraction, Cleo's gaze locked onto the pale scholar, Pyro, just as he stumbled backward. For a split second, an impossible, physics-defying thing happened: she was sure she saw Pyro's outline waver, almost blink out of existence, only to snap back into a clumsy, physical form a moment later. It was a glitch, an impossibility, but she was absolutely certain she hadn't imagined it.

That wasn't a human reaction. That wasn't just fear.

The sight—coupled with the unnatural speed of the dissipating bats and Scott’s theatrical overreaction—spiked Cleo's inherent suspicion. She immediately became more observant, her eyes narrowing, her defensive posture stiffening.

The suspicion instantly turned into a deathly defensiveness when the judging came to her own house. The structure was their sanctuary, the place where she and Pearl could be safe, and where they had stored things that absolutely could not be seen.

When Avid, the suspicious, aggressive hunter, tried to cross her threshold, Cleo didn't hesitate. The near-miss with Pyro and the unsettling behavior of "Skull-Face" meant she wasn't taking any chances.

"You are not coming in here!" she roared, her protective instincts overriding all sense of proportion. She drew her sword and attacked, chasing Avid away with genuine intent to wound for his trespassing.

She forced the ridiculous 5/5 score, securing her house's status as impenetrable, and returned to her garden, her mind now hyper-focused. The town had strange creatures, and one of them—Pyro—had nearly revealed himself today, hidden by the diversion of the eccentric vampire who was obsessed with the town's primary hunter. Cleo decided she would watch them all, and watch them closely.

She would wait and see just why they were here before making judgements. The two surprisingly hadn't made move's to enter anyone's houses during the judging, not even sausage's who had idiotically given permission. Perhaps they were of the more proper assortment of their kind.

~~~~

Scott moved swiftly and silently, the heavy night air clinging to his coat as he slipped back into the heart of Oakhurst. The skeleton skull was securely in place, obscuring the dangerous red of his eyes.

As he made his way toward his and Shelby's home, he was immediately alerted by soft voices and movement. He noted with frustration that several humans were still awake and gathered outside.

Scott deftly snuck behind a nearby house, pressing himself into the deep shadows. He cautiously peeked around the corner. Gathered near the town’s central beacon were: Abolish the butler, Legundo the doctor, Martyn the noble son, and Apo the military woman.

He strained his sensitive hearing, listening in on their hushed conversation.

"...must move now," Apo's clipped military voice confirmed. "...before dawn. The ruins are next. We cannot leave that area un-consecrated."

"It's risky, but necessary," Martyn agreed gravely.

Scott's composure instantly evaporated, replaced by a spike of intense anxiety. His immediate thought was that they were talking about his Castle ruins. If they successfully consecrated that site, the ground would become holy and completely unsafe for his Coven to meet, rest, or continue building their permanent nest. All his work would be utterly compromised.

With a tight, frustrated sigh, Scott realized his planned night of rest was impossible. He couldn't risk these humans completing their mission.

I won't be able to simply rest for the night, not with these humans awake and planning to attack my home. He had to intervene, and he had to do so now.

Scott remained pressed against the shadows, his focus razor sharp, inching just close enough to catch the faintest vocal inflection.

The group continued their hushed planning. They spoke of the strange lack of resistance, noting it was "odd that some of the magic books warned of dark forces but nothing had tried to stop them yet." Legundo attempted to inject some logic, stating that the lack of active opposition meant it was most likely just a test of different faiths rather than actual forces of evil, drawing parallels to historical conflicts between Christians and Pagans. Martyn simply sounded excited by the prospect of being a part of something important.

Apo, however, was all business. She urged them on, her voice brooking no argument, and took the lead, guiding the small group out of town and heading directly toward the direction of the ruins.

Scott let out a silent, internal curse. He couldn't risk open confrontation; the element of surprise was everything. He had to stop the consecration before it began.

With a rapid burst of concentration, he shifted into his bat form. His albino shape was a ghost in the darkness. He swiftly followed after the group, staying low in the treetops and flying quickly and silently, keeping his distance but constantly scanning for any possible chance to stop them. He tracked them relentlessly, a silent, winged shadow pursuing the unsuspecting purifiers toward his nest.

As the humans began to cross the bridge into the ruins, Scott acted instantly. He poured his power into casting Invisibility over himself, fully cloaking his form from all sight and sound. He swooped down, a silent ghost, and tucked himself into a small, dark crevice within the crumbling stone floor—perfectly positioned and completely unnoticeable, yet well within the necessary range of the dormant beacon.

He settled, holding his breath, a desperate hope forming in his mind: Maybe, with me being in such close proximity, the sheer presence of a powerful, ancient vampire will disrupt the purification ritual.

Scattered around the ruins, Scott could hear the distinct sounds of the night—the dry, rattling shamble of undead skeletons and the low, guttural moans of zombies that seemed to run rampant through this land after sundown. The ruins held no internal lights, so they were crawling with the undead, which would, thankfully, make the humans’ task significantly harder.

Scott peered out from his hiding spot, completely unseen, watching the scene unfold. The small group had finished crossing the crumbling stone bridge and immediately had to fight their way through the throng of creatures. Martyn seemed to get hit a few times, letting out sharp yelps of pain, and even Legundo cried out as he took an arrow to his arm from a skeletal archer.

But still, they seemed to persevere, utilizing their combined strength and strategy to make it to the courtyard where the beacon lay cold and dark.

As soon as they all crouched to begin the ritual of purification, however, looks of palpable nervousness and fear instantly crossed their faces.

"Did you guys feel its message?" Apo asked nervously, her voice thin and sharp with sudden apprehension, as her eyes flicked side to side as if in search of something.

Legundo took a shaky breath, nursing his injured arm. "Yeah," he repeated, his eyes wide. "A nearby dark force is stopping you from purifying the beacon. Be wary." He repeated the message he had received internally, his voice barely a whisper.

The humans immediately went into a defensive posture, their weapons raised, searching frantically about the moonlit ruins. They wondered just where and what this "dark force" could be, their eyes darting over the shambling undead, convinced the threat was hiding among the zombies.

But nothing happened—at least, nothing happened to them directly.

As they were distracted, Scott, still cloaked and hidden in the crevice, realized that he could actively affect the beacon from his proximity. The humans, having moved out of the immediate range of the beacon in their search for the perceived dark force, had left it vulnerable.

Scott shifted his body slightly, focusing his entire intent on desecrating the beacon. Slowly, he felt a strange, cold corruption beginning to settle over the structure. In his mind's eye, it was as if a percentile bar was slowly filling, indicating the deepening corruption of the un-concecrated site.

As Scott focused his power, the humans began scouring the ruins in their search for the invisible threat. In their hurried movements, they stumbled upon the early signs of Scott's work—the cleared areas, the sorted stones, and the small cache of hidden supplies that Owen had helped set up.

"Look here," Apo said, pointing to a stack of neatly cut timber. "Someone has been working this area."

"It seems to be recent," Legundo noted, examining some of the clean-cut marks on the stone foundation.

Martyn scratched his head. "Maybe one of the other townsfolk decided they wanted to build their home out here?"

But none of them seemed too sure. The discovery, however, temporarily shifted their focus from the invisible supernatural threat to the puzzling material evidence of someone claiming the ruins.

As the humans searched the rubble, Abolish managed to find the large open stair way to the crypt below the ruins.

"There! Down there!" the butler commented, pointing to the shadowed opening. "Perhaps the dark force is down below."

The others seemed unsure, eyeing the ominous hole, but seeing as nothing seemed to be up in the ruins above, they agreed to pursue the threat. Apo took the lead, and the entire group followed Abolish down into the crypt to search for the hidden force in hopes of eliminating it and then returning to purify the beacon.

As soon as their voices faded and the sound of their footsteps receded down the stone steps, Scott let out a silent sigh of profound relief, dropping his invisibility to save power. He was safe for the moment.

He immediately focused harder, pouring all of his concentration and will into desecrating the beacon. He cursed the fact that he was working alone; he had a strong feeling that if his fledglings were here to help, the corruption would be much faster.

Slowly, agonizingly, he felt the percentile bar in his mind tick upward. It hit half, then 75 percent, and finally, with a powerful, satisfying mental snap, it hit 100 percent.

The instant the desecration was complete, a powerful pulse of raw, warm, dark energy pulsed out from the beacon. The crystal structure, previously cold and gray, now glowed with an aggressive, vibrant red. As the pulse radiated outwards, it felt like a silent, definitive warning swept out across the entire land—a clear message that the darkness had claimed the strategic ruins.

Scott, feeling the immense drain of using his full power to corrupt the beacon, immediately focused his concentration on maintaining his albino bat form and fled the ruins, not wanting to risk the humans catching sight of him as they rushed back up. He had been forced to show his hand by stopping the consecration, but he would keep the secret of who and what they were a secret for as long as possible.

He flew swiftly back to Oakhurst, transformed out of sight, and slipped silently into his and Shelby's house. Mentally and magically exhausted for the first time in what felt like centuries, Scott bypassed his desk. He lay down in his designated space—his impromptu bed that was definitely not a bed—and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he forced himself to rest. He would deal with the panicked humans come morning.

~~~~

Legundo, the pragmatic doctor, shivered slightly despite the clear, cool night air. He was gathered near the beacon with Apo, Martyn, and Abolish. He felt a necessary sense of duty, but a deep part of him still clung to the notion that the "dark forces" the books warned of were likely just superstitious remnants from older, harsher times.

"It is necessary," Apo stated, her voice tight with military resolve. "The books warn us about leaving strategic positions un-consecrated. The ruins are next."

Legundo voiced his logical dissent as they walked: "It’s odd that nothing has tried to stop us. It’s likely just a test of faith, a spiritual battle, much like the schisms between various historical sects." Martyn, beside him, just looked overly excited, which annoyed Legundo slightly.

Following Apo’s lead, they soon reached the ruins. The structure was dark, teeming with the shambling forms of the night.

This is less a test of faith and more a test of sword skills, Legundo thought dryly.

They fought their way through the skeletons and zombies. Legundo winced, gritting his teeth as a skeletal archer managed to put an arrow into his left arm. He managed to pull it out, but the wound was painful and distracting.

Finally, they reached the center where the beacon lay. They crouched down, hands extended, beginning the ritual focused on purification.

Suddenly, a wave of cold dread washed over Legundo. It wasn't physical pain; it was an intrusive mental realization. He looked up, catching the equally panicked eyes of his companions.

"Did you guys feel its message?" Apo asked, her professional poise cracking.

Legundo took a shaky breath, feeling the sting of his injury and the terror of the message. "Yes. A nearby dark force is stopping you from purifying the beacon. Be wary."

They immediately searched the ruins, finding only the evidence of someone building—the stacked wood, the sorted stones. But no visible threat. Following Abolish's lead, they descended into the crypt to continue the search for the invisible aggressor.

They searched the deep, dusty confines of the crypt for several tense minutes, finding nothing more than old bones and cobwebs. Then, a distinct, cold eerie chill swept over the entire ruin above them, palpable even down in the crypt. Simultaneously, a sharp, terrible message seemed to emanate into all of their minds:

$$\text{Castle Ruins have been desecrated by dark forces.}$$

Horror flared. Their worst fears had been confirmed.

"We have to go!" Apo shouted, realizing the failure. "It was a diversion!"

They scrambled back up the stone steps and rushed to the center beacon. It was no longer the dull, dormant white they remembered. It pulsed, instead, with an angry, aggressive red light. No one was there—the enemy had vanished.

Legundo, ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm, moved with the others to attempt to re-purify the corrupted beacon. As they concentrated, their minds were immediately overwhelmed by an intrusive, chilling resistance. They all staggered back, receiving a second, more specific, and profoundly ominous internal message:

$$\text{Castle Ruins have been recently desecrated, unable to purify for 48 hours.}$$

The dark forces were real, they were powerful, and they had just publicly claimed the most strategically important location in Oakhurst. Legundo gripped his injured arm, realizing they had all failed miserably. They were not alone, and the enemy knew exactly where they lived.

~~~~

As the sun began to slowly rise the next morning, casting soft, golden light into the house, Shelby woke to the most unexpected and strangest sight yet.

Scott was sleeping, truly sleeping, for the first time she had ever witnessed him inside the house. He was stretched out on his makeshift bed, utterly still. But the sight was immediately accompanied by a wave of worry: he still had that blasted skeleton skull covering his face. Shelby knew how hard and uncomfortable that had to be.

Getting up, she stretched the tension from her body, her gaze fixed on her exhausted roommate. She carefully padded over to him. Gently, tentatively, she reached out and slipped the heavy, hard skull off his head, setting the grinning mask quietly aside on the floor.

Shelby took in Scott's exposed features. His skin was soft yet slightly pale, and his face, usually so animated by theatrics, was serene in repose. A soft smile touched her lips, genuinely happy that her strange friend had finally, at least, gotten some much-needed rest. She reached out and gently brushed a damp lock of his blue hair aside, tucking it away from his face.

"Hope you get some good sleep, Scott," she whispered softly, not wanting to disturb him.

She moved back to her own bed, grabbed her soft blanket, and brought it over. With delicate care, she draped the cozy fabric over her handsome, exhausted roommate, ensuring he was covered and warm.

As the sun fully rose, casting long shadows across the center of Oakhurst, Shelby ensured Scott was still sleeping soundly under her blanket. Mind made up that he truly needed the rest, she slipped out of the house. She had hoped to spend the day exploring or gathering wild berries.

However, her plans were immediately halted by a loud, urgent call echoing through the small settlement: Apo was calling out loudly for everyone to meet at the town beacon for a town meeting as soon as possible. Shelby was confused; they had never needed a town meeting before.

Deciding Scott’s exhaustion outweighed the need for immediate updates, Shelby joined the stream of gathering townsfolk. By the time she arrived at the central beacon, she saw everyone assembled: Apo, Legundo, Martyn, Abolish, Sausage, and Ren were clustered together near the tower. Avid, Cleo, Drift, and Pearl were crowded nearby, silent and watchful.

Shelby walked over to Cleo’s group. "Hey, does anyone know what's going on?"

Cleo shrugged, her expression tight and suspicious. "No idea. But look at them." She pointed subtly. Drift nodded grimly before she spoke, "Legundo and Martyn have bandaged wounds they definitely didn't have yesterday."

After a few more moments of tense silence, Apo surprisingly took charge of the meeting, her military training instantly visible. She stood tall by the beacon, her gaze sweeping over the worried crowd.

"Thank you all for gathering. We called this meeting to inform you about the truth of our work and the escalating danger facing Oakhurst," Apo began, her voice crisp and commanding.

Apo then revealed that her small group had been working to consecrate the town’s ancient defensive beacons. She recounted their mission from the previous night, speaking slowly and deliberately to let the gravity of the events sink in:

• She described their goal: to consecrate the Castle Ruins, a vital strategic point.

• She recounted fighting their way through the undead, and the injuries sustained by Legundo and Martyn.

• She detailed the signs of construction in the area, that someone had been tearing stuff down or preparing to build, but they aren't sure who.

• She detailed the first, terrifying message the beacon sent as they tried to purify it: "A nearby dark force is stopping you from purifying the beacon, be wary."

As Apo spoke, a chorus of reactions erupted from the gathered townsfolk:

Sausage: "A dark force? Like a ghost? We need more lamps!"

Ren: "A dark force that stopped the ritual... that's not normal. That's conscious."

Avid: (His purple eyes wide with conviction) "It was a vampire! I told you all they were here, and they've claimed the ruins!"

Apo silenced them and continued, recounting how they were led away into the crypt by the search, and how the enemy used that distraction. She then delivered the devastating conclusion:

• "We received an immediate, strong mental message: 'Castle Ruins have been desecrated by dark forces.' The beacon had been flipped."

• "We rushed back up, found no one, and received a final, chilling warning when we tried to repurify it:"

Apo’s voice shook slightly as she delivered the final message: "Castle Ruins have been recently desecrated, unable to purify for 48 hours."

The revelation hung heavy in the air. The humans had not only failed but had suffered a strategic, public defeat to an invisible, intelligent enemy. The ruins, the intended base of their defense, were now officially claimed by the darkness.

The moment Apo finished, the assembled townsfolk erupted into a chaotic clamor, debating the new, frightening reality and debating what immediate action they should take.

It was Cleo who cut through the noise, her voice sharp and challenging. She had seen Scott’s obsessive behavior and the near-miss with Pyro, and she was already suspicious of why the darkness had suddenly moved.

"Wait!" Cleo called out, silencing the immediate panicked chatter. Her hands were on her hips, her posture aggressive. "Did you give this 'dark force' a reason to attack us at all?"

She fixed her intense stare on Apo and the beacon team. "Tell us exactly what you have done so far. You must have done something. If whatever this is, is as intelligent as those messages suggest, then it wouldn't attack or become defensive without a reason. The ruins were undefended before you went there!"

Apo, though annoyed by the challenge, recognized the need for transparency. She recounted their exact steps: "We have been consecrating the town's defensive points since the beginning. We always go prepared for a fight, and our mission has been to track down and consecrate all the beacons in the area. The ruins were simply next on the map."

Apo’s defense was logical, but Cleo’s point remained: in the eyes of an intelligent, powerful entity, methodically erasing their territory was an act of aggression.

Shelby stood listening, mulling over the deluge of information. The details Apo shared—the fight through the undead, the clear message of a conscious "dark force"—were scary, but one specific detail caught her attention: the report of signs of construction at the castle ruins.

Shelby immediately recalled how Scott would seemingly disappear into the forests for hours on end, claiming he was just "exploring" and coming back with very little to show for it.

"Scott must be building out there," she mumbled to herself, a sense of mild, personalized irritation mixing with the fear. She realized her eccentric roommate had simply chosen himself a massive, complex build project without telling her.

Cleo, who was standing right beside Shelby, her senses already heightened by suspicion, barely heard the quiet mumble, but the words connected the final, terrifying dots.

Construction. A dark force. Territorial messages.

Cleo's blood ran cold with sudden, complete realization. They were fools. The town had not been attacked; they had trespassed on a fucking Brood Nest. Of course, they would start fighting back.

Cleo took a shuddering, internal breath to calm the surge of raw frustration and anger at the town's blind incompetence. She spoke up again, her tone now laced with controlled fury, asking Apo questions she already knew the answers to.

"Apo, you said there were signs of construction, right? Did the area look recently cleaned? Was there much debris?" Cleo demanded.

Apo, surprised by Cleo’s sudden intensity, answered honestly: "Yes, there was some construction done. It was quite cleaned up, and there was barely any debris. Even the crypts didn't have any cobwebs."

Cleo threw her hands up in utter disgust, her voice rising to a furious snarl. "You imbeciles! You trespassed! You went into what was clearly someone's territory and tried to consecrate their home! It never had a reason to change the beacon until you trespassed!"

She glared at the assembled group, realizing they had blindly risked the safety of everyone in Oakhurst with their reckless mission. "We were not attacked unprovoked! We invaded, and now we will pay for it."

As Cleo made the furious reveal—that the humans had invaded an established territory—Shelby's mind was racing, connecting her own set of private dots.

• Scott was building out there.

• The dark force was defending the ruins.

• The dark force was intelligent and acted defensively.

A cold wave of worry mixed with utter fascination washed over her. First, she was worried for Scott: If he had started building out there, was he in danger for trespassing on someone else's turf?

But then the second, more terrifying realization hit her: If Scott was the one who had claimed the ruins and begun construction, then was he part of this dark force? Was her casual guess at him being an eccentric cryptid actually true? Was her handsome, non-sleeping roommate a supernatural being who had just declared war on the town's defenses?

Shelby fought the intense urge to bolt and run home, desperate to check on Scott and confirm his state—and his identity. She forced herself to stay rooted beside Cleo's group, knowing that disappearing now would only look suspicious.

Around her, the whole gathering dissolved into a chaotic, screaming argument. Apo's group vehemently tried to defend their actions as necessary for defense, while the rest of the townsfolk were enraged that the aggressive mission had deliberately put every single person in Oakhurst at catastrophic risk.

Chapter 9

The early morning air was sharply crisp, still holding the deep chill of the pre-dawn hours. Owen, needing to sustain the public illusion of the dedicated, honest laborer, had met up with Pyro just as the first weak, silvery light of dawn began to touch the eastern horizon.

He was currently positioned by a haphazard pile of logs, meticulously splitting them into manageable pieces of firewood. The rhythmic, steady, powerful thwack of his axe hitting the wood was a grounding, familiar sound—a stark contrast to the magical chaos of the previous day.

Pyro sat a short distance away on a moss-covered log, his posture outwardly relaxed and scholarly, meticulously scratching fine, dark script into his small, leather-bound journal. He appeared entirely innocuous, a perfect cover.

They were quietly speaking, their vampire voices pitched unnaturally low—a deep, resonant vibration that was easily swallowed by the ambient sounds of the clearing, making their conversation almost imperceptible to any human ear.

"The Elder was profoundly exhausted," Pyro murmured, tapping his quill against his chin, his red eyes briefly lifting from the page. "I've never felt the bond go so quiet. It's almost unsettlingly muted."

"It is," Owen agreed, leaning heavily on his axe handle for a moment, the muscles in his arms twitching. He worriedly ran the back of his hand across his mouth. "He must have utterly depleted himself after the flight practice. He needs true rest, not just stillness." They were left deeply uneasy by the silence on the bond, as they had no knowledge of their Sire's activities after their parting.

Apo's loud, unexpected call for a town meeting immediately shattered the morning's quiet routine, pulling their focus from their private anxieties. They quickly abandoned their respective tasks, their movements blurring as they slipped into the dense shadows of a nearby, derelict workshop, securing a vantage point that offered excellent visibility without any risk of detection.

"What do you think this is about?" Owen asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum of concern.

"Something significant has happened," Pyro responded instantly, observing the worried, haggard faces of Apo's beacon team. "Look at Legundo's pallor and the bandages on Martyn. They encountered more than just skeletons last night."

They listened intently as Apo began her debrief, revealing the secret, self-appointed mission to secure the beacons. When she recounted the attempt to purify the Castle Ruins and the terrifying, immediate mental resistance they received, Owen and Pyro exchanged intense looks of genuine surprise.

"A dark force stopping the purification?" Owen whispered, his eyes narrowed, his curiosity overriding his caution. "The Elder must have established a hidden lair nearby."

Then, Apo delivered the final, devastating conclusion—the internal message the group had received: that the Castle Ruins have been desecrated by dark forces, swiftly followed by the warning that it was unable to purify for 48 hours.

Owen and Pyro stared at each other, stunned into rigid silence.

"He didn't just stop them," Owen breathed, the realization hitting him with a physical force. His voice was laced with awe and a sudden, violent surge of pride. "He went to the ruins and flipped the beacon. Alone. He claimed our nest and consecrated it to darkness."

"He spent his entire night's rest doing that," Pyro realized, his mind furiously processing the logistical and magical drain. "That's why the bond was muted—he was using every ounce of Vitae he possessed to corrupt the holy site."

They watched as Cleo connected the town's failure to the logical conclusion of trespassing.

"The ghoul threat on Avid is one thing," Owen whispered, his tone growing serious. "But now the town knows there is an active, conscious, and powerful opponent claiming territory. They just confirmed our existence by this failure."

"And Cleo just revealed that the attack was a defense of our new home," Pyro added, his gaze fixed on the angry, bewildered townspeople. "We are no longer hidden occupants, Owen. We are officially at war."

The two fledglings remained hidden, quietly observing the escalating argument among the townsfolk. The scene was rapidly dissolving into total chaos. Avid was quickly becoming a nervous wreck, his voice rising to a frantic scream as he declared that "the vampires were real and they were finally attacking!" Meanwhile, Apo was relentlessly defending her actions, repeating her conviction that the beacon mission was correct and that they needed to complete the purification.

Cleo was clearly fed up with the useless arguing. Her face set in a disgusted scowl, she suddenly grabbed Pearl's hand and pulled her away from the crowded beacon, leading her determinedly back towards their shared house. She was done with the conversation, intending to handle the threat with action, not words.

Everyone else was engulfed in the dispute, fighting amongst themselves over the matter. Some were upset over Apo's group's reckless invasion, while others were simply paralyzed by fear of the powerful, invisible entity that had desecrated the ruins.

Pyro and Owen shared a final, urgent look. The town had been destabilized, their Coven's location revealed, and the Elder was offline. This was the time for action.

"We need to find Scott," Owen murmured, the necessity overriding all sense of caution.

"Yes," Pyro agreed instantly. "We need to find out what the plan is. Were we going to continue to hide and blend in, or is it time to move to the ruins permanently?"

~~~~

Scott slowly came to consciousness, feeling distinctly off—as if a fundamental switch had been flipped while he slept. It took a few moments for his eyes to finally open and his senses to adjust to the quiet room. Almost immediately, he saw his skeleton skull sitting nearby on the ground and realized a blanket was draped over him. A soft, genuine smile crossed his face at the unexpected mundaneness; Shelby had genuinely cared for him and made him comfortable during his forced rest.

He sat up and stretched, feeling his joints pop and his tight, depleted muscles lengthen. He could feel his power thrumming low within him, like a battery running near empty. He definitely needed to feed and build up his Vitae again; he had spent far too much desecrating the beacon. Though this wasn't the longest nap, it would have to do.

As he got up, his keen ears picked up the muted but distinct sounds of a distant argument in the town center. "What in the world," he muttered softly. He quickly picked up his skull and fitted it over his head once more. Once his features were covered, he finally left his and Shelby's house.

By the time he had followed the sounds to the town square, he saw a large crowd beginning to disperse. He noticed Shelby chatting animatedly with Avid and Drift on one side of the beacon. He wanted to thank her for the gesture of kindness and slowly began walking across the town square toward her.

He didn't even make it halfway.

A figure stepped decisively into his path: Apo, the military woman. She looked up at his masked face with a piercing, deeply suspicious gaze.

"Where were you, Scott?" Apo questioned, her voice sharp and interrogative. "You missed the town meeting. Why weren't you here?" The aggressive tone instantly reminded Scott of the way Avid had accused him about Shelby’s "murder."

The few people still lingering in the area—Avid, Drift, and others—all paused and turned to watch the confrontation.

Scott gave a slight, irritated scoff from behind the mask. "You're not my mother, Apo. I'm a grown man." He snapped, instantly becoming defensive and irritated. "I was fucking sleeping. I've been sleeping all night. I went to bed with Shelby, just ask her. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He was not in the mood. He subtly gripped his hands tight, feeling his claws dig into his palms in sharp, painful irritation. He was hungry, he needed to feed, he needed to build up his power, he needed to check on his fledglings, he needed to check on his nest, he needed to check on Avid. He needed to do so much, and this fucking woman was complicating matters with her stupid accusations.

Before Scott could escalate the argument, Shelby wandered over, having listened in on the exchange. She placed a hand lightly on Scott's arm.

"It's true, Apo," Shelby confirmed gently, her voice calm. "Scott went to bed when i did last night and was asleep until just now. I can vouch for him."

When Scott had yelled/snapped at Apo, the raw force of his anger cutting through the square, Avid—who was standing nearby, his attention already fixed on the imposing, masked noble—couldn't help the indescribable feeling that surged through him. The aggression, the heat in Scott's voice, the raw, unapologetic defense of his own boundaries, was deeply magnetic. It sent a sudden spike of confusing warmth and longing straight through the hunter's chest. He couldn't help being slightly impressed by the sheer, unbridled force of Scott's personality, despite the mask.

Meanwhile, Scott felt an immediate, profound rush of relief when Shelby smoothly covered for him, her casual confirmation providing a perfect, unassailable alibi.

"See, just as I said, I've been home sleeping all night," Scott reiterated, his voice regaining its controlled, masked resonance, though edged with residual irritation. "Now can you just leave me alone?" He snapped the last sentence as he turned sharply, pulling Shelby gently with him to walk away from the tense military woman.

Apo did gain a slightly sheepish look, her authoritarian posture wilting under the unexpected defense, but Scott was already done with her. He was not in the mood to deal with the humans' petty politics. He followed Shelby back over to where Avid and Drift were standing.

He paused, making a noticeable effort to regain his smooth, charming composure. "My apologies for raising my voice," Scott said, his tone softening to a more approachable register. He then asked, feigning casual curiosity, "How is everyone doing? And what, precisely, was all the excitement about at this 'meeting'?"

Shelby, eager to share the drama, immediately launched into the narrative. "Oh, it was terrible, Scott! Apo and the others went out last night to consecrate the ruins, and a 'dark force' stopped them! It even sent them messages!"

"It was an intelligent entity," Drift added, his voice low with fear. "It actively defied the ritual. They think it was a diversion, but Cleo thinks they just trespassed on its territory."

Scott listened intently, absorbing every detail—the failure of the purification, the discovery of his construction supplies, and the final, successful desecration. He made mental notes of which humans knew what about his base. But as he listened, he couldn't help noticing the strange, charged looks Avid gave him every once in a while—looks that seemed to hold a confusing blend of residual hostility, admiration, and a deepening, almost painful intensity.

"So, they’ve confirmed that someone is claiming the ruins," Scott murmured, letting the conclusion hang in the air. "And that this 'force' is capable of defending itself and its property. That makes the entire area dangerous." He turned directly to Avid, focusing his attention. "Avid, you seem particularly convinced this is a vampire attack. Given the desecration message, does this change your view on whether this 'dark force' is just a monstrous animal?"

Avid shifted his weight, his purple eyes flickering. "No," he insisted, though less forcefully than before. "A vampire would be clever enough to claim a home, and the desecration fits the wickedness. It only confirms they're here, and they're powerful. The ruins are too close to be safe. We need to plan a counter-attack before it settles in."

Scott knew he had to subtly shift the town's focus from aggressive retribution to passive defense, buying his Coven the critical time they needed to fortify the ruins and plan their next move. He needed to plant the idea that attacking was riskier than isolating.

"That is certainly one approach, Avid," Scott conceded, nodding slowly after the hunter voiced his desire for a counter-attack. "But let me pose a different question, one that Cleo touched upon earlier: What should we do if this 'dark force' continues trying to keep to themselves? What if this was purely a defensive move?"

Scott leaned slightly against the cold stone of the beacon tower, adopting a thoughtful, philosophical posture for the benefit of the onlookers.

"If the entity is intelligent and simply defending its chosen home, maybe we should just leave them alone," he suggested, his voice low and reasonable. "Leave the beacons alone for now, settle into town, and focus purely on our immediate safety here. Why provoke a fight with a powerful entity that might be content to simply ignore us if we stop intruding on its construction project?"

He listened intently to the group's immediate reactions, gauging the level of fear versus the desire for vengeance.

Avid shifted his weight nervously, his purple eyes darting toward the ruins then back to Scott. His voice was slightly shaky, betraying his profound nervousness, but his belief system made him push back. "I... I understand what you're saying, Scott, but that's just avoiding the problem," he insisted, though less forcefully than before. "Anything that desecrates a holy beacon is inherently hostile. If we ignore it, it will only... only grow stronger, and eventually it will come for us. We need to plan a counter-attack, yes, but perhaps we need more information first. Just ignoring it is too risky."

Drift looked nervously toward the ruins, then back at Scott. "But... it did only attack when we went to its home. If we stay here in town, behind the purified beacon, maybe we could just wait out the 48 hours and then try to consecrate the other nearby ones first, leaving the ruins alone?"

Shelby was watching Scott with an expression of intense, quiet curiosity. His calm, logical defense of the 'dark force's' territorial rights—suggesting the entire fight was the town's fault—made her earlier suspicions practically concrete. She said nothing, only observing the subtle shift in his demeanor.

Scott let a patient sigh escape the mask. "It's a balance of risk, isn't it? Do we risk life and limb for a strategic position that clearly belongs to an intelligent, powerful foe, or do we prioritize the safety of the people here in town?"

He looked pointedly at Avid. "If we attack, they will retaliate against the town. If we pause, they might just let us be."

Avid nervously fidgeted with the edge of the fresh bandage on his neck, his eyes fixed on the ground as he processed Scott's logical argument. The masked man's points were sound; provoking a powerful, intelligent enemy was dangerous. The reasoning was compelling, even if he didn't want to admit it.

But the hunter’s core belief remained unshakeable: he was sure it was the vampire who had attacked him as a boy, and he needed to kill it to heal his neck. The fight for Oakhurst was secondary to his personal, desperate quest for a cure.

He gave a sharp, nervous breath before finally giving ground. "Okay," Avid conceded, his voice slightly tight. "Maybe we should just wait and see if it does anything first. Give it a day or two. But if it attacks the town, then I'm not holding back. I'll go after it."

Scott offered a slow, reluctant nod, having achieved his immediate goal of delaying an organized counter-attack. "That is reasonable, Avid. Caution is wise."

Then, Scott smoothly changed the topic, his attention focusing entirely on the hunter, his tone shifting from strategic debate to personal concern. "Now, enough of this town nonsense. Avid, tell me honestly: How are you feeling? Is the wound on your neck still bothering you?"

Avid visibly stiffened, completely flustered by the unexpected shift in attention. He had been expecting Scott to continue the political debate, not launch into an intimate check-in about his health in front of the others. He looked away, his cheeks coloring slightly under the intensity of the masked gaze.

Scott carefully looked Avid over, his keen, scrutinizing gaze lingering on the hunter's neck and the strained line of his shoulders. His vampire senses were searching for any subtle sign that the necrosis was worsening or his overall health was declining. The man didn't look noticeably worse, but he did appear quite tired, suggesting he hadn't gotten much sleep due to the previous night's drama and his constant state of high alert.

"Oh, Avid, why didn't you say anything?" Drift exclaimed, noticing the bandage. "Are you alright?"

Shelby frowned, concern clouding her bubbly demeanor. "Yes, Avid, you need to take care of yourself! What happened?"

Avid flushed deeply, clearly disliking the public spotlight on his ailment. He tried to brush them off. "I'm fine, really," he insisted, though his voice was uneven. He addressed the masked noble directly. "There hasn't been any change, Scott. I felt okay all night."

Scott gave a soft, internal sigh of relief at the lack of immediate progression. "That is good to hear, Avid. Please, do not hesitate to tell me if anything changes. Your well-being is important."

After a few more moments of maintaining the neighborly facade, Scott realized he needed to prioritize his Coven's needs. He politely excused himself from the group, leaving the town square.

He had two immediate, critical tasks: fortifying the ruins and, most importantly, establishing a stable, discreet food source. Breeding wild cows was the most sustainable option, but that required a reliable supply of grain. And for grain, he needed to approach the town's farmer, Cleo.

Scott slowly made his way through town and approached the well-organized farm plot. Seeing no one there, he walked toward Cleo and Pearl’s nearby house. He didn't want to simply take supplies and risk further, unnecessary conflict with the already suspicious townsfolk.

He walked up to the small structure and gave a gentle, measured knock on the door. After a moment, the door opened. Cleo stood there, her expression guarded and intensely suspicious, but primarily curious. She was still reeling from the morning's realization that they had trespassed.

Scott offered a pleasant, carefully calibrated greeting. "Cleo, I apologize for bothering you during the day, especially after the morning's chaos. You looked exhausted."

Cleo’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in his masked form. "I'm fine. What do you need, Scott?" she asked, her tone neutral but inquisitive. She was trying to figure out what his game was.

Scott maintained his polite composure. "I was wondering if it would be alright if I could purchase or barter for some of your wheat and wheat seeds? I'm hoping to start a small agricultural project of my own outside of town. Nothing large—just a small stock."

Cleo considered him, crossing her arms, her head tilted slightly. "A noble asking for farming seeds? Why the sudden interest, Scott? You don't strike me as someone who'd enjoy tilling a field."

"Purely utilitarian," Scott replied smoothly. "A man needs to be prepared. If Oakhurst is truly under attack, securing a private, stable resource is the wisest course of action, wouldn't you agree? I have livestock that need feeding, and I need a steady supply without relying on the town's uncertain trade routes."

Cleo stared at him for a long moment, her suspicion morphing into a dawning understanding. Livestock... no, he means food for his people. She was still convinced he was the leader of the group that claimed the ruins, and a self-sufficient food source for his 'group' was highly logical. He's trying to set up a sustainable, safe food chain so they don't have to bother us.

"Livestock," Cleo repeated slowly. "You're trying to keep your stock well-fed, away from the town's resources." She wasn't asking; she was stating the realization. "Fine. How much are you offering?"

Scott gave a soft smile behind the mask, a gesture Cleo couldn't see but could sense in the subtle shift of his posture. He was relieved she seemed to understand the necessity of his request.

"Well, I'd be able to procure anything you might need," Scott offered, his tone smooth and persuasive, though he was careful to maintain a professional distance. He tried not to show the acute desperation he felt for the crop seeds. "If you're in need of lumber or any particular ore—I can acquire that easily. I can even hunt down some specialized livestock for you, perhaps some wild chickens for laying eggs, if that would be useful for your own supply."

Cleo observed him keenly, her gaze sweeping over his masked form. She knew Scott's public persona well enough; the man had even stated at the beginning of his stay that he hated manual labor and usually left most tasks to others. This keen interest in sustainable resources was a major contradiction.

However, she had also noticed his effectiveness. His and Shelby's house was the first house completed and was built quite quickly and flawlessly. He tended to go out exploring quite a bit—when he wasn't terrorizing/courting Avid, as she saw it—meaning he knew the surrounding terrain.

Cleo's assessment settled. He was a powerful leader who now had a construction project and a base to run. He had resources, even if he himself was lazy.

"Lumber is always useful, and I could use something to protect the garden," Cleo finally stated, her voice thoughtful. "But I need to know how much you plan to take. I can spare a small sack of wheat, and a handful of seeds, but I need something in return that proves your loyalty to the town—or at least, your willingness to not target it."

She stepped forward slightly, lowering her voice. "Since you have access to the deep mines and the woods, I'll take a large stack of high-quality, dense timber and ten pounds of Silver Ore. That should cover the risk I'm taking by supplying you. Do we have a deal, Scott?"

Scott gave an enthusiastic nod, the gesture energetic enough that Cleo could clearly see his satisfaction despite the obscuring mask. He clasped his hands together excitedly, releasing some of the internal tension he’d been holding.

"I can absolutely do that, and thank you for being so pragmatic," Scott affirmed, his voice warm. "Consider the dense timber and the ten pounds of Silver Ore secured. I'd only need a small bit of the seed and wheat to get started breeding my cows and making my own little farm to sustain them—just enough to get the operation stable."

He paused, trying to mentally inventory the supplies he knew his fledglings had already stockpiled at the ruins. He needed to strike a balance between prompt delivery and not looking suspiciously too prepared.

"How soon do you need the materials, Cleo?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "I have some contacts who can retrieve high-quality resources, but it might take me until nightfall to arrange the delivery to a safe, discreet location near your farm."

Cleo watched his enthusiasm carefully, a slight, almost imperceptible nod of approval showing on her face. His willingness to acquire the challenging Silver Ore was a strong commitment.

"As soon as possible," Cleo replied firmly. "I want to finish reinforcing the shed before the next undead horde comes through. If you can deliver the lumber and ore by tonight, I can have a sack of wheat and the seeds ready for you right now."

"Tonight it is," Scott agreed instantly. "Consider it done. Thank you for your business, Cleo." Cleo steps away into her house before coming back with a small sack of wheat and a small pouch of wheat seeds passing them to Scott.

Scott gave Cleo a final, polite nod and turned away from the farmstead, his steps purposeful. The transaction was a major win; he had secured the necessary starting resources for the food source, confirming that his strategic decision to allow the desecration to reveal his presence had at least provided some leverage in the form of fear and barter.

Now, the urgent priority was finding his fledglings. He needed to coordinate their efforts, inform them of the new supply acquisition, and develop the counter-strategy to the inevitable human retaliation.

He quickly scanned the immediate area. Owen was likely back at the edge of the woods maintaining his lumberjack cover, and Pyro would likely be close to the center of town, observing the fallout from the meeting. Pyro was the easier and faster target to locate due to his intelligence on the ground.

Scott slipped off the main path, using the small outbuildings and shadow lines of the early afternoon to move discreetly. He focused his mind, sending a low-frequency mental pulse along the bond, a focused signal meant only for his Brood: Report. I am safe. I need immediate contact.

He continued moving towards the town square, his masked head scanning the crowd for the familiar dark coat and studious posture of his historian. He knew they would be on edge after witnessing the public panic.

Scott’s mental pulse was immediately answered by a faint flicker of acknowledgment, confirming Pyro was near. Pyro, ever observant, was exactly where Scott expected him: subtly positioned near the edge of the town square, pretending to examine an old, weather-worn signpost while acutely watching the remaining agitated townsfolk.

Scott maintained his casual stride until he was a few yards from his fledgling. He didn't speak. Instead, he gave a minute shake of his head and subtly hooked a finger, signaling Pyro to follow him out of the immediate vicinity.

Pyro instantly understood the command. He smoothly closed his journal, gave the signpost one last theatrical glance, and began walking away from the town center, matching Scott's pace. Scott led them down a winding, less-used dirt path that led toward the eastern edge of the forest, away from the prying eyes of the human homes.

Once they were safely hidden behind the dense shelter of the first line of trees, Scott stopped.

"Sire, what happened?" Pyro immediately asked, his voice low and urgent, laced with the worry he’d been holding since witnessing the town meeting. "We felt the bond mute, and then the town was suddenly talking about desecration. Why did you risk everything to flip the beacon?"

Scott reached out and gave Pyro's shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. "I risked nothing, my Childe. I acted to protect everything."

He lowered his voice further, ensuring only Pyro could hear the precise details. "I followed Apo's group last night. They were on their way to consecrate the ruins. If they had succeeded, the site would have been useless to us—a constant source of pain, a place where we could neither rest nor build. It would have destroyed our Nest location before we even began."

Scott continued, his tone resolute. "I desecrated the beacon to protect our territory and to protect you. It was the only way to send a clear, powerful message: that ground is claimed. Now, we have 48 hours of respite before they can even attempt to cleanse it again."

Pyro absorbed the revelation, the fear of the unknown immediately replaced by relief and profound respect for his Sire's decisive action. "You claimed the ruins for us," he breathed. "A bold move, Sire."

Scott nodded, accepting the praise but focused on the next step. "The move was necessary, Pyro. Now we exploit the advantage it gave us. I need you both to start preparing the Nest for rapid construction."

He began leading the way through the edge of the woods, moving toward the vicinity where Owen was most likely working. "I've secured the first crucial resource: I just bartered with Cleo for wheat and wheat seeds."

Pyro looked surprised. "Cleo? You convinced her to supply us?"

"She's pragmatic," Scott confirmed, a satisfied smirk in his voice. "She accepted a payment of high-quality lumber and Silver Ore—which we need to retrieve and deliver tonight—in exchange for enough grain to start a sustainable cow breeding operation. Our food source is secured, provided we move quickly."

As they walked, their focus immediately shifted to the construction.

"If the town is going to spend 48 hours debating whether to attack or not, we throw caution to the wind," Pyro stated, his earlier caution replaced by aggressive planning. "We use our abilities. We need to focus on structure and concealment first. We can shift into our bat forms to move large stones and timber faster than any human crew."

"Exactly," Owen's voice joined them mentally through the bond, having clearly received Scott's summons and now sensing the conversation. "We can work through the night and move heavy debris with ease while cloaked, using speed and minimal labor. We should be able to raise the outer walls of the defensive ring in a single night if we focus."

"The danger of being seen is less than the danger of being vulnerable," Pyro concluded, glancing at Scott. "We use our powers to speed through the construction. We make the ruins a true fortress before the humans can lift another sword."

Scott smiled, pleased with their initiative. "Then we begin tonight. Find Owen, and we coordinate the full plan."

Scott gave Pyro a brief, approving nod. "Go find Owen. Prepare him for tonight's work. I have my own task."

He dismissed his fledgling and then turned, heading deeper into the dense woods. He was running on severely depleted Vitae, but the need to establish a stable food source was paramount. The castle walls could wait; the Coven's ability to heal and use their powers could not.

It took quite a while to hunt down a small, manageable herd of five wild cows. They were skittish and heavy, but Scott finally managed to calm them using an immense effort of will. Taking a handful of precious wheat kernels out of the small sack Cleo had provided, he slowly, painstakingly led the cows back toward the Castle Ruins.

The most tedious part was leading them down into the crypts. He had to be incredibly slow and careful on the crumbling stone stairway, managing the panicked livestock without revealing his unnatural strength or his identity. It was a long, taxing process that was only possible because of the daylight—nighttime would have brought immediate conflict with the undead.

Once he had the five cows and the sack of wheat safely in the main crypt level, he stashed the grain and went to work. He located a wall that looked structurally sound and pulled out his pickaxe. Despite his depleted Vitae and hunger, his vampire strength was still far superior to any human’s.

He carefully carved a doorway, then quickly extended a hallway into the dense bedrock. Finally, he carved out a large, expansive subterranean room for the livestock. This cavern would serve as the holding pen, the primary breeding area, and the location for their small, controlled underground wheat farm—and, hopefully, future pens for chickens.

Scott worked with focused, brutal efficiency, managing to get the massive excavation done quite fast. He even carved out a section of the stone floor. His next task would be to bring down enough dirt and grass from the surface, hauling it into the crypt in hopes of making the underground floor as comfortable and natural for the animals as possible.

With the crucial first step of the Subterranean Stockade complete, Scott allowed himself a moment of weary satisfaction.

Scott, breathing deeply after the heavy, taxing excavation work, allowed himself a small break. He wandered into the main crypt, brushing the stone dust from his coat and mask, to check on his newly acquired livestock.

Thankfully, the five cows were simply wandering about the large space he had just cleared, seemingly content with the new, enclosed environment. The darkness and quiet of the underground space, coupled with their exhaustion from the journey, must have been soothing compared to the chaos of the woods and the arduous trek.

With the animals secured, Scott focused his mind and sent a simple, yet firm, message through the Coven bond to both Pyro and Owen:

Do not murder any animals in the crypts yet. I am working on establishing a livestock farm. These are resources, not immediate food.

The responses were immediate, one polite and one slightly more grudging:

Pyro (Mental): Understood, Sire. An excellent plan for sustainability. We will ensure the stock is protected.

Owen (Mental): Copy that, Elder. Resources, not food. Noted. Where should we look for our dinner then?

Scott allowed a faint wave of amused exasperation to flow back to Owen through the bond, before refocusing on his break. He had a farm to build.

Scott’s brief moment of rest dissolved into renewed, urgent action. He efficiently herded the five wild cows through the newly carved doorway and into the expansive, empty room he had hewn from the bedrock, ensuring they were contained. From his depleted inventory, he pulled a few planks of salvaged wood and quickly positioned a makeshift crafting table in the main crypt area. With practiced speed, he used the table to fashion a sturdy, makeshift wooden door, which he carefully fitted and secured into the doorway, locking the cows safely inside their subterranean pen.

He then accessed the meager supply chests they had staged near the ruins. His immediate priority was upgrading his gear. He quickly constructed a temporary stone furnace and fed it fuel. He took the raw Silver Ore—part of the payment for Cleo, but also a resource vital for powerful tools—and began smelting it into ingots. He was keenly aware of the slight, familiar, burning sensation the silver caused against his skin; it was a necessary discomfort he pushed aside, prioritizing the outcome.

Once the ingots were cool enough to handle, he forged a new set of tools: a highly efficient silver pickaxe for breaking stone and ore, a powerful silver axe for felling timber, and a few robust shovels.

Armed with his superior gear, Scott immediately left the ruins, his form moving swiftly toward the deep forest and the mountain slopes. He needed to fulfill Cleo's demand while simultaneously building his own stores.

His focus was divided and intense:

1. Cleo’s Payment (Timber): He targeted the oldest, densest trees, using the silver axe to fell them with inhuman speed. He meticulously cut and stripped the wood, stacking the required high-quality, dense timber logs into a manageable bundle for delivery.

2. Cleo’s Payment (Ore): He ventured higher into the mountains, locating a rich vein of raw Silver Ore. The new silver pickaxe sliced through the rock, allowing him to quickly extract and pack the required ten pounds of ore, ensuring it met Cleo's specified weight.

3. Castle Building Materials: Alongside Cleo's load, he gathered more ore, different variations of stone blocks and a large amount of bulk construction wood, knowing their subterranean build would require massive reinforcement.

4. Farm Foundation: This was the most physically taxing step. He used the shovels to dig up copious amounts of rich, black dirt, packing it into heavy sacks. Furthermore, he carefully sectioned and peeled up numerous squares of actual grass chunks (sod), taking pains not to damage the delicate root systems. He planned to transplant this living grass into the crypt, creating a more comfortable, breathable, and slightly more natural environment for the livestock.

By the time he returned to the ruins, the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky with the colors of evening. He was utterly drained—the combined effort of the beacon desecration, the cattle drive, and the relentless labor had pushed his exhausted Vitae stores to their absolute limit—but his supply chests were now overflowing with the necessary materials for both defense and survival.

Scott carefully dropped off the remaining construction resources, the heavy, muddy sacks of dirt, and the precious, delicate grass chunks into the secured section of the ruins. Then, grimacing slightly behind the skull mask, he hoisted Cleo's payment—the dense stack of timber and the substantial weight of the raw Silver Ore—into his inventory. The combined mass was excessive, a painful burden on his already depleted Vitae.

He began his slow, agonizing trip back to town. He was starving, his internal hunger a constant, acidic pressure. His Vitae was dangerously low, and his nerves were stretched thin, making the slightest sound or movement an over stimulation. Just get the job done. Do not provoke. Do not collapse.

As he moved through the darkened woods, he used the bond like a quiet radar. Any wild game he noticed—the scent of a fat, wandering deer, the quick movement of large rabbits—he instantly marked and sent the rough location to his fledglings.

Scott sent through the bond, Deer, due north of the old creek bed. Pyro, go. Owen, you follow. Feed.

Owen responds immediately, Acknowledged, Elder! En route.

Pyro replies as well, We will proceed carefully. Rest, Sire.

He pushed on, fueled only by iron will. Finally, as the sun’s last trace had vanished and the eerie, red-tinted moon began its ascent, Scott reached the outskirts of town. He moved quickly, a weary shadow, ignoring the few lingering townsfolk and heading straight for Cleo's farmstead.

He reached her house, bypassed the front, and went straight to her nearby shed area. He began rapidly unloading the heavy, dark timber and the sacks containing the Silver Ore, letting them drop with heavy thuds onto the soft earth next to the shed as agreed.

As he was frantically emptying his inventory, trying to conclude the transaction and escape, Cleo exited her house. She had clearly noticed the sound of the heavy materials being dropped and approached him, her figure silhouetted against the lamplight spilling from the doorway.

"Scott," Cleo said, her voice even, crossing the small distance to stand near the pile. "I see you've kept your word."

Scott forced himself to straighten up, fighting the urge to lean heavily against the shed. His normally impeccable clothes were disheveled, dusted with stone grit and forest debris. Beneath the cuff of his jacket, his hands were visibly shaky—not just from the weight, but from the acute hunger. His voice, strained from exhaustion and lack of Vitae, was a touch rougher than his usual smooth baritone.

"When I make a promise, Cleo, I keep it," Scott affirmed, managing to maintain a semblance of his professional tone. "That is the specified high-density timber, and the ore is the ten pounds of Silver Ore you requested. Please, check the quality."

He gestured to the pile. "And thank you again for the wheat and seeds you provided earlier. They have already been put to good use. I appreciate your foresight."

Cleo observed him with a keen, suspicious gaze that missed nothing. She noted the stiffness in his posture, the strained edge in his voice, and the involuntary tremor in his hands. This is not just exhaustion, she thought. He is running on fumes. He's hungry, and he went through hell to deliver this.

"The quality looks acceptable," Cleo stated, her voice thoughtful. "You look like you're about to collapse, Scott. Go rest."

Scott gave Cleo a terse nod, acknowledging her dismissal without lingering. He turned quickly and began making his way back toward his and Shelby's home. He tried his best to maintain his composed, noble posture, but he was struggling; every step was a deliberate, draining effort. Just get to the meat. Just get to the chest. He needed something—anything—to ease the debilitating hunger and build back a sliver of his Vitae.

He moved quickly through the town's shadows, trying his best to appear discreet, though his urgency betrayed him. He needed to avoid any more confrontations.

When he finally reached his and Shelby's house, he didn't bother with subtlety. He rushed inside and slammed the door shut with a resounding thud. He immediately wrenched the suffocating skull mask off his head, gasping slightly at the relief of the cool night air hitting his face, and tossed it carelessly onto the nearby desk.

He dove for the cursed storage chest on the other side of the room, the piece of furniture Shelby had perpetually cluttered. Once the lid was thrown open, he frantically dug through all the various, unnecessary items she had gathered and stashed—knick-knacks, oddly shaped stones, extra fabrics—searching and digging down to the bottom.

Finally, his fingers closed around the small, carefully concealed stack of raw beef he had stashed there. He pulled it out, his hands shaking badly from the sheer depletion.

He wrenched open the container and pulled out the first piece. He intended to consume it slowly, savoring the small boost, but the hunger was too acute, too demanding. The first piece was gone too fast, swallowed without chewing, and it did little to quell the internal fire.

With all control lost to instinct, he immediately grabbed the next piece, and the next. He was quickly feasting and devouring the entire stack of meat, consuming it like a starved animal. The raw blood and iron were finally hitting his system, providing a small surge of energy to pull him back from the brink of collapse.

Chapter 10

Notes:

You guys didn't forget this story was explicit did ya? ;3

Shelby watched Scott stride off from the town square, his masked figure moving with that strange mix of grace and weary determination. She still felt the warmth of his recent defense, but her mind was preoccupied with the implications of the town meeting and his strangely passionate argument in defense of the "territorial" dark force.

"Is Scott always that... dramatic when he's confronted?" Drift asked, adjusting the wicker basket strap on her shoulder. "He seemed furious with Apo."

"Only when he’s been deprived of rest," Shelby replied easily, giving a nervous, bright smile. Or when he’s running on empty because he’s whatever kind of creature he is, she silently corrected. She chose to mentally table the "Is my roommate an attractive, powerful cryptid?" question for the sake of companionship. "Shall we go gather some late summer berries? I need something sweet and distractedly harmless after all that aggressive shouting at the beacon."

The three of them—Shelby, Avid, and Drift—spent the day gathering in the nearby, sun-dappled woods. The conversation was purposefully light: they debated the most efficient way to preserve certain mountain herbs, shared quiet town gossip, and marveled at the sheer eccentricity of Scott's choice of headwear.

As they rested by a small, gurgling stream, the peaceful atmosphere coaxed a quieter confession. The topic inevitably drifted back to the morning’s tension, and specifically, the state of Avid's injury. Shelby noticed the old bandage on his neck was starting to look dirty, the white linen dull and frayed from the day's physical activity.

"Avid, I know you don't like talking about it, but are you genuinely certain your neck is healing correctly?" Shelby asked gently, her voice full of soft concern. "It looked intensely painful this morning when Scott was checking on you."

Avid sighed heavily, tracing patterns in the dirt with a thin stick. He looked exhausted, and away from the judgmental eyes of the town, his guard was lower.

"It's... not exactly a new wound," Avid finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper, thick with long-held pain. "I got this when I was just a boy. It was an attack. A creature got me, and it didn't heal right—it never closes."

He then revealed the core, desperate belief that drove him. "The old magic books, they talk about this kind of wound—the necrosis. They say it's from a vampire. The infection won't stop, and the wound won't heal, unless I kill the vampire that caused it. That's why I'm here. That's why I became a hunter."

Drift made a small, choked sound of pure sympathy. Shelby’s heart ached for him, but her mind immediately flashed to Scott's odd behaviors and his obvious need for rest.

"Oh, Avid, that is truly the most horrible thing," Shelby whispered, her voice full of genuine pity. "But... a vampire bite? Are you absolutely sure about that diagnosis? That sounds a bit like an old fairytale, or maybe just a specific type of dark magic. Perhaps it was just a severe, festering infection that required special medicine?" She offered the counter-theory gently, choosing not to push or challenge his deeply held conviction. "But regardless, you are incredibly brave to endure that and keep fighting."

As the late afternoon waned and the night began to fall, the three friends returned to Oakhurst, their baskets full. Drift headed off toward her own small cottage first, waving a promise to see them tomorrow.

Shelby watched Avid prepare to part ways, but her focus was fixed on his neck. The bandage looked truly filthy now, stained dark with sweat and the grit accumulated throughout the day.

"Hold on, Avid, wait a moment," Shelby insisted, reaching out to gently touch his sleeve. "That bandage looks completely soaked and dirty now. It's probably causing you more irritation than protection."

She brightened with an idea. "Listen, I have a massive supply of clean linen at my house—the best fabrics, soft and sterile! Let me help you clean the area properly and put a fresh bandage on it. We can make sure it's wrapped nice and tight, just for tonight."

Avid was instantly hesitant, his default setting being suspicion and extreme privacy regarding his wound. He instinctively brought a hand up to cover the soiled linen. "Oh, no, Shelby, I really—I can manage it myself. It's fine for now."

"Don't be silly," she insisted warmly, taking a soft step closer. "It's near impossible to apply pressure and sterile gauze properly when you're working on the back of your own neck. Please? Just five minutes. I'm actually quite a good nurse, I promise you won't even feel it."

Seeing the sincere, caring concern in Shelby’s wide, unwavering eyes—and truly feeling the unpleasant sting of the soiled bandage—Avid finally gave in. "Okay," he mumbled, giving a shaky, reluctant nod. "Just quickly, then. I really appreciate it."

Shelby quietly led Avid across the town, the fading twilight making the edges of the forest look dark and deep. As they walked toward her home, she continued chatting about mundane topics, hoping to distract and calm Avid about his impending wound care.

"I just keep all my supplies neat," Shelby was saying brightly, fiddling with the key as they reached her door. "It's much easier when everything is organized, isn't it? You'll feel so much better with fresh linen."

She opened the door and stepped inside, intending to gesture Avid toward the table.

The sight that greeted them was utterly startling.

Scott was hunched over the opened supply chest, the discarded skull mask lying near the door. He was no longer the composed noble; his blue hair was disheveled, his face pale and drawn. He was fervently devouring raw meat, blood dripping down his chin and staining his hands as he swallowed piece after piece with frantic, primal urgency.

Instinctively, instead of fearing for her own or Avid's life, Shelby’s immediate reaction was a surge of protective worry for Scott. He's in trouble. He's starving.

Without pausing to think, she dragged Avid—who had frozen in the doorway—inside the house and quickly slammed the door shut, locking it with a sharp click.

Avid stood rigid, a terrifying mix of emotions gripping him. He was startled, terrified by the manic sight, yet there was a confusing undercurrent of concern for both Shelby and, inexplicably, Scott. The sight of the unmasked noble, pale and driven by hunger, was both monstrous and vulnerable. Avid didn't try to run or flee; his mouth shut completely, eyes wide, as he watched the scene unfold, wary and utterly unsure about what he was witnessing.

Shelby cautiously walked forward, speaking softly in hushed tones to avoid startling the desperate man.

"Scott?" she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Scott, what is wrong? Are you okay?"

She slowly approached the hungry figure, her eyes wide as she eyed the glistening, raw meat and the blood tracing rivulets down his face and onto his hands as he compulsively consumed another piece.

~~~~

Scott was utterly lost, submerged in a hunger-induced haze. The first bite of the raw meat, the faint but distinct metallic taste of blood, had sent the starving Elder vampire spiraling faster than his centuries-old mind could process. After 600 years spent in deprived stasis, his basic survival restraint had catastrophically deteriorated.

An obsessively loud, demanding thought ripped through his consciousness: 'More,' followed immediately by the desperate consumption of another piece. His whole body trembled uncontrollably as the meager meal barely registered, barely scratching the surface of his need. 'MORE!' the thoughts screamed, louder and more insistent than ever. I need to feed. I need to be whole.

He couldn't focus; he was completely immersed in this frenzy, his raw survival instincts overriding his conscious control. He never heard the door open, didn't register the soft gasp, or the quiet shuffle of footsteps near the entrance.

Then, piercing through the noise of his own frantic consumption, his instincts registered the clear, distinct rhythm of two heartbeats—close, strong, and entirely unprotected.

'Fresh blood,' his primal instincts craved, a deep, inhuman snarl almost tearing itself from his throat, urging him toward the source of the superior sustenance.

Scott barely shifted, his muscles tightening, preparing to lunge toward the nearest source of life. The movement was purely reflexive, guided only by need.

As Scott began to rise, Shelby’s soft, panicked voice finally registered. "Scott? Scott, what is wrong? Are you okay?"

Avid, frozen beside her, watched the horrifying transformation. The way Scott moved, the desperate sounds, the primal look in his unmasked, wide eyes—it was not human. His breath hitched in his throat, and the word Vampire screamed silently in his mind. He instinctively took a defensive posture, though fear paralyzed him.

The sight of Shelby's face snapped Scott back. Inside his mind, his higher consciousness shrieked in utter, desperate panic: 'No. DON'T FUCKING ATTACK SHELBY!'

With a violent, internal shockwave of sheer willpower, Scott fought the surging instinct that screamed for the kill. To stop the predatory movement and ground himself in agonizing reality, he forced his fangs down—hard—on the nearest thing, which happened to be his own forearm. The sudden, sharp, self-inflicted pain was a necessary, immediate shock.

He shoved himself backward, scrambling away from them on the floor, his breathing ragged and shallow. He yanked his bleeding hand back, clutching it to his chest, the small wound already beginning to knit itself closed.

"F-fuck... get away from me, both of you," he gasped out, his voice choked, raw, and desperate, tasting faintly of his own blood. His entire body was shaking violently under the immense strain of holding back his nature. "Not safe! Get out!"

Shelby didn't move, her eyes fixed on his bleeding arm and his tormented face. "Scott, you bit yourself! What are you doing? What is happening?"

Avid took a shuddering half-step back, his face white, the terror finally breaking his silence. "Shelby, we need to leave. Now! He's not human!"

Scott squeezed his eyes shut for a painful second, attempting to compartmentalize the screaming, burning hunger that threatened to consume him whole. He forced himself to look up at Shelby, knowing the truth could no longer be hidden.

As his gaze fixed on her, Shelby finally saw the undeniable, horrifying truth in his features. His eyes were intensely, unnaturally red, glowing faintly in the dim light of the house. His pupils were wildly unstable, shifting with frightening speed—widening into dilated, dark pools when his conscious mind desperately struggled for control, only to snap into terrifying pinpricks whenever his raw, predatory instincts surged and threatened to take over.

"I'm sorry," Scott choked out, his voice a painful, broken rasp thick with despair and self-revulsion. Blood still stained his chin and dripped from the small wound on his forearm, which he clutched protectively. "I wanted... to tell you... that I wasn't safe..."

He fought against the urge to snap forward, trying to force the explanation out. "I've been unable to hunt... the nearby wildlife is all gone from over-hunting." He desperately tried to paint the entire picture, the realization crushing him: this was not how he wanted her to find out, let alone in front of Avid.

"I used too much power to protect our territory," he managed, every word a battle against the overwhelming hunger. "Drained myself completely, I'm starving... I don't want to hurt anyone here." He pushed the final sentence out, a raw, desperate plea that was equal parts warning and confession.

Shelby just stared, her face pale. The fear was there, but it was overshadowed by the shock and the sudden, intense confirmation of her deepest suspicions. She saw the red eyes, heard the confession of immense power, and recognized the frantic apology. "Scott," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You used your power for us? To protect your... your home? What are you?"

Avid, however, was fully confirmed. He took a single, controlled step back, his terrified gaze drinking in the unstable, red eyes and the self-inflicted wound. The primal fear was still present, but the sight of the creature fighting itself—biting its own hand, pleading for them to leave—didn't match the image of the cruel, malicious monster he hunted.

"A cryptid," he whispered, the word hollow, then corrected himself with dawning horror: "No... a vampire."

He watched Scott tremble, desperate not to attack. Avid's hand instinctively went to the dagger strapped to his hip, but it froze there. The vampire was choosing not to attack, despite the open temptation of two heartbeats.

"Y-you're trying to stop," Avid stammered, the terror in his voice mixing with a strange, hesitant admiration. "You... you bit yourself to stop attacking us?" He slowly, cautiously, lowered his hand from his weapon. He was still terrified, but the need to instantly abandon or attack the creature was slowly fading. It's a monster, but it's fighting itself not to be one.

Scott flinched violently as a sharp, cramping pain of severe starvation ripped through his core, causing a low, involuntary groan to escape his throat. He desperately tried to regain focus, his unstable red eyes fixed on Avid.

"You haven't done anything... anything at all... to warrant me attacking you," Scott managed to grit out, his voice thick with the strain of pure restraint. He forced himself to add the emotional anchor. "Plus, I... I genuinely care for... both of you."

He instantly bit down on his own forearm again, a sharp, audible snap of his fangs against flesh. The self-inflicted pain was a necessary, desperate anchor against the overpowering scent of their strong, living blood.

"It's just the hunger, the depletion of my Vitae," he managed to explain. "I'm fighting a survival instinct, not malice. Believe me, only a Feral with no established ties attacks for no reason."

Avid lowered his hand completely from his dagger, his face a complex mask of terror and confused awe. "But... but you are a vampire," he stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the blood on Scott's face. "The desecration... the messages... that was you? You're the leader of the dark forces?"

Scott gave a quick, ragged nod, ignoring the question to focus on the immediate threat of his own hunger. "You know the lore, Avid. Most of us don't expose ourselves by murdering indiscriminately. That risk is too high."

"But you are starving!" Shelby cried, taking a hesitant step back but not leaving. Her fear was overridden by concern for the tormented creature before her. "If you're so weak, why did you fight the whole town just for some old ruins? You almost killed yourself!"

Scott let out a shaky, desperate breath. "I was protecting the Nest. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be sitting here bleeding myself. I would have... I would have already struck, silently." He tried to use logic to pierce their fear. "I don't. I won't hurt you."

As Scott fought the internal war, the chaotic tremor running through his body, Shelby watched, her mind working with a strange, protective clarity. She realized logic, though risky, offered the only immediate solution: he needed to feed, or he would become the monster he feared. She was prepared to risk it, reasoning that his desperate plea proved his intent to protect them. Plus, seeing him unmasked, so vulnerable yet powerfully built, intensified her reckless attraction.

Avid, meanwhile, was paralyzed, his hunting dogma crashing against the reality of the self-mutilating creature fighting for restraint.

While Scott attempted to force down the screaming hunger, Shelby made her monumental decision. Her hands, surprisingly steady, went to the small buttons at the neck of her shirt. She unfastened them slowly, deliberately revealing a small, pale expanse of skin, and walked toward the starving vampire.

"Wh... what in the nine hells are you doing, Shelby?" Scott stuttered out, his voice choked with confusion, the sight of the bared skin instantly escalating his hunger and shattering his fragile focus. The pinpricks in his eyes widened alarmingly.

"I'm going to help you," Shelby stated simply, her gaze steady, locking onto his tormented eyes. "You need to feed, Scott, and I have blood. If you can stop attacking yourself, I can help you. Just... please be careful. Be gentle."

She reached him, and without a moment's hesitation, she knelt down and practically crawled into his lap on the floor, settling her soft body against his trembling, hard frame.

Avid let out a sharp, choked noise, a sound caught between terror and outrage. "Shelby, stop! You can't! He's a monster! He'll drain you dry! We need to leave, not offer a sacrifice!"

Scott’s breath hitched, the agonizing calculation seizing his mind. His trembling ceased momentarily, replaced by total stillness. He knew that in this state, his control was a thread. But human blood—the pure, concentrated Vitae—would heal the damage and stabilize him instantly. The temptation was an absolute earthquake.

"Avid is right, Shelby. I could lose control," Scott whispered, his voice dangerously low, his red eyes burning into hers. "You don't understand how depleted I am. This isn't just a snack. I could seriously hurt you. Are you absolutely sure you want to risk this?"

Shelby reached up, her fingers gently touching his pale cheek. Her expression was unwavering. "I'm sure, Scott. I trust you not to hurt me." She repeated the words with utter conviction. She then slowly tilted her head to the side, exposing the delicate vein at the side of her throat, presenting her neck to the starving Elder vampire, the unspoken bargain laid bare.

Scott's throat ran utterly dry for a painful moment, the frantic roar of blood in his ears briefly blocking out all external sound. He focused solely on the soft, vulnerable curve of Shelby's neck. It was so tempting—the warmth, the life, the sheer, intoxicating willingness of her offer was a physical shock.

He glanced quickly at Avid, who was still frozen by the wall. The hunter's face was a study in conflicting emotions: fear, shock, and a heavy confusion. Scott worried this intimacy would be the breaking point, sending Avid running to raise the alarm.

Shelby, unconcerned with the audience, simply sat nestled in his lap, leaning comfortably into his trembling, hard frame, her trust absolute.

Scott swallowed hard, the movement painful, and let out a shaky, desperate breath. He needed one last affirmation.

"Shelby," he asked, his voice a profound, ragged whisper, his breath warm against her skin. "I'm fighting a very old hunger. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure you are ready for this?"

Shelby gave out a soft, knowing giggle, her relief evident. She reached up and gently placed her index finger right on the tip of his nose. "I'm sure, Scott. Don't worry about me right now. Just feed. You must be starving."

With that simple, complete permission, the internal war ceased, replaced by a consuming necessity. Scott leaned forward, letting his lips linger, gently nuzzling the soft crease of her neck for a moment—a fleeting gesture of immense tenderness. He resolved to treat her as gently as a lover, to make this necessary act as pleasant an experience as possible.

Gently, precisely, he bit into the crease of her neck, the insertion of his fangs meticulous and clean, avoiding any vital structures. He felt the quick, painless prick, followed instantly by the rush of warmth.

A profound, involuntary moan of pure relief and intoxicating flavor left him as the rich, vital fluid burst onto his tongue. He forced himself to remain tethered to reality, maintaining rigid control to take small, slow sips, fighting the primal urge to gorge.

Avid, who had been staring in wide-eyed horror, suddenly shifted. He watched the vampire nuzzle Shelby before the bite, a gesture that spoke of something far more complex than just predation.

First, he was confused by the tenderness. Then, he was startled by Shelby's soft moan of pleasure. Finally, a sudden, burning wave of shame and shyness washed over him, causing him to avert his gaze. He shouldn't be watching this intimate, horrific act.

But his eyes snapped back as Scott began to caress Shelby. Scott’s hand slid to her hip, rubbing small, soothing circles, while the other began to tentatively, possessively massage her right breast.

Avid felt a sharp, unfamiliar spike in his chest. It wasn't just fear now; it was a potent, bitter surge of jealousy. This creature—the enemy, the thing he swore to kill—was touching Shelby with an intimacy he himself had never dared to show, and Shelby was responding to it.

Shelby didn't jump or recoil; she softened against him. She let out a series of soft, surprised moans as her body reacted to the powerful, foreign sensations accompanying the feeding. The bite had only been a small, strange pinch, but now a profound sense of dizzying relaxation and pleasure bloomed through her.

He's not hurting me, she realized dimly, her thoughts growing hazy. This is... strangely good.

She threw an arm around his shoulders, clinging to him as the dizzying wave of pleasure intensified, completely trusting the monster in her lap.

Scott continued drinking, the vital warmth of the blood flooding his exhausted system, beginning the slow process of pulling him back from the feral edge. His concentration was intense. His vampiric senses were hyper-focused on Shelby’s physiology; his ears were keenly attuned to the rhythmic thump-thump of her heart. He was searching for the smallest sign of weakness—a skip, a falter, or a rush in the tempo. At the first indication of danger or exhaustion, he would have to immediately break contact, lest the overwhelming, concentrated hunger cause him to accidentally kill or inadvertently turn her.

His hand that had been resting on her hip, seeking to anchor both her body and his own frantic mind, traveled down her side. It rested and then began to gently, tentatively rub her crotch through the fabric of her clothing. This was an intentional act: he was hoping to provide her with a physical distraction and an increase in pleasure to help override the strange, invasive sensation of being fed upon.

Scott’s entire awareness was absorbed by Shelby and the restorative process of the blood draw. He did not notice the intricate, devastating torment unfolding in Avid.

Avid stood utterly transfixed by the wall, his posture rigid, his breathing shallow and quick. He was registering every single detail of the growing, terrifying intimacy: Scott's low, strained sounds of relief; Shelby’s soft, surprising moans of pleasure; and the blatant, possessive sight of Scott’s hands moving over her body. Avid didn't even realize the emotion tearing through him was jealousy, nor could he articulate why he felt such possessive rage. Didn't he hate Scott? Wasn't this scene the ultimate, undeniable proof of the creature's corruption?

All Avid knew was that watching and hearing the sounds, coupled with the profound vulnerability of Scott's unmasked face, was making his body feel tight, hot, and profoundly uneasy. He could feel his own pulse racing, and his body was reacting to the scene unintentionally, his internal turmoil a devastating, confusing mix of visceral terror, ideological hatred, and a confusing, undeniable arousal. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, forcing himself to remain a silent, horrified, and captivated witness.

As Shelby’s soft moans intensified, and her body began to tremble, signaling an imminent climax, Scott’s rigid focus remained entirely on her vital signs. He detected it instantly: an almost imperceptible skip in her heart rhythm, a distinct falter caused by the combination of climax and minor blood pressure drop.

He released himself immediately, pulling his fangs from her neck with surgical care, trying not to cause further abrasion. He gasped sharply, the withdrawal a tangible, visceral pain, fueled by the immediate resurgence of hunger, though the feral madness was now thankfully held at bay.

He leaned forward immediately and gently began to lick the small puncture wounds he had made. Using a fraction of the precious Vitae he had just gained, he encouraged the skin to knit and heal, sealing the site completely within seconds.

"Thank you, Shelby," he whispered, his voice still ragged and strained, his breath tasting of her blood. He refused to look up, certain his eyes were still flashing between the extremes, betraying the desperate hunger he was fighting. The constant, rapid fluctuation of his pupils made his head ache profoundly.

Shelby, coming down from the intense, strange intimacy, was breathing heavily, a flush coloring her cheeks. "It's... thank you, Scott," she murmured, still clinging instinctively to his neck. "That was... intense."

Avid, watching from the wall, registered the sudden cessation of the feeding and the vampire's immediate, visible struggle. He noted that while the blood on Scott's face was minimal, the deep, agonizing tremble of starvation was still violently present, merely muted by the small boost of Vitae. The monster's restraint, the genuine tenderness shown to Shelby, and the confession of care had completely shattered his hunter conditioning.

He slowly pushed himself off the wall, his own internal turmoil settling into a strange, determined calmness. He took a hesitant, yet resolute, step forward.

"You're still shaking, Scott," Avid stated, his voice quiet but incredibly steady. He kept his eyes on the floor, unable to look at the healed wound on Shelby’s neck or the hunger in Scott’s eyes. "That small amount... it didn't fix it, did it? You're going to lose control again."

He swallowed hard, confronting the biggest ideological challenge of his life.

"If... if what you said about only Ferals attacking for no reason is true," Avid continued, taking one more step closer, his hands visibly steady despite the fear. "Then you need to stabilize. You just used up the last of your control fighting yourself off. I'm not... I'm not going to let you accidentally hurt Shelby again."

He raised his hands slowly and deliberately began to unfasten the top button of his thick tunic, exposing the vulnerable skin of his collarbone and the edge of the bandage on his neck.

"You need more," Avid admitted, the admission quiet and heavy with sacrifice. "Enough to stop the trembling. I'm offering. Take some of mine, Scott. Just enough to keep you sane."

Scott felt a profound, electric surge of desire the moment he fully registered Avid's offer. The hunger combined with the complex, forbidden emotions he harbored for the hunter ignited a sudden, burning need to just take him right then and there. Images flashed through his mind, powerful and immediate: not only feeding deeply from the hunter, but staking a claim—a slow, possessive caress of that pale flesh, the primal thrill of finally tearing down the wall between them.

He shook his head violently, the motion jerky, forcing himself to clear the sudden, dangerous fantasy. He had to remain anchored in the present.

"But I am everything you stand against," Scott questioned Avid, his voice strained and thick with residual hunger, disbelief, and a terrifying awareness of his own desire. "I might not be the creature that attacked you when you were young, but I am still a creature. I'm the monster that desiccated your sacred ground and threatened your mission." He spoke slowly, emphasizing the stark reality, his eyes—though still flickering—searching Avid's for any sign of fear or deception. "Why, Avid? Why are you offering this?"

Shelby, who was slowly coming down from the strange high of her feeding experience and the buzzed, lightheaded feeling from the blood loss, carefully pushed herself away from Scott. She crawled toward her nearby bed, leaning against the frame as she tried to calm her body and regain her equilibrium.

Avid didn't flinch. He finally articulated the chaotic, desperate logic that had overcome his deep-seated fear and lifelong purpose.

"I know what you are, Scott," Avid stated, his voice now firm, the doubt gone, replaced by a strange, resolute conviction. "And yes, you are my ideological enemy. But I just watched you fight yourself to the point of biting your own flesh just to avoid hurting Shelby. You didn't even look at me when you were at your most feral." He took a deep, steadying breath. "My feelings about this are confusing—something I genuinely don't understand, something I hate—but I ultimately believe that you will not be a persistent danger to this town once you are no longer suffering like this."

He finished unbuttoning his tunic, his hands shaking only slightly. He pulled the collar open, revealing the bare, vulnerable skin of his collarbone, slightly more tanned than Shelby's. "If the cost of keeping Oakhurst safe, and keeping you sane enough to control that... that instinct, is a few sips of blood from me," Avid concluded, his voice barely a whisper of sacrifice. "Then take it. Stop the trembling. Now."

Scott watched Avid intently, his red eyes narrowing, deep in internal debate. The hunger screamed at him to accept the offering immediately—the life in Avid was potent and pure—but the moral and strategic risks were colossal. He wasn't even sure how his feeding would affect Avid, especially considering the hunter's long-standing, infected ghoul wound; it could be benign, toxic, or potentially accelerate the decay. Yet, he couldn't let Avid walk away into his immediate plans blind.

"If I do this," Scott asked seriously, his voice gaining a touch of iron despite the weakness of starvation, "Can you do at least one thing for me in exchange?"

Avid looked at him for a few tense moments, staring directly into Scott's fluctuating, red eyes. He was trying to decipher the unmasked vampire’s motives, judging what impossible, non-lethal request the creature could possibly demand. He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the side of his neck just above the exposed skin.

"Damn it," Avid muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated by the negotiation. He finally nodded slowly. "Fine, yeah, I can. What is it?"

Scott paused, absorbing the hunter's reluctant consent. He needed to be absolutely certain Avid understood the gravity of his next words—the words that would serve as a vital warning.

"I want you to listen to me, truly listen to me," Scott stated, his voice dropping to a low, powerful register that commanded attention. "When I tell you I have something important to say, I need your complete, undivided attention, without prejudice or argument."

Scott's expression was utterly serious, allowing no room for negotiation or mockery. He watched Avid's reaction carefully.

Avid’s brow furrowed in confusion. What kind of bizarre demand was that? He looked from the serious vampire to the recovering Shelby. He hesitated, realizing that this was not a simple request for information, but a demand for trust he wasn't sure he could give.

Finally, he gave a curt, reluctant nod. "I... I will listen. If you promise to stop as soon as I tell you to. It's a deal."

"I will," Scott confirmed assuredly, his tone firm, sealing the strange, desperate agreement. He remained exactly where he was, still seated on the floor. He let Avid come to him, making sure his little hunter dictated the immediate pace and proximity of the interaction. Scott intended to give him even more focused attention and control than he had offered Shelby.

Avid slowly approached, his body movements rigid with apprehension. He hesitated, his eyes darting to the floor, before dropping to his knees directly in front of Scott. With a sharp, nervous intake of breath, Avid quickly tilted his head, offering the pale, vulnerable curve of his neck, the skin near the edge of his soiled bandage.

Scott took a long moment, his eyes absorbing the submissive posture and the offered sacrifice. He moved forward, his cold lips making contact, gently nuzzling against the furious, throbbing pulse point on Avid's neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of pure, human blood mixed with the faint, disturbing metallic tang from his old wound.

But Scott wasn't ready to feed yet. With deliberate slowness, he gently pushed Avid backward. The hunter yielded instantly, collapsing onto the floor until Scott was hovering directly over him, pinning him gently but firmly with his weight. The sudden position change instantly sent Avid’s heart into a chaotic, frantic rhythm—a sound that vibrated through Scott’s own chest.

Scott leaned down again, his cold breath ghosting over the pulse as he nuzzled his neck once more. Instead of simply biting down, he first started with gentle, agonizingly slow kisses and delicate nibbles along the junction of his neck and collarbone, savoring the anticipation.

Avid's reaction was immediate and profound. His breath hitched sharply, his eyes squeezed shut, and a deep, involuntary shiver ran through his frame. He's playing with me, the thought screamed internally, a terrifying mix of horror and electrifying anticipation. The feeling was completely new.

Then Scott's hands became involved. One hand trailed up, his cold fingers sinking gently into Avid's dark hair, the touch possessive as he tangled the soft strands. The other hand slipped under Avid’s unbuttoned tunic and began a slow, deliberate exploration. It teased its way up his belly, the cold fingertips brushing the skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps. Then, the touch focused, reaching his chest to begin teasingly stimulating his nipples.

Avid’s breath hitched again, turning into a shallow pant. His entire body tightened and arched slightly beneath the vampire's touch. He was horrified that his body was betraying him with such intense, sensual reactions to the creature poised to feed on him.

Scott’s ministrations slowly deepened, shedding all pretense of gentleness for a focused, burning intensity. He was driven by the need to give Avid pleasure, wanting to offer something intensely physical and fulfilling in return before he dared satisfy his thirst.

Scott’s kisses and delicate nibbles slowly shifted from the throat, trailing down Avid’s neckline and across his collarbone, following the center line of his sternum. Scott systematically pushed the tunic open further, undoing more buttons as needed to fully expose the smooth skin of the hunter's chest. Finally, his cold lips settled on one of Avid's pebbled nipples, wrapping around it to begin a deliberate, expert pattern of sucking and nibbling, while his other hand continued the teasing, circular friction on the opposite one.

Scott could hear the small, involuntary sounds that Avid was making—suppressed moans and sharp, strangled intakes of breath—and they were driving his own senses wild. I have never heard sounds so beautiful, so perfect, Scott thought, the sounds a thousand times more intoxicating than the scent of blood alone. He could feel the man trembling violently beneath him, his legs shifting restlessly, trying to find purchase on the floor.

Avid’s mind was in utter disarray. Internally, his thoughts were a frantic scramble: Stop! This is wrong! He's the enemy! Yet, the sheer depth of the pleasure rendered the mental resistance useless. His chest was heaving, his core tight with building intensity. He was experiencing a terrifying, exquisite breakdown of his entire identity.

Visually, his face was flushed crimson, a stark contrast to the vampire's pallor. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly, tracking the sensations, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He arched his back slightly off the floor, desperate for more contact, but his limbs remained immobile, trapped by the vampire's presence and his own shock.

The sounds Avid made spurred Scott to move further into intimacy. His spare hand, which had been trailing along Avid’s hip, moved with predatory grace down the hunter’s body. It slipped easily under the waistband of his pants and firmly grasped Avid's slowly waking member.

The sudden, intimate contact elicited a sharp, strangled moan from Avid—a noise of pure shock and physical need—and his entire body convulsed.

He touched me there! Avid’s mind shrieked, overwhelmed. This was a violation of his private world, yet his body responded with immediate, intense desire. He had never before dared to touch himself with such intent, let alone be touched by anyone, let alone the creature he was sworn to kill. The physical and sensual domination was entirely, shockingly new, pushing him straight toward the precipice of release.

Scott’s focus was singular. He continued the slow, deliberate stroking of Avid’s member, intent on guiding the hunter toward the sweet, agonizing release he deserved. His lips slowly released the abused nipple and trailed once more up his chest, back to the curve of his neck, where he placed lingering kisses and soft, insistent sucks.

As he felt Avid’s internal tension coil and near completion, Scott waited until the hunter was on the absolute brink of his peak. Then, just as Avid’s body shuddered into the initial throes of release, Scott gently sank his fangs into the prepared skin. The bite was barely a pinch, almost swallowed by the powerful, electric sensation of the orgasm, but the combined suction and the physical shock of the climax seemed to overstimulate Avid, causing a breathtaking, immediate cascade of back-to-back orgasms.

Scott carefully drank, his feeding measured, counting the gulps and listening intently to his beloved Avid’s shattered, delicious sounds and his rapidly fluttering, desperate heartbeat. He forced himself to be disciplined, taking only what was necessary for stabilization.

Visually, Avid's face was a study in profound shock and release. His body was convulsing in the throes of orgasm, his head thrashing slightly on the floor. His eyes, though still squeezed shut, were wet, and he gasped repeatedly, the sounds raw and uncontrollable.

Internally, Avid was a wreck. I... I came. To him. While he fed from me. The shame was immense, yet the physical pleasure had been unlike anything he could have conceived. His world view was completely shattered, replaced by a devastating, exhilarating confusion. He was the enemy's willing partner, the recipient of a terrifying, intimate tenderness.

By now, Shelby was fully recovered, watching from the bed with wide, unblinking eyes. The scene was one of profound intimacy and care, a far cry from the monstrous predation the town feared.

Scott could feel as Avid began to finally descend from his pleasure-filled high, his tremors slowly subsiding. Scott eased off his feeding, pulling his fangs away with a final, gentle tug. He had taken enough; he would not endanger the hunter further.

As he pulled away, he once again, slowly and caringly, licked at the tiny puncture wound he had made, using his precious Vitae to accelerate the healing process. The skin smoothed over, leaving no trace.

Scott gave a shuddering, powerful breath as he forced the last remnants of the wild hunger back into its cage. He was stable now, though drained of emotion.

"Thanks, Amica Mea," he mumbled softly, his voice thick with satisfied hunger and a profound, complex mixture of emotion. The phrase—an ancient Latin term of endearment—slipped out unconsciously.

Shelby, however, had perked up instantly, her eyes widening in recognition. She knew the Latin term for 'my love' or 'my dear friend,' recognizing the emotional weight behind the unconscious word.

Chapter 11

Scott’s focus was gentle and consumed with guilt. He supported Avid, whose body was heavy and limp, still drifting in a post-orgasmic daze. Scott carefully smoothed the hunter's rumpled tunic and straightened his clothes. His attention was drawn to the grimy, soiled linen still tightly wrapped around Avid's neck, stiff with dirt and dried matter.

"Shelby," Scott called softly, his voice a low, warm murmur laced with genuine self-reproach, "could you grab me some clean linen, please? I need to clean Avid's wound while he's here."

Shelby, understanding the need for sterility and quick action, immediately jumped up. She moved quickly to the supply chest and retrieved a generous, soft piece of sky blue wool fabric—her finest—for the bandage.

Scott, meanwhile, carefully shifted Avid, pulling him into a sitting position and leaning his pliant body against the sturdy warmth of his own chest for support. Scott slowly began the delicate process of unwrapping the soiled linen. He felt a sharp, sickening resistance as the old fabric had completely adhered to the infected, seeping flesh. Scott spoke low, soothing words of assurance directly into Avid's ear as he carefully peeled it away, trying to minimize the discomfort.

As the bandage finally came free, Scott’s gaze focused entirely on the wound. He felt a profound internal wince. The injury was worse. The sluggish, clotted bleeding had ceased for the moment, but the raw black necrotic edge—the signature of the ghoul curse—had subtly but visibly spread, now encompassing a small quarter-inch margin around the initial puncture. The necrosis was clearly winning the battle against the living tissue.

I should have refused. My interference destabilized his already compromised system, Scott thought, a wave of cold horror and guilt washing over him.

He softly requested supplies. "Shelby, please, fresh water and a clean rag." As he waited, holding Avid close, he apologized in a quiet, choked voice. "Avid, I'm truly sorry. I hadn't meant to worsen your condition with my desperation. I... I should have found another way."

When Shelby returned, Scott took the rag and tenderly and intricately cleaned the infected area, gently dabbing at the raw wound and the encroaching black edges. He then carefully re-bandaged it with the soft, clean blue wool.

As Scott was securing the final, soft knot of the fresh bandage, Avid finally snapped back to full, shocking awareness. His eyes flew open, wide and filled with immediate, visceral horror as he registered his position: half-undressed, completely exposed, and utterly dependent, cradled intimately in the arms of the creature who had just pleasured and fed from him.

"No! Get off me!" Avid gasped, his voice raw with a sudden eruption of fear and self-disgust. His face flushed a deep crimson as guilt and lingering terror clashed.

He violently jerked away from Scott’s touch, scrambling backward across the floor until his back hit the cold safety of the wall, his hands instinctively clutching the fresh bandage.

Scott flinched immediately, the sharp, sudden rejection stinging him deeply. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and remorse.

"Avid, wait! Please! I just finished cleaning and dressing your wound. I didn't mean to hold you when you woke—"

"Don't touch me!" Avid hissed, his eyes wild with confused panic, staring at the vampire who was still smeared with the evidence of their contact. "Don't you ever touch me again!"

Scott couldn't help the profound, sickening ache that pierced his unbeating heart at Avid's violent rejection. Each raw, panicked word and desperate action from the hunter hurt him deeply, striking him like a series of physical blows. Yet, the cold clarity of his vampiric logic refused to let him blame the man. Scott knew he had crossed a moral line; he had indulged his hunger and his desire, made everything worse for the hunter, and failed to protect his own composure. He realized that to wish for Avid, this human, this potential mate, to ever accept him was a cruel fantasy that went against everything the hunter believed in.

He forced himself to shut down. The hurt, the confusion, and the overwhelming emotions were instantly locked away behind an impenetrable mental wall. He needed to be functional and purely logical.

"You offered yourself," Scott stated plainly, his voice stripped of the earlier warmth, adopting a flat, clinical tone. "You explicitly told me to stop if needed. You never spoke up, even when I asked for confirmation."

Avid, still backed against the wall, hugged his knees to his chest, clutching the clean bandage. "I... I couldn't! I was—"

"Overwhelmed?" Scott finished dismissively, his gaze cold. He slowly rose to his feet, a controlled, deliberate motion that spoke of immense, contained power. He didn't even bother to brush the dirt from his clothes. He wanted desperately to reach out and help Avid, but he squeezed his hand tightly, his nails digging painfully into his own palm, the sharp sensation serving as a grim reminder that his touch now clearly repulsed the man.

His eyes, now cold, distant, and utterly devoid of the recent internal flicker, met Avid's terrified gaze. "I'll never touch you again, Avid, if that's truly what you want."

Avid’s eyes widened, recognizing the finality in the vampire's tone. "Is that all you have to say? No monstrous threats? No gloating?"

"No," Scott replied, his voice chillingly empty. "Our transaction is complete. Your wound is dressed, and I am stable. Consider this our final understanding."

Shelby watched the entire, devastating exchange. She saw the immediate, complete transformation in Scott—no longer the open, kind man, but a creature closed off and guarded. She realized Avid’s fear had solidified the monster Scott had been fighting against, and she felt a wave of sadness. She didn't dare interject, however, afraid that her words would be the final trigger that caused Scott to revert to pure, uncaring survival mode.

Scott’s gaze remained fixed on the opposite wall, but he couldn't control the intense, gnawing pang of longing that centered precisely where his heart once beat. He felt the hunter's rejection deep within his core, a constant, dull ache that rivaled the sharpness of the recent starvation. He ruthlessly forced himself to suppress the instinct to reach out, knowing that even a shared glance felt like a violation of the newly established distance.

He realized the conversation he desperately needed to have—the warning about the worsening ghoul infection—could no longer come from him. His voice and presence were now tainted by the act of feeding and the subsequent rejection. He needed a neutral, trusted intermediary.

Scott risked a quick, calculated glance at Shelby. He noted her expression: wide-eyed, worried, and her gaze anxiously flickering between his cold, closed-off form and the huddled, traumatized hunter by the wall. She possessed a unique mix of emotional intelligence and acceptance that no one else in Oakhurst did.

Maybe she would do, he conceded internally.

He quickly assessed the immense opportunity she represented. If she was willing to join them—if she was willing to accept his nature and the responsibility that came with it—she could be the perfect bridge. She would need to handle the volatile interaction with Avid and, eventually, facilitate his transition.

Scott reaffirmed his internal vow with cold finality. He would keep his word: he would no longer touch Avid. This painful self-banishment extended to every form of interaction. He would not initiate conversation, offer comfort, or even look at him, no matter how much the sacrifice tore at his soul. If Avid ever chose to be turned—a necessary step to halt the spreading necrosis—it would be safer for one of his fledglings, Pyro/Owen or possibly Shelby if she joins, to perform the Embrace, avoiding any complication from the ghoul infection and respecting the hunter's obvious repulsion toward him.

Scott would step back completely. He would respect Avid's wishes, even if the sacrifice left him utterly alone in his leadership.

Scott maintained his rigid posture, staring intently at the cold, unyielding wall. His voice remained flat and business-like, projecting the new, necessary distance.

"Shelby," Scott said plainly, his tone allowing no discussion. "I need you to send Avid home. Tell him to rest. It's been a long day for him, and his system is destabilized." He offered a chilling assurance for the town's safety. "Trust me, I will not attack anyone unless I am directly attacked, so the town is safe from me now. The immediate hunger is contained."

He could still hear the frantic, rapid heartbeat and shallow breathing of Avid by the wall—a sound that, though now more stable than before, only intensified his longing and self-loathing.

Shelby gave a small, weary nod, visible in Scott's peripheral vision. She stepped forward and approached the distraught hunter. She spoke to Avid in soft, calming tones, offering comfort. "Avid, you need to go home. You need to sleep this off. Please, try to keep what happened here quiet; it’s safer for all of us if no one knows." She gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you need someone to talk to about any of this—anything at all—you can always come to me. I'll be here."

Within mere moments, the front door closed, and Scott and Shelby were alone in the house.

Scott’s posture visibly trembled, the façade of cold strength collapsing. He walked over to his makeshift bed and slumped heavily to the ground, utterly spent. He tiredly looked up at Shelby as she approached, her face etched with concern.

"Scott, why did you just... shut down like that?" she asked quietly, gesturing between his current defeat and his earlier rigidity. "You were so warm and kind just moments ago, and then you just went cold."

Scott just simply gave her a deep, sad look, the profound ache momentarily escaping the wall he had built. "If you had someone you cared for—truly loved and adored—how would you feel if your very touch or your very presence repulsed or actively hurt that person?" He paused, the question hanging heavy in the air. "You'd do everything in your power to make that person happy, wouldn't you? Even if it cost you your own joy or sanity."

Shelby gained a look of sad understanding, and she feels the urge him a hug, to tell him it'll be alright. 

After a few moments of heavy silence, Scott finally looked directly at her, his expression serious and urgent. "Shelby, I need your attention now. I have something important to say. It is vital you take this completely seriously and do not overreact or panic."

Once Shelby had solemnly promised her silence and attention, Scott began the painful recounting. "The other day, when I was tending to Avid's wounds from Cleo, he confessed how he got his neck wound. He believes it was a vampire attack when he was a child."

Scott paused, allowing the gravity of the confession to settle. "He stated that he learned from some old texts—the lore he follows—that the only definitive cure for the resulting deep necrosis is to locate and destroy the vampire who inflicted the injury. That is why he is here; that is his mission."

Scott paused, the silence in the room heavy. "My observations of the wound—especially after cleaning it just now—confirm that it is a malignant, spreading ghoul infection. It’s not just a lingering wound; it’s dead, black, necrotic tissue that is aggressively consuming his living flesh. The stress I put his body under by feeding only served to accelerate its progression."

Shelby couldn't help her expression of horror that crossed her face at the information. If she had known, she would have never let Avid allow Scott to feed from him.

Scott took a shaky breath, preparing her for the inevitable conclusion. "Shelby, listen to the facts: The ghoul curse is lethal, but it does worse than just kill him. If left unchecked, the necrosis will continue to spread inexorably. As it consumes his vital organs—his heart or brain—it will complete its transformation."

Scott leaned forward slightly, the gravity of his next words chilling. "Avid is actively dying, and he will not die human. He will turn into a Ghoul—a corrupted, almost unkillable creature driven by constant, insatiable hunger. Once fully transformed, he would immediately target every living creature, human and nonhuman alike, to kill and consume. That ghoul infection would then spread, causing a potential ghoul horde to rise in Oakhurst."

"And the only known counter for this specific type of magical decay," Scott concluded, his voice heavy with the hidden truth, "is a complete system change. An Embrace—a turning by a vampire. It will halt the infection, but it requires him to make a choice, and he needs to be made aware of the true alternative."

Scott waited, his gaze fixed on Shelby, watching the stark, chilling reality of his final words settle over her. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by their ragged breathing. He braced himself for the interrogation.

Shelby finally moved, pushing herself up from the bed to pace a short distance, her steps frantic and uneasy. "So," she finally whispered, her voice fragile, staring at the spot on the floor where Avid had convulsed. "He's not just sick... he's infected with something that’s going to turn him into... a raging, unkillable zombie that eats people? And spreads it?"

She pressed her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with mounting panic. "You said 'Ghoul horde.' You're talking about the town being wiped out because of this one wound, aren't you?"

Scott nodded slowly, confirming the worst. "That is the ultimate, inevitable outcome if the infection isn't stopped. We are talking about the destruction of Oakhurst."

"And you said only a vampire can stop it," Shelby continued, her voice gaining a desperate edge as she tried to piece the puzzle together. "Is that why you were so aggressively protective over the ruins? Is that your coven's sanctuary? Your laboratory? Are you studying this infection?"

"The ruins are simply my Nest," Scott explained, his voice low. "It's where my fledgling brood rests, and yes, it is vital to our security. I was protecting my home, my family, and the source of power that keeps us stable." He paused, meeting her eyes directly. "And yes, only an Embrace—the physical act of turning a human into a vampire—can rewrite his system quickly enough to halt the necrosis. Nothing else has been proven to work."

Shelby wrung her hands. "But he hates you! He's a hunter! He thinks you're the monster! How can he ever agree to that?"

Scott's expression turned intensely solemn. "He may not agree. And this is the second, most difficult truth you must understand, Shelby: If Avid refuses the Embrace, there is only one other option to protect the town from the Ghoul transformation."

He met her gaze with chilling seriousness. "He would need to be killed by a vampire before the infection can fully take hold. It is the only way to ensure he doesn't rise as a Ghoul. He has to choose between undeath or death. There is no other path for him."

"That is the core of the dilemma," Scott admitted grimly. "And that is why I need your help, Shelby."

Scott nodded, confirming the terrifying scope of Avid’s choice—life as a vampire, or immediate death to prevent the Ghoul transformation. He then focused the conversation back onto Shelby and the reason for his sudden confidence in her, his voice quiet but intense.

"Listen closely, Shelby, because this involves you directly," Scott began, his gaze softening slightly, although the rigidity remained in his shoulders. "Before all this chaos, before tonight's lack of control, I had already made a very difficult decision regarding you. I genuinely care for you deeply—enough that I was preparing to offer you the Embrace. The Gift."

He paused, running a weary hand through his hair. "I wanted you to join our family, to be safe with us, and to be near me."

"But what happened?" Shelby asked, her voice hushed. "Why didn't you, if you cared so much?"

Scott sighed, a sound of heavy regret. "My fledgling brood was... hesitant. They are relatively young, and your closeness to me, an Elder, made them cautious about your potential power and loyalty. They saw you as a risk, so I was waiting for the right, stable moment to bring you into the fold, which clearly never came."

He leaned forward, his urgency becoming palpable. "But now, with how things have tragically turned out with Avid—with the repulsion he clearly feels for me, and the undeniable, ticking clock of the Ghoul curse—we have a new, crucial objective that only you can achieve."

"What objective?" Shelby whispered, leaning in closer.

"Survival," Scott stated with absolute conviction. "Avid has been repulsed by me; my touch means danger to him. But you still have his trust. If anyone can break through his ingrained hatred for vampires and convince Avid to choose the Embrace, to choose to live, it would be you. You've already established a rapport and a level of care that I've just brutally shattered."

He met her eyes, the full weight of the decision resting on her. "And if he would let anyone turn him, if he can find acceptance with one of us, it would probably only be you. You are the mediator. You are the only bridge between the Hunter and his salvation."

Scott paused, taking a moment to gather his resolve. "I cannot keep my brood ignorant of this. They need to know of the progression of the Ghoul curse and the necessary choices. Shelby," he asked quietly, his eyes searching hers for a firm commitment, "Can I call my brood here? They need to know everything that has transpired tonight—the loss of my control, the news about the Ghoul infection, and the desperate choice Avid faces. We need to meet, and we need to decide the next course of action together."

Shelby nodded slowly, digesting the magnitude of the request. "Yes, call them. This is too big for you to handle alone, especially if Avid's life and the whole town are at stake. But if I talk to him... what do I tell him? How do I even start that conversation without him raising an army against us?"

With Shelby’s agreement secured, Scott moved with a chilling efficiency, the necessary urgency overriding his emotional collapse. He closed his eyes briefly, his focus intense, and sent a swift, silent call out through his established vampiric bonds to his two fledglings, Owen and Pyro.

My Brood. Come to Shelby's house. Immediately. Urgent meeting. Do not delay.

Once the psychic command was sent, he refocused entirely on Shelby, his eyes sharp and analytical.

"You're right, we need a specific plan for approaching Avid," Scott stated, his mind already churning through the steps. "You cannot simply tell him he's dying and needs to become a vampire. It will confirm his worst prejudices and send him straight for his arsenal."

"So how do I even start?" Shelby asked, her hands gesturing helplessly. "I can't just lie to him."

"You won't lie," Scott assured her. "You must approach him obliquely, through his own framework. You should slowly ask him more about what he has learned from those old texts he quotes. Get him to describe the lore, question the details, and pinpoint the obvious contradictions between the legends and what he’s actually observed."

Scott then formulated a concrete step for preparation. "I will retrieve the necessary tools. I can slip away tonight and locate an accurate, detailed tome on true vampiric society and, more critically, one detailing the virulent nature of Ghoul curses and infections. You can use those texts as neutral, authoritative resources for your conversation."

He leaned toward her, his voice low and instructive. "Your method must be persuasive, not confrontational. If you can point out the factual discrepancies between what Avid knows—what he read in those dusty, fear-mongering books—and the reality of my existence, you can slowly dismantle his core belief system."

"Once his certainty is shaken," Scott continued, his eyes intense, "then, and only then, can you start tying the unusual oddities of his wound—the black, necrotic edges, the refusal to heal, the constant drain—to the classic, unmistakable signs of the Ghoul curse. Make him convince himself, Shelby. He’ll listen to the lore of the texts; he won’t listen to the words from my mouth."

"It will be difficult," Scott admitted, his gaze holding hers. "But you are the only one who can make him see the truth and convince him that choosing the Embrace is choosing to live."

As soon as Scott finished detailing the strategy—the word live hanging heavy in the air—there was a brisk, sharp knock on the front door, the sound precise and immediate. Scott glanced toward the door, his eyes regaining their intense focus, recognizing the impatience of his followers.

"Shelby," Scott said briskly, nodding toward the entrance. "Since you are the human resident and mistress of this dwelling, you will need to give them explicit permission to enter. I will not override your right or breach the sacred protocol of the threshold." He knew his fledglings, Pyro and Owen, were just outside, their sharp senses already drinking in the scent of blood and tension within the house.

Shelby gave a quick nod, her surprise at the unexpected identities of the callers warring with the necessity of the moment. She walked over to the door and pulled it open. She was genuinely shocked by who she saw: she had not expected the familiar, respected young men, Pyro and Owen—who she knew from town—to be vampires, let alone Scott's close brood.

"Pyro, Owen, you're both welcome to come in," she said softly with a genuine smile, stepping aside to grant passage.

They both gave her a subtle, practiced nod of acknowledgment before they moved with unnatural, fluid speed, rushing past Shelby and immediately flocking to Scott, who was still slumped heavily on the makeshift bed.

Owen, ever the pragmatic and logistical fledgling, immediately demanded information. His voice was taut with urgency. "Sire, what is happening? Why the sudden, urgent summons to the human’s home? Is the town attacking the Nest again?"

Pyro, whose bond with Scott was more emotionally acute, instantly expressed his concern, his youthful face clouded with worry. He took in his Sire's appearance—the smeared blood near his chin, the disheveled, dirty clothes, and the deep emotional exhaustion etched around his cold, red eyes. "Are you alright, Sire?" he asked anxiously, kneeling beside the bed. "You look utterly drained, and I smell fresh blood on you. Did you have to feed again so soon?"

Scott lifted his hands, a soft, low trill—a sound of deep, ancestral comfort and assurance—vibrating in his throat as he gently caressed Pyro's and Owen's cheeks. Shelby stood back, a tense, silent witness to the family conference.

"Calm, my Fledglings," Scott said softly, his voice heavy with fatigue but resolute. "I will explain everything that has transpired, and I need you all to listen, including you, Shelby, without interruption."

He began his confession, the narrative stark and painful. "For the past two days, I have deliberately refrained from feeding, directing all available opportunities to you two. Concurrently, I expended an extreme amount of Vitae—maintaining shapeshift, keeping the Nest invisible, and destroying the Hunter's beacon. The subsequent rush to gather building materials pushed my reserves beyond the critical point."

"But Sire, why the intentional starvation? Your strength is paramount! You risked a catastrophic break in control!" Pyro’s voice was sharp with fear and frustration.

"I know," Scott admitted grimly. "I reached a point of near-feral hunger here. Shelby and Avid discovered me in that compromised state."

Scott paused, the memory stinging. "They saw me, fangs extended, struggling. In an act of profound, frightening trust, they offered their blood. I was too depleted to refuse the immediate salvation. I fed from both of them."

Owen took a startled and nervous step back, "You fed from the humans? Sire, you exposed us! Did you secure their silence?"

"I fed enough to stabilize," Scott stated. "I controlled the draw, and Shelby is on our side. However, the feeding was intimate. I gave Avid the courtesy he offered—I did not rush the act, and the tenderness was not denied, it was returned. In that moment of absolute vulnerability, I confirmed a terrible fact."

Scott's eyes were filled with dread. "The wound on Avid's neck, the malignant Ghoul infection that is actively spreading, and my feeding—no matter the permission given—only accelerated the necrosis due to the stress on his system. This was my gravest error."

Scott concluded the account, his eyes grave. "Avid is a ticking bomb. His life is forfeit, and the Ghoul curse threatens the entire town. I was forced to maintain composure and let Shelby guide him out. Shelby begged his silence, but we shall see if Avid shall listen. That is why we are here, Fledglings. I need your counsel."

Shelby finally spoke from her position near the wall. "He's telling the truth. I saw the necrotic edges spreading on Avid’s neck when Scott cleaned it. If the Ghoul curse means a horde, then Scott cannot handle this alone. He needs your help."

Scott looked from Shelby to his two Fledglings, the exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by the heavy burden of strategy. He kept his hands tightly clasped in his lap, the nails still imprinted on his palm, refusing to reach out to his brood as an act of solidarity with the emotional distance he had just imposed on himself.

"I need to lay out my most recent, hesitant plan, and it starts with a devastating truth that will dictate our strategy," Scott began, his voice flat with forced control. "I swore to Avid that I would never touch him again. Not a touch, not a word of comfort, nothing. My soul aches profoundly at the remembrance of his rejection, but I must honor his boundary, both for his sake and for the town’s safety."

Pyro shifted uneasily, glancing at Owen, concern etched deeply on his face. "Sire, with respect, we have observed your intense preoccupation with the Hunter. Abandoning him entirely now seems tactically illogical, especially given the threat he poses if he turns Ghoul."

Owen nodded stiffly. "Yes, Sire. If he is such a rapidly spreading risk, surely closer supervision—or immediate elimination—is the safer, more rational route than this total distance. We cannot risk a horde."

"The distance is necessary because my touch now repulses him, and attempting to force closeness or comfort will only accelerate his fear and subsequent transformation," Scott countered, his argument cold and clinical. "Elimination is our absolute last resort, only to be enacted if he refuses the alternative."

Scott then focused his attention fully on Shelby, drawing her into the heart of the conspiracy. "My plan hinges entirely on Shelby. If she is willing and agreeable, we must bring her into the brood first. We must offer her the Embrace immediately, tonight."

He paused, letting the magnitude of the proposition settle among his fledglings. "As a newly Embraced Fledgling, she would possess the authority, the inherent vampiric stability, and the established connection necessary to approach Avid. She can get closer to him—he trusts her implicitly—and use that bond to methodically dismantle his flawed, dangerous views on our kind."

Scott’s eyes were intense. "I will provide her with factual, accurate tomes from my collection on true vampire society and, crucially, the detailed nature of Ghouls and their malignant infection. Using this concrete knowledge, Shelby can slowly, rationally help Avid realize that the information he relies on is entirely wrong—that his wound is not a simple vampire bite, and that his condition makes him an existential danger to everyone in town, everyone he cares about, and even those he despises, like me."

"Then," Scott concluded, his voice dropping to a decisive, urgent whisper, "when Shelby judges that Avid is at his most susceptible and open to listening—when his fear of the Ghoul curse finally outweighs his hatred of the vampire—she will reveal his only remaining options: Immediate Death by a vampire's hand to prevent the Ghoul transformation, or letting Shelby herself give him the Embrace, turning him into a Fledgling, and thus stopping the necrosis from taking hold forever."

Scott held his silence, allowing a heavy moment for the complex, risky plan—which involved turning a human they barely knew and using her to save their sworn enemy—to fully register in the minds of his two Fledglings. The tension in the room was palpable.

Owen was the first to break the silence, maintaining his analytical posture. "Sire, I must confess, I remain fundamentally hesitant regarding Miss Shelby's immediate loyalty." He glanced sharply at Shelby. "She is, by definition, an unknown variable, and we are proposing to give her immense, instantaneous power and direct access to our most critical mission."

He paused, then sighed, conceding the tactical necessity. "However, given the immediate, existential threat of the Ghoul curse, and your new, self-imposed distance from the Hunter... I agree this path offers the highest chance of success short of execution. It is the best way to avoid having to kill Avid, which would only provoke the town further."

Pyro's concern was more visceral and focused on his Sire's welfare. He remained kneeling close to Scott, his worry deepening as he considered the logistics of the Embrace. "Sire, if you were so dangerously depleted tonight—if the hunger almost drove you feral—how can you immediately perform the Embrace?" He leaned forward, his voice low with anxiety. "Turning a human, feeding them your Vitae and energy... that requires a massive exertion of strength. Are you certain you have enough Vitae to give Shelby the Gift safely, without collapsing again?"

Scott gave a firm, reassuring nod, meeting Pyro's worried gaze. "Your concern is appreciated, my fledgling, but I am stable now. The small amount I took was sufficient." He tapped his chest lightly. "I am absolutely capable of performing the Embrace and adequately feeding a single new fledgling. It will, however, necessitate a focused, extended hunting trip tomorrow night to fully replenish my reserves."

Scott's eyes hardened slightly with self-imposed discipline. "More importantly, I guarantee you both: My power levels will never drop this low again. The near-starvation threatened all of us, risked our existence, and directly caused harm to Avid. That is a lesson I will not repeat."

Shelby stepped forward, her expression resolute despite the weight of the plan. "I understand the risks you're taking on my behalf, and the power you're offering. I accept the Embrace, Scott, If you and your Brood are willing to accept me. If it means saving Avid and stopping a Ghoul horde from devastating Oakhurst, I will do it. I just need to know what I tell the town, and what I tell Avid when I first approach him."

Scott looked at Shelby, the last vestiges of his earlier exhaustion fading as he locked into strategic mode. He appreciated her immediate acceptance and resolute focus.

"Your courage is noted and appreciated, Shelby," Scott said, his voice regaining its true, resonant depth. "We will begin the Embrace immediately after this discussion is complete."

He then focused on her external instructions. "Regarding the town: You will tell them absolutely nothing. We cannot risk more humans finding out about the Ghoul curse. Their interference, fueled by panic, will only make things catastrophically worse."

Owen nodded sharply. "Sire is correct. Panic is the greatest enemy. Any unusual deaths or disappearances must be handled by us, not investigated by humans."

Scott gave Owen a slight nod of acknowledgment. "If anyone—especially the Militia—approaches you suspiciously after the Embrace, asking pointed questions or trying to delve into your private life, you must alert me immediately. Their curiosity could expose us and doom Avid."

He shifted his focus to the much harder task: Avid. "For Avid, your approach must be genuine. He is hyper-aware and will likely be able to sense any subtle deception from you. Lying will instantly ruin our only chance at saving him."

Pyro knelt closer, his expression earnest. "If you lie to him, Miss Shelby, he will see it as confirmation of his hatred for all of us. You must be his tether to the truth."

"Exactly," Scott affirmed. "Start simply, with reconciliation. Begin by apologizing sincerely for how intensely and frighteningly things transpired in the house. Acknowledge the shock and the fear he felt. Tell him, 'What happened was overwhelming, and I was scared too, but I never stopped caring about you.'"

"Go from there," Scott instructed, "keeping your dialogue as truthful as possible while remaining actively kind and helpful to him. Tell him you want to help him understand his wound, not as a hunter, but as a friend."

"You will need evidence," Scott emphasized. "By morning, I will have retrieved the necessary, ancient tomes on vampires and ghouls from the Nest. Use those books. They are your objective truth. They will speak volumes where our words alone would only cause doubt."

Shelby absorbed the instructions, nodding firmly. "Understood. Reconcile, build trust, and use the lore. I will be honest, even if it's terrifying. I won't risk him turning Ghoul."

Scott gave a final, gentle, almost melancholic smile to Shelby, a rare, soft expression. "Good. Now, I believe we should expand the brood." He shifted, sitting up straighter and looking up at Owen and Pyro. "I believe Shelby has some linens in the chest, would you mind covering the windows, my dears? Best to be safe, lest someone peer in during the Embrace and the Sire's Echo."

Scott spoke gently before quietly beckoning Shelby close. Owen and Pyro gave a simple, synchronous, "Yes, Sire," and moved with unnatural, fluid speed to the task. They systematically made the home secluded and dark, pulling thick fabrics across every window, ensuring absolute privacy. Pyro, ever cautious, efficiently snuffed out the flickering flame of the lantern on the desk, plunging the room into comfortable, heavy darkness illuminated only by ambient moonlight filtering through the gaps.

While they worked, Shelby, demonstrating her immense trust, crawled back into Scott's lap, settling herself into the familiar, secure cradle. Scott gently began to rub her back soothingly, his cold hand providing a steady, rhythmic comfort as they waited.

Once Pyro and Owen had finished, they came close and settled into place near Scott, sitting on the floor patiently. While Owen had witnessed Pyro's turning, this would be Pyro's first time witnessing the Embrace and the raw, psychic transfer of the Sire's Echo. As they all settled, the air became thick with anticipation. Scott carefully nuzzled into Shelby's neck, just beneath her jawline.

"I will need to drink a bit more from you for my venom to start the turning," Scott warned, his cold breath brushing against the delicate skin of her neck, a stark contrast to her warmth.

Shelby shivered slightly, the sensation a mix of cold air and intense commitment, before giving a small, resolute nod against his shoulder.

Appeased that she was ready, Scott opened his mouth and sank his fangs into her carotid artery, drinking deeply and deliberately. His concentration was absolute as he listened not only to the sound of her blood but to the rhythm of her life force. He needed to push her to the critical point—her heartbeat barely a flutter, just on the precipice of expiry—for the potent Vitae-Venom to successfully initiate the turning process without resulting in death.

Owen watched with cold, clinical fascination, noting the precise depth of the bite and the rhythmic movement of Scott's throat as he drank.

Pyro, however, was visibly disturbed. He watched Shelby’s head tilt back, her soft moans and quickened, ragged breathing echoing in the dark room. He stared at his Sire, confused by the strange pleasure the human seemed to be deriving from the brink of death. "Sire," Pyro whispered, bewildered, "why is she... why is she making those sounds?"

Scott ignored the question, his focus absolute. He drew in a final, heavy mouthful of her blood and felt her heartbeat give one final, critical falter. Swallowing the last drop, he quickly adjusted the position of his fangs and injected his concentrated, life-altering venom into her system.

The sudden influx of supernatural toxin caused an immediate, systemic shock. Her breathing grew instantly ragged and shallow as Scott pulled away slowly. The powerful Venom began its swift, brutal work, searing through her blood vessels. After a moment, Shelby’s consciousness failed, and she passed out completely, slumping heavily and bonelessly against Scott as her body began the irreversible biological change. Her skin slowly lightened, turning a subtle, cool ivory hue, as the potent Vitae-Venom worked its way into every vein, every organ, every DNA strand, fundamentally altering her very being.

Scott immediately gathered her close in his arms, holding her gently and giving reassuring caresses, whispering soft words into the darkness, reminding her—and perhaps himself—that she wasn't alone.

Scott knew the critical moments of the Embrace required patience. It would take several minutes, or possibly longer, before Shelby woke and then would be followed by the full, jarring force of the Sire's Echo—the craving and demand for her Sire's Vitae that would solidify her new life. He used this necessary interlude to address the pressing, awkward questions from his brood, all the while tenderly cradling Shelby, his hands gently supporting her limp form.

He looked up at Pyro, whose earlier question still hung in the heavy, dark air, his expression calm and paternal.

"Pyro, your confusion regarding Shelby’s reaction is understandable," Scott began, his voice soft but clear. "You only know the Embrace performed under the influence of the Trance, which deadens human physical and emotional response. But understand this: feedings—especially deep, intimate feedings near the jugular—are naturally a very passionate and sometimes sexual action for the human."

Pyro leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. "But Sire, why? Is it the venom, or just the proximity to our power?"

"It is a complex physical and biological link," Scott explained patiently. "When feeding on a human that is fully lucid, their body is overwhelmed. The intense sensation of survival, the cold pressure of the fangs, and the profound intimacy of the contact often links directly to pleasure centers. The sudden Vitae withdrawal creates an overwhelming physical rush, a sensory overload that their brain processes as ecstasy."

Owen nodded, adjusting his sitting position. "It's a form of physiological manipulation, then. An ancient form of creating immediate, addictive loyalty."

"Precisely," Scott affirmed. "In the long past, it was not rare for vampires to have stable human partners—consorts, or 'mates'—that they would feed and mate with regularly. This practice was mutually beneficial: it would sustain the vampire without risk of detection and bring the human immense, almost addictive pleasure and loyalty."

Scott finished the explanation, patiently waiting to see if either fledgling had more immediate, unaddressed questions as they patiently waited for their newest fledgling to finish turning and rouse from her slumber.

Chapter 12

Legundo was no fool; his Doctorate in Medicine—hard-earned through years of rigorous military service—attested not only to his intellect but to a profound dedication to discipline and logical risk assessment. His career was defined by the unwavering core ethic: 'Do No Harm.' The sudden transition from the controlled environment of military triage to the messy, chaotic reality of Oakhurst felt like a lapse in global safety standards.

When he first stumbled into the dusty, desolate town, he was immediately greeted by a crowd of complete strangers. His mind instinctively began a comprehensive risk assessment. He wasn't evaluating character; he was performing an inventory of human factors and potential injury likelihood.

He quickly categorized the town’s residents:

• Low Risk (Stable/Sensible): Abolish and Apo seemed calm and organized; Cleo was strong-willed and practical.

• High Risk (Immediate Liabilities): Martyn was a clear high risk—a spoiled noble completely out of his depth and ill-equipped for manual labor. Scott was categorized similarly—screaming rich and refined, he immediately declared his aversion to physical work. Legundo internally dismissed him as a liability, thinking, “Great, a noble who relies on others.” Avid was flagged as high risk due to his current, undeniable injury and the possibility of resulting delirium or infection. Shelby was placed here too, simply for being an unprepared civilian. Pyro's youthful, unpredictable energy also earned him a high-risk rating.

• Medium Risk (Unknowns/Moderate Skill): Individuals like Drift and Reinhardt seemed moderately capable, while Owen (a self-proclaimed local) and Sausage (eccentric and prone to distraction) also fell into this middle bracket. Pearl, claiming to be a hunter, was tentatively placed here, suggesting a basic level of competence.

Beneath the elegant veneer of Scott, however, Legundo's military training detected a subtle, disturbing undertone of unpredictable danger—a tightly coiled tension he couldn't quite place, but which heightened his suspicion of the man.

As the group headed into the woods to gather initial supplies, Legundo followed, speaking with Owen about the local wolf population. Scott trailed nearby, silent and detached, observing the work with an air of cold superiority.

They were deep in conversation when they failed to notice Scott wander off, only realizing his absence when a shocking, concussive THWUMP violently echoed through the woods. The ground shook as an entire, enormous tree collapsed, its canopy crashing down barely a yard from where Scott had been standing moments earlier. Scott himself, defying gravity, had jumped clear, landing lightly on the ground with zero apparent effort.

Legundo, the Doctor whose entire career was based on preventing such catastrophic accidents, was instantly galvanized by worry. He shouted, genuine surprise and alarm overriding his professional detachment, "Scott! You did that incredibly fast! Are you alright? That was a massive safety risk!"

Scott emerged from the immediate, rolling dust cloud. He didn't rush or look concerned; instead, he meticulously brushed a single flake of soot from his pristine shoulder, his expression one of weary impatience.

"I have no desire to be stuck out here after dark, Doctor," Scott called back, his tone implying Legundo’s concern was a tiresome interruption. "I simply prioritized efficiency. This single trunk should suffice for my personal needs."

Scott began processing the felled wood. Using the axe with shocking speed and unnatural, flawless precision, the blade sang against the grain, performing complex cuts that bespoke enormous, controlled power. He attributed his incredible pace to nothing more than 'sheer motivation to cease the labor.' Legundo watched the display, the sight completely contradicting his initial assumption of "liability." He was forced to immediately change his deductions about the man. This Scott was a strange and terrifying anomaly.

Legundo had tried his best during the resource harvest, gathering what materials he could manage, though his efforts were slow and clumsy compared to the raw efficiency of others—especially the bizarre spectacle of Scott. As the group finally began their tired trek back toward Oakhurst, the sun dipped completely below the horizon.

Then, the moon rose.

It wasn't the usual pale orb; it was an ominous, unsettling blood-red sphere hanging in the sky. People immediately began to freak out, associating the unnatural color with impending doom. Shouts of fear and confusion rippled through the weary crowd.

Legundo, the disciplined man of science, immediately stepped into his professional role, his voice cutting through the panic with calm authority. He explained the scientific reasoning—likely atmospheric interference, high-altitude dust, or a weather anomaly—for why the moon appeared red.

"It is merely an optical effect, people! A phenomenon!" he declared, his logic a soothing balm against the emotional turmoil. "It is an anomaly, nothing more. We must focus on our immediate safety, not celestial frights."

Once everyone was settled down, their immediate panic diffused by his clinical explanation, they returned to town. Legundo, wasting no time, began his search for a suitable base. He wandered through the ruined town, his doctor’s eye looking for a structurally sound location where he could establish both his home and a desperately needed clinic.

After a bit of searching, he found the perfect spot: the ruins of a home that had been partially built with sturdy stone foundations. This provided a reliable base; he decided to build off of it, integrating his new structure with the old stone framework.

Legundo began his construction immediately, working slowly through the early hours of the night. It was arduous work. He was a doctor, not a master carpenter, and progress was slow and deliberate. At some point, sheer physical exhaustion and professional necessity forced him to stop. He set aside his tools and retired for a brief, necessary sleep.

When he woke in the morning, greeted by the pale light of day, he was astonished by what he saw. A perfectly organized pile of freshly cut, clean lumber—far more than he had managed to gather himself—was neatly stacked right outside his foundation area, as if someone had delivered it while he slept.

He wasn't sure who had done it. Martyn? No, too incompetent. Apo? Too busy with defense. Scott? Impossible, he hates manual labor.

Legundo stood there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, completely unaware that a tall, watchful figure with unnaturally sharp sight had been observing him from the shadow of a distant ruin, its attention fixed on the hardworking doctor.

Legundo stood by the stone foundation, silently grateful for the unexpected delivery. He quickly finished a small, dense protein bar—a habit drilled into him during long military field exercises—and then made his way toward the center of town.

He soon came across Renhardt (Ren), who had a growing pile of dull, strange-looking metal at his feet, inspecting it with a craftsman’s concentration. Legundo wandered over, his professional curiosity piqued.

"What's up, Ren?" Legundo asked, stepping carefully around the debris.

"Ah, Doc," Ren greeted, looking up. "I could use your brainpower. I'm a bit unsure what this metal is. I know it's not iron, but the land seems to be quite rich with it." He carefully handed a hefty, dense chunk to Legundo.

Legundo accepted the metal. He immediately began inspecting and examining it, using his knowledge of materials and mineralogy to test its density, malleability, and resistance. After a thorough inspection, he came to a startling realization.

"Ren," Legundo stated, his voice dropping slightly in professional surprise. "This is silver. We should tell everyone immediately."

As word spread, the remaining townspeople gradually wandered over, forming a small cluster around Ren's pile. Legundo informed the gathered group of the unexpected discovery. A wave of surprised murmurs rippled through the group; the sheer, casual wealth of the discovery was difficult to process in their current desolate situation.

"It’s strange, highly anomalous geology," Legundo clarified, turning the polished piece of metal over in his hand. The sample was cool, bright, and reflected the early morning light. "Chemically, it tests as almost pure silver. The material is easily worked and can certainly be used in place of iron for structural needs or even tools, but obviously, it’s a much pricier material—not that currency truly matters here."

He paused, his medical logic returning to the fore. "The most important takeaway is that it’s abundant and useful. It might also have some specific other uses we haven't determined yet—if its properties are tied to the local phenomena."

The crowd seemed curious about the discovery, but nothing about their reaction suggested an understanding of the material's potential supernatural significance; they simply saw a better tool resource.

Legundo stood at the edge of the small cluster, his thoughts professionally engaged with the unexpected silver discovery—a material anomaly that hinted at far deeper geological or perhaps esoteric secrets in this region. However, his attention was violently seized by the town’s most compromised patient, Avid, who was currently performing a live, public exhibition of severe psychological distress.

As the townsfolk began dividing into their task groups—Cleo and Pearl to the farm, Apo and Pyro preparing for scouting—Avid seized the moment of transition. He threw himself forward, chest puffed out in a posture of desperate self-importance. His voice was strained, pitched unnaturally high. "We need to prioritize protection against the real threat," he declared, his eyes wide and exhibiting a fixed, urgent intensity. "I'm talking about the fiends that prey on the living! The vampires!"

Legundo's medical assessment immediately flagged this display as severe distress. The sheer, irrational conviction, despite the absolute lack of evidence linking the "Dark Force" to traditional folklore vampires, suggested an acute, stress-induced delusion. He concluded: This is not professional knowledge; this is a sick, frightened man clinging to a fictional enemy for stability.

The reaction from the crowd confirmed the delusion; there was initial confusion, followed quickly by polite, dismissive chuckles.

Avid, oblivious, plunged deeper. He pointed a trembling finger—not at the ruins, but directly at the assembled group. "I know they're out there. And I am prepared! I am a Vampire Hunter!"

It was then that the high-risk noble, Scott, inserted himself into the scene. Legundo watched the interaction with mounting professional alarm. Scott moved with that chilling, fluid grace he had observed earlier, a stark physical contrast to Avid's erratic, jumbled movements. A slow, almost indulgent smile spread across Scott’s face—a look Legundo categorized as potentially narcissistic mockery.

Scott drifted toward Avid, closing the distance effortlessly. "A Vampire Hunter, you say?" Scott’s voice was layered with feigned awe and sharp mockery. "How intriguing. Tell me, young man, what exactly qualifies one for such a noble, if frankly outlandish, profession?"

Legundo observed the immediate, involuntary physiological response in Avid: the rush of blood turning his face a brilliant, painful red; the way his shoulders instinctively hiked up toward his ears; the onset of rapid, shallow breathing. It was a perfect storm of acute embarrassment and fear triggered by the elegant stranger’s deliberate proximity.

"My training!" Avid stammered, his eyes darting frantically. "And my knowledge of their weaknesses! Like, um... sunlight, and garlic, and... being generally disliked!"

Scott was clearly toying with him, enjoying the distress. "Ah, the trifecta of a true professional," Scott deadpanned, leaning in just close enough to ensure his presence was overwhelming. "And what does this 'Vampire Hunter' plan to hunt with? A small bouquet of pungent bulbs? Do you, perhaps, intend to tickle them to death with your intense disapproval?"

Martyn snickered openly, while even Apo, the seasoned military professional, had to fight a subtle smile. They perceived the interaction as a joke. Legundo saw something far more serious: a critically stressed patient being deliberately cornered and psychologically harmed by a volatile individual. His hands instinctively tightened. Do No Harm, he repeated mentally. Scott wasn't physically attacking, but the psychological distress being inflicted was immense, and the effect on Avid’s already fragile, infected state could be medically catastrophic.

Legundo watched Scott execute the final flourish of his mockery. The elegant noble seemed entirely appeased with the outcome of the interaction, having successfully reduced the earnest Hunter to a stammering, ridiculed mess. Scott’s gaze then traveled languidly over the scattered town center, conveying a silent dismissal of the entire populace.

"I find crowds to be... detrimental to my health," Scott declared, the statement dripping with faux fragility as he addressed no one in particular. "I shall take my leave. I require a private survey of the surrounding land."

Legundo observed Scott turn with casual grace and walk away from the town center. The doctor didn't spare a single thought for Scott's declared activity or his unusual movements. Scott was still merely a high-risk liability in Legundo's mental file, but a secondary concern.

His primary professional focus remained fixed on Avid. The Hunter was standing rigid, his face still flushed crimson, his fists clenched, vibrating with a combination of humiliation and sustained terror. Legundo worried less about what Scott was going off to do, and far more about the long-term mental and physical damage being inflicted upon Avid. The psychological trauma is compounding the physical illness, Legundo realized. He needs rest and medical intervention, not ridicule.

Seeing the immediate aftermath of Scott’s calculated psychological attack, Legundo knew he had to intervene. Leaving Avid in this state—humiliated, furious, and physically stressed—was medically irresponsible and actively harmful. Putting his professional detachment aside, Legundo approached the Hunter slowly, consciously maintaining a calm, non-threatening demeanor, like a field medic approaching a startled, wounded animal.

"Avid," Legundo said softly, placing a cautious, professional, non-judgmental hand briefly on his shoulder—a simple gesture of physical grounding. "That man, Scott, is clearly... eccentric and quite volatile. He enjoys a spectacle. Don't give him the satisfaction of letting him rattle you, or worse, letting him cause you further stress."

Avid flinched beneath the touch, his whole body still rigid with fight-or-flight adrenaline, but he didn't pull away. He slowly turned his focus from the spot where Scott had disappeared to Legundo. His purple eyes were intense, wild with a consuming conviction.

"He's wrong, Doctor," Avid hissed, his voice trembling slightly, the adrenaline making his words choppy. "He doesn't understand the threat! They thrive on disbelief! They are fiends, and I need to be ready to face them, not mocked for it!"

Legundo knew better than to challenge the delusion directly; that would only increase the patient's paranoia. His immediate goal was therapeutic distraction and de-escalation. He spent the next several hours engaging with the eccentric yet deeply troubled man. He listened patiently to Avid’s frantic, detailed vampire rants, nodding occasionally and asking open-ended questions like, "And what material is recommended for the cross?" or "What do the ancient texts say about the time of their activity?" He kept his own tone meticulously calm and even, drawing on his years of military experience dealing with traumatized and delusional personnel to maintain a bedrock of stability.

He learned about detailed lore: the necessity of silver and wood, the crucial weakness of sunlight, and the specific ritualistic practices of the "fiends." All the while, he consciously suppressed the urge to point out the scientific impossibilities.

As the morning wore on, and Avid seemed to exhaust his immediate energy, Legundo felt the moment was right to pivot to the professional concern—the core medical issue.

"Avid," Legundo began gently, interrupting a tangent about the appropriate stake material and lowering his voice confidentially. "I appreciate your dedication to protecting us, truly. But you can't fight if your body is compromised. That wound on your neck..." He gestured discreetly toward the bandage, noting the faint discoloration around the edges. "...it needs expert tending. I'm a doctor. A military physician, in fact. Let me examine it, clean it properly, and ensure there's no serious systemic infection taking hold. I'm worried about the color of the tissue beneath that bandage."

Avid’s entire demeanor immediately shifted from fervent, almost aggressive enthusiasm to profound hesitance and defensiveness. He subconsciously brought a hand up to lightly touch the bandage, shielding it.

"No, Doctor," Avid said, his eyes darkening with suspicion, and he pulled away slightly. "It's fine. It's... it's a complicated wound. It needs to be handled by me, only me. It's not a normal infection; it's part of the process. I can't let anyone interfere with it yet. Not now."

Legundo pressed lightly, concern etched onto his face. "Interfere? Avid, I just want to ensure it doesn't kill you before you even get a chance to save us all. 'Do No Harm' is my oath, and right now, leaving that untreated is causing harm. What is so special about this wound that prevents a simple cleaning?"

Avid shook his head fiercely, his chin trembling. "I appreciate the offer, Doctor, but I know what's required of it. It stays covered. Please. Don't push this." The raw plea in his voice was genuine, laced with fear of discovery, and Legundo realized that pressing the issue now would only drive the patient further into complete isolation and distrust. He reluctantly let the matter drop, nodding his understanding. The man is protecting his illness, refusing even basic care, Legundo realized with a sigh. This is going to be far more complicated than a simple field dressing. I need to gain his trust before I can heal him.

Having reluctantly left Avid to his dangerous, self-imposed rest, Legundo decided to shift his focus to a safer, more sustainable task: gathering food that didn't require him to wade through psychological trauma. He wandered away from the center of town, his medical worries still heavy, only to come across Owen, who was eagerly and efficiently chopping down timber near the edge of the woods.

The young man was a picture of controlled, physical power and competence. His movements were fluid, his axe swings powerful and precise, and he was clearly seasoned in this kind of strenuous, solitary labor. Legundo, taking advantage of the chance for stable human interaction and intelligence gathering, stopped and leaned against a partially felled stump. He pulled out a handful of the tart, reddish berries he had recently gathered—a small, energy-boosting snack—and started the conversation.

"You certainly know your way around an axe, Owen," Legundo commented, chewing slowly and watching the clean, deep cuts Owen was making. "That makes my attempt at gathering materials look like a toddler's effort with a butter knife."

Owen paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. He seemed a bit nervous and closed off, his shoulders slightly hunched, his answers terse, but he still answered most of Legundo's direct, polite questions.

"It's just what I do, Doc," Owen replied, his voice level and efficient, already raising the axe for the next strike. "I've been a lumberjack most of my life. I was raised in these forests, knew every trail before the town was ruined."

Legundo felt a genuine pang of sympathy for the young man, his doctor’s empathy surfacing. "I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you, Owen, coming back to your home, seeing it destroyed like this. It must feel like losing a piece of yourself."

Owen gave a small, noncommittal shrug, avoiding eye contact as he hefted the axe again, trying to convey dismissal. 

Legundo’s eyes drifted toward Owen’s clean work ethic. "That's why I was curious, actually. I woke up this morning to find a massive, perfectly stacked pile of lumber waiting by my foundation. It looked like professional work—like yours." Legundo paused, giving Owen an out. "You wouldn't happen to know who was so generous, would you? It was a massive help."

Owen hesitated for a beat too long, his grip tightening on the axe handle. "No, Doc. I... I've been working this area all morning. Couldn't say." He quickly brought the axe down, the crack of the wood severing the conversation.

Meanwhile, Owen was waging a silent, fierce war against himself. He had indeed delivered the lumber, moving with blinding speed during the pre-dawn hours to help the meticulous doctor he admired. He found himself intensely drawn to Legundo’s presence; the doctor was stable, kind, and his voice was soothingly intelligent.

He makes me feel normal. The normality that Legundo brought—the simple, human interaction about lumber and building—was intoxicating, a sharp, painful contrast to the desperate secrecy he lived under since Louis died. He makes me feel like I belong here, not like an alien.

But there was more than just comfort. There was a raw, aching attraction, complicated by Legundo's demeanor and kindness. Legundo reminds me so much of Louis. Not physically, but in the way he carried himself: the quiet competence, the gentle questions, the way his intelligence was used to help others. That stability was a dangerous echo of the Sire he had lost.

He’s human. He's too bright, too good, and too dangerous. Owen knew he had to push Legundo away. He had already lost one connection to a human world he wasn't supposed to be part of. Letting himself get attached to Legundo—letting that comfort become dependence—would only lead to another devastating loss when the truth inevitably came out. He couldn't risk the pain, and he certainly couldn't risk revealing the secret that still haunted him.

~~~~

The cool, deep night air struck Avid’s face like a blast of ice water, but it failed to extinguish the hysterical fire consuming his mind. He didn't walk away from Shelby's house; he fled in a blind, adrenaline-fueled sprint. The instant Shelby’s gentle, betraying hand released his arm, he became a blur of frantic motion, driven by adrenaline and a pure, corrosive terror that tasted metallic and acidic at the back of his throat.

He dared not look back. Every shadow felt like Scott, every soft sound like that chilling, predatory whisper.

Every rapid, pounding step was an act of purification, a desperate attempt to outrun the taint. He felt fundamentally violated, disgusting, and utterly humiliated. He fed from me. I offered it to him. I allowed the contamination.

The memory was an unbearable, horrifying loop: the cold pressure of the fangs, the dizzying rush as his life force was pulled out, and the subsequent, sickening wave of warmth that had felt terrifyingly good and right. But as he ran, his mind began to betray him.

Avid was severely conflicted. His logical mind screamed terror and revulsion. I should feel nothing but hatred! This is the fiend! Yet, interwoven with the memory of the bite, came a crushing, unwelcome sensation: a raw, aching desire for the continuation of that contact, a deep, magnetic attraction to the vampire’s strength and the intense, possessive gaze Scott had fixed on him.

But Avid's mind was also in turmoil. I hate him! I must hate him! But why did the tenderness feel like the only true thing I've felt since the bite? Why do I want him to touch me again? That's the lie! That's how they corrupt you! I let a vampire fiend touch me, feed from me, and now I am utterly tainted—not just by blood, but by this sickening, perverse want.

His hand instinctively flew to the wound on his neck, clutching the delicately secured bandage. It felt unnaturally hot, throbbing beneath the cloth, radiating a cold fire. It was no longer just a physical wound; it was a mark of failure and the Vampire's curse taking hold.

The edges were weeping a thick, blackish, oily fluid, and the skin around it had turned a leathery, dead grey, a horrifying sign of rapid necrosis. And since Scott fed, it had undeniably gotten worse. The localized pain was duller now, replaced by a constant, bone-deep, burning itch spreading through his tissues, a physical manifestation of his internal corruption.

Avid's fear seemed to be taking hold of everything. My control is failing! The original bite was supposed to grant me a slow, controlled decay, giving me the window to find the Master Vampire and destroy it before the transition completed. But Scott... he wasn't just a vampire. He was too strong, too skilled. The fiend didn't kill me; he stabilized me, and now the vampiric corruption is running rampant! He poisoned the process!

He tore through the supply chest. He needed the cold, hard certainty of his anti-vampire gear and his hidden notes—anything to prove that what he felt was a physical poisoning, and not the catastrophic failure of his entire being.

If he didn't kill me... what kind of fiend is he forcing me to become?

The single, crushing realization was that the price of that intimacy was the rapid, agonizing loss of his humanity, compounded by the horrifying, internal realization that a part of him didn't want to hate the fiend who had sealed his fate. He felt the cold, malignant dread of the vampire's taint spreading, fighting a desperate battle against the seductive, aching attraction that threatened to swallow his conviction whole. The clock was ticking violently in the empty, fearful silence of the night.

~~~~

Scott was sitting quietly in the heavy darkness of Shelby’s home, Shelby still cradled securely in his lap. The deep shadows were no obstacle to his senses. He was speaking in hushed tones with Owen and Pyro, the two Fledglings having settled into a more focused, practical conversation.

"Given the security risks," Scott murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble, "I think we prioritize the walls of the Central Chamber first. The outer structure of the castle can wait."

"That seems wise, Sire," Owen agreed, his eyes fixed on the darkness where Shelby lay. "A stable inner defense is paramount, especially if Avid decides to rally the humans."

Mid-sentence, Scott paused abruptly, his crimson eyes widening slightly. His head tilted, listening internally as a new, distinct mental bond snapped into being within his mind. This connection felt surprisingly light and fluffy, settling comfortably alongside the established, deeper presence of his two sons. He looked down at Shelby, giving a gentle caress to her cheek once more.

Her fingers, which had been limp moments before, began to twitch slightly as her consciousness slowly fought its way back. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly. She gazed up at Scott, but in the near-total darkness, she could only make out his immense, looming silhouette. She barely began to question, "Scott? Are you still—" when her vision suddenly fractured and then snapped into terrifying, vibrant clarity. The darkness receded. She could see everything vividly—the fine weave of Scott's jacket, the minute layer of dust on the wood floor, the intense, surprised look on Pyro's face across the room.

"There you are, my dear," Scott purred softly, a light, comforting trill vibrating in his chest that she felt resonate deep within her own newly vitalized core.

Owen and Pyro immediately echoed soft, rhythmic trills in response, the sound a low, resonant wave of assurance that washed over Shelby, confirming her membership in the brood.

Pyro leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide with fascination, watching the transformation of the human woman into a fledgling, witnessing the full sensory shock she was experiencing.

Shelby let out a light, surprised giggle before managing a quiet, tentative, "Hi. Everything feels... loud." She began describing the profound strangeness of the transition: "Everything felt so heavy, and then suddenly... my eyes," she started, but she was interrupted mid-sentence.

A sharp, piercing pain shot through her stomach, radiating outward—a terrifying, all-consuming void. It wasn't simple hunger; it was a desperate, agonizing emptiness. An overwhelming, burning thirst made her mouth and throat run instantly dry, and she let out a desperate, involuntary keen—a primal sound of desperate want for a substance she instinctively knew.

"It's starting, the Sire's Echo," Scott explained, his voice calm and steady, easing the panic in Shelby's mind through the newly formed bond. "It is the first feeding a fledgling experiences. Your body will reject all other sustenance now. It needs my blood—my Vitae."

Scott acted instantly. He quickly raised his left wrist to his mouth and bit down sharply, creating a clean, bleeding wound that immediately began to pulse with his life force. He then lowered his hand to Shelby's mouth and guided her. She reacted instinctively, no longer tentative. Her new, sharp fangs sprang forward, digging eagerly into his pulsing flesh around the wound, and she drank deeply, the warm, rich Vitae a desperate, necessary relief against the searing, existential thirst.

Scott muttered reassurance into her hair as she drank her fill. "Easy, little one. It's all yours." He glanced at his other fledglings, his attention surprisingly undivided despite the draining process.

"As I was saying, Owen," Scott continued, his voice only slightly strained by the blood loss, "the castle walls come first. Pyro, you and Owen will start building for with the stone materials once we are done here. We need to fortify as soon as possible"

Pyro responded with a low trill of acknowledgement, fascinated by the sight of the newest fledgling feeding, an intimate confirmation of his own transformation.

Scott let Shelby feed on him deeply, ignoring the continued drain with iron control. He gently stroked her hair, letting the newest fledgling gorge herself on the necessary life force. He waited until her eager swallowing slowed to a satisfied, quiet suckle, her sharp, new fangs withdrawing reluctantly, before gently easing his wrist away from her mouth. The wound on his forearm immediately began to close, the flesh knitting itself back together rapidly.

"Alright, we've lingered too long," Scott instructed, his voice low and urgent, cutting through the silence. "Let's make haste to the ruins, as quietly and stealthily as possible." He met Owen's eyes. "Owen, gather the small bag of tools by the door. Pyro, ensure no trace of us remains in the room."

"Understood, Sire," Owen confirmed, already moving toward the shadow by the furnace.

"I have already checked for blood splatters, Sire," Pyro replied, moving to quickly fold the discarded linens. "But I will do a final pass."

Scott continued, his gaze tenderly resting on the unconscious Shelby. "As much as I want her to rest, she cannot be alone here, vulnerable and newly changed. Shelby must rest and adjust as the Vitae settles, but she will come with us. We begin construction immediately."

Scott effortlessly scooped Shelby up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her small form was already limp and heavy, the immense rush of fresh Vitae having caused a pleasurable, overwhelming fatigue. Her breathing was deep and even; she was utterly knocked out and would likely remain so for a few hours.

Owen and Pyro moved with efficient, silent purpose, quickly restoring the house to its proper state, removing the covers from the windows.

"The house is clean, Sire," Pyro whispered.

"Good. Let's move," Scott replied. They all quietly stepped outside into the moonlit town. The cool, pale light of the moon cast long, sharp shadows over the ravaged streets. They couldn't hear anyone out and about—the town was deep in its exhausted, fearful slumber—but they moved with practiced caution, clinging to the deepest shadows cast by the ruined buildings.

They took their time sneaking along, their movements barely disturbing the dust, until they reached the rickety, makeshift palisade fence surrounding Oakhurst. Once they quietly cleared the perimeter and hit the concealing thickness of the tree line, their caution dissolved into pure, inhuman speed.

"Now we run," Scott stated simply.

All three hit a unified burst of supernatural velocity. They became silent, dark blurs in the night, the powerful wind rushing around them, running swiftly and without fatigue toward the distant safety and secrecy of their hidden ruins.

The journey was swift, blurring the distance between Oakhurst and the hidden lair into mere moments. They burst through the last line of trees, the supernatural speed abruptly ceasing as they arrived at the site. The ruins consisted of a few jagged stone remnants of a forgotten structure built over a deep, hidden crypt.

As they strode across the crumbling stone bridge leading to the main entrance, Scott began issuing orders. His voice was no longer a cautious whisper but commanding and resonant, echoing slightly in the hollowed space.

"Owen, Pyro, listen closely—no dawdling," Scott called out, shifting Shelby's sleeping weight slightly but securely in his arm. "The large chest near the clearing is full of the various building stones we harvested. I want the last of the surface rubble up here cleared and the castle outer walls started immediately. We wasted enough time today. Efficiency is paramount."

"We understand, Sire," Owen confirmed, his eyes already assessing the remaining debris near the foundation line. "We'll work quickly."

Scott paused at the edge of the crypt entrance—a dark, yawning aperture in the ground. "I will take Shelby down to the Crypt. She must rest and allow the Embrace to fully stabilize her. While she is recovering there, I will focus on a crucial matter: establishing the blood farm."

He explained his next step: "I can use my magic to breed the livestock—cows for the moment—far faster than they would naturally, ensuring we have a stable, controlled source of Vitae that doesn't rely on sporadic hunting. This secures our future supply."

With one final, seamless move, Scott reached down. His free hand swept across the ground, grabbing the large burlap bags of fertile dirt and the heavy rolls of grass sod he had prepared earlier. They vanished into his inventory with an unseen efficiency. He nodded once to his Fledglings.

"Begin the walls," he commanded, then turned and began descending the damp, rough-hewn stone steps into the absolute darkness of the Crypt below, the soft form of the newest Fledgling secure in his grasp.

Scott traveled deeper into the Crypt, the rough stone walls absorbing the sound of his movements. He bypassed the large, rough-hewn chamber where he had been preparing the livestock area, his focus absolute. He even passed the spot where Pyro had started the crude mine leading down into the deeper cave system, paying it no mind. Instead, he continued purposefully to the very end of the main Crypt halls, reaching the ancient Tomb chamber.

This chamber was the most fortified spot, its thick, carved stone walls surrounding a massive, cold stone coffin that sat upon a raised dais in the center. This, he calculated, was the safest, most secluded, and most stable place for Shelby to rest peacefully and undergo the final, quiet integration of the Embrace.

He gently lowered the food-dazed Shelby into the spacious stone box. She settled immediately, her new internal chill finding comfort against the cool stone. He smoothed her hair back from her face, giving one last, tender caress to her cheek before turning and heading back down the crypt halls.

Scott returned to the chamber he had designated for the livestock—a large, irregular room carved entirely out of the subterranean bedrock. He could see the few, placid, oblivious cows meandering around the empty stone floor. He noted the wooden chest sitting nearby, holding the initial supply of wheat and wheat seeds.

He spent the next hour meticulously filling in the rough, uneven rock floor with all the rich, dark dirt he had collected, working swiftly to level the surface. He then carefully unrolled and placed the grass sod in a pattern that would allow the grass to take root and spread, creating a true, living, albeit subterranean, pasture. The sheer volume of material was just enough to cover the rather large room.

Making a quick, silent trip back up to the surface ruins, he grabbed the necessary quantities of wood and a small amount of stone for crafting before immediately returning. He used a rudimentary crafting table he had stored to fashion strong fences and built a secure, high-walled enclosure in one corner for the cows. Slowly, gently, using a soft, hypnotic influence, he herded the placid cows into their new space.

Once they were penned, Scott fished out the precious wheat and started feeding and breeding the cows. Using his vampiric magic, he drastically sped up the biological process—the birth of calves was near-instantaneous, appearing in a flash of warped biological time. He waited only a few minutes for the calves to age and mature enough so that he could breed them again, rapidly increasing his herd size with chilling, unnatural efficiency.

While the herd multiplied, he crafted a simple hoe and began to till a large section of the dirt floor in another area of the room, preparing a field for crops. He gathered a bucket of water to form a sustainable water source in the center, ensuring the soil remained moist and viable in the closed environment. Once done, he swiftly planted the wheat seeds he had procured from Cleo, knowing they would grow quickly under his latent magical influence.

With a sustainable supply of wheat soon growing underground, they would be entirely self-sufficient in caring for their primary livestock. Scott’s mind was already racing ahead, optimizing the operation. The cows may eventually fear us, he mused, considering the long-term impact of their supernatural proximity. Perhaps smaller, less aware animals are necessary. He settled on a contingency: chickens. If he built a specialized coop correctly, he could automate the entire process: feeding the hens, gathering eggs, and then hatching the eggs in a separate pen for growth and eventual harvest. The Vitae farm was becoming a chillingly efficient, self-sustaining ecosystem, secured far beneath the ruins, lest the humans attack their home.

Chapter 13

Notes:

Just a warning, that i've made Scott a bit more Pansexual than strictly gay in this fic. Of course if you don't like certain pairings i understand, just me personally I decided to write my story this way and hope people can atleast enjoy how i've written my story.

Scott turned his attention fully to the subterranean livestock room. He considered the bare rock unacceptable; he wasn't content to leave the cows in a crude, carved-out chamber. He spent a significant amount of time decorating the large space, aiming to make it feel more naturey and homey. He used various scrap materials and small stones to create subtle ledges and simulated rock faces, mimicking the external world. He also crafted several custom lanterns using dark metal and enchanted glass, installing them strategically to illuminate the room with a warm, steady, gentle light, ensuring the animals weren't just living in oppressive darkness.

"An animal kept in stress yields poor blood," he muttered to himself, perfecting the placement of a lantern. "Comfort is efficiency."

Satisfied with the environment, he moved on to the technical centerpiece: the auto-feeding and gathering coop with its attached hatchery and harvesting pen. This required precision and special materials. He used a considerable amount of the recently discovered silver in the construction, particularly for the intricate moving parts of the egg collection and the containment features where extra strength and purity were needed. Every piece of silver metal he manipulated sent a faint, irritating sensation through his hands—a slight burn and sting—but he persevered, his brow furrowed in concentration. After about an hour of focused, complex crafting, he had the entire system set up and fully functional.

With the core Vitae farm mechanisms in place, Scott headed out. "Time for the tenants," he murmured. He quickly secured a sufficient starter flock of wild chickens from the nearby forest to populate his new automated coop.

While Scott was busy below, Owen and Pyro were working quickly and efficiently above ground, hoisting and cementing the massive stones to build up the initial outer castle walls. The stones were fitted perfectly, ensuring the walls maintained an impressive, almost impenetrable six-foot thickness.

"This layer is crucial for the corner support," Owen grunted, using his vampiric strength to wedge a particularly large block into place. "We need this structure to last centuries, not just weeks."

"It feels good to be building something permanent," Pyro replied, carefully tapping a shim into place. He paused, lowering his voice slightly as he stacked a smaller stone beside Owen. "Owen, about what Sire said earlier... when Shelby was turning. About the feeding being... passionate."

Pyro seemed genuinely unsure, casting a quick glance over his shoulder toward the Crypt entrance. "Is it really as normal as he made it sound? I mean, it goes against everything I've seen in human stories. Do you... think differently about it?"

Owen wiped a streak of dirt from his face. A strange, involuntary blush—a sensation he associated with his past life—showed faintly beneath his pale skin. He shifted uncomfortably, the question hitting too close to private memories.

"Scott was right," Owen voiced, his tone carefully steady and slightly formal. "Even my previous sire, Louis, stressed it when he first brought me in. It's biological. The chemical reaction, the proximity, the Vitae rushing out—it causes a powerful, euphoric rush in a human. It's intoxicating."

Owen couldn't help the shift in his gaze as he spoke of his late sire, a complex mix of longing and pain in his eyes. He leaned against the stone, momentarily lost in thought. Memories of nights spent entwined and at Louis' mercy—intimate, feeding sessions that blurred the lines between necessary nourishment and profound pleasure—were deeply ingrained. Louis was a kind master, a passionate one, he thought, savoring the memory. He made the change bearable.

"Louis taught me that most broods and covens operate on honesty about attraction," Owen continued, focusing on the wider philosophical point. "They would be intimate with each other if there was mutual attraction, because despite the sire/childe bonds and the hierarchy, we are truly our own person and have our own desires. We can do whatever we want with whoever we want, as long as it's consensual and doesn't expose the Nest."

"The boundaries shift, though," Owen added, driving a final stone into place. "Once a vampire is settled into a full mate bond with another vampire, they would typically limit themselves on intimate activities with the wider brood or coven. It’s about respect and loyalty to that primary bond. Until then... you are free to seek pleasure where you find it."

~~

Shelby let out a soft groan—or was it a low, involuntary moan? The sound resonated strangely in her own ears. She shifted slightly against the surface she was resting on. The surface was hard, unyielding, yet she felt a profound, primal sense of safety, intense protection, and inexplicable belonging.

Her eyes slowly fluttered open, adjusting instantly and perfectly to the deep, pervasive gloom. She gazed up at a high stone ceiling, intricately carved with looping, ancient designs of owls and bats intertwined with stylized foliage. It took her a disoriented second to realize she was lying inside a massive, cold stone coffin. The realization, which should have been panic-inducing, instead brought a feeling of secure, quiet finality.

She shifted, rolling onto her stomach. Her hand brushed against a tiny indent along the bottom edge—the faintest outline of a handle, suggesting a hidden compartment. But her attention was drawn upward. Just above where her head had rested, a small, square stone plaque was set into the coffin wall. She carefully wiped the thin layer of dust from its surface with her thumb, revealing the inscription.

She leaned in close, her new vision razor-sharp, and read the name carved into the plaque: "Lord Scott Goldsmith of Oakhurst."

The revelation ignited a furious, academic compulsion within her. A Lord? Not just a wealthy eccentric, but someone tied to the deep history of this place. That name, Goldsmith, sounded ancient, established, and vastly important. She felt a sharp desire, a consuming intellectual hunger amplified by her transformation. I need a historical text. I need to trace his lineage, his true connection to Oakhurst's origins.

Driven by this new, urgent curiosity, Shelby moved to get out of the confines of the coffin. But as she swung her legs over the cold, hard lip, a low, throaty moan escaped her lips, and her legs began to tremble violently.

A wave of intense, unfamiliar sensations washed over her. Her whole body felt shockingly hyper-sensitive. The simple drag of the rough fabric of her trousers against her thighs, the pressure of her feet touching the crypt floor—it all generated a fierce, almost unbearable physical reaction. The slightest friction was now an overwhelming stimulus. She realized with a blush that she was dangerously close to climax simply from moving. This is strange, a side effect... an amplification?

Fighting to hold back the sounds, pressing her lips tightly together to stifle the moans, she finally managed to slide completely out of the coffin, standing on slightly unsteady legs. Her core was throbbing, a deep, rhythmic pulse, and she could feel an unmistakable wetness spreading. The simplest weight shift or movement was sending shocking, intense waves of sensation through her.

She needed to find Scott. The Sire who had gifted her this strange, hyper-aware body had to know what was happening, or at least how to help her manage this unexpected, overwhelming, and potentially debilitating sensitivity. Trying to maintain control, she slowly, shakily, walked from the main burial chamber, stepping into the darker, winding stone tunnels of the Crypt in search of him.

Scott was meticulously focused on his latest engineering project, carefully corralling the few wild chickens he had gathered into his new automatic coop. He immediately grabbed some spare wheat seeds, using a touch of his Vitae-fueled magic to fast-breed the starter hens, resulting in several newly hatched chicks almost instantly. More chickens in the first section meant a guaranteed, high-yield supply of eggs for gathering and hatching. Scott let out a sigh of satisfied triumph, a proud smile gracing his features, as he watched the complex machine work efficiently, easily collecting the eggs the hens laid and transferring them.

Moving to check the lower pen, Scott observed as the lower dispenser launched an egg to hatch it, and a fluffy chick emerged onto the slowly growing grassy dirt. Perfection, he mused. Before long, he knew he would be able to feed his fledglings whenever the need arose, without risk to his own stock.

As he watched the pen, he heard the soft, hesitant creak of the wooden door opening. Shelby’s vibrant red hair peeked into view as she nervously scanned the chamber. As soon as she saw Scott, a visible wave of desperate relief washed over her, and she let out an excited, choked "Oh, finally!" before slowly entering the room.

Scott immediately noticed the unnatural quality of her approach: she was moving with excruciating slowness, her entire body trembling and unsteady. Her skin was highly flushed, and she was taking short, staccato calming breaths, clearly fighting for control. As she drew closer, he heard the faint, almost imperceptible moans she was desperately trying to suppress, sounds that were now exquisitely sensitive to his vampiric hearing.

A slow, indulgent, and slightly amused look spread across Scott’s handsome face, recognizing the specific signs of the rare side effect. "Having a bit of trouble, my dear?" he purred slowly and coyishly, knowing that the warm, resonant tone of his voice would vibrate through her new, hyper-sensitized body like a tuning fork.

Shelby froze, the sound of Scott’s voice causing her core to tremble violently. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second. "Wha... what is this feeling? What is going on?" she forced out, the words ragged, stifling a moan as the movement of her diaphragm caused a fresh wave of sensation. "I feel like I'm on fire, but not hot. It’s overwhelming!"

Scott slowly approached her, his movements deliberate, like a predator circling a new, fascinating toy or prey. "Ah, my dear, it appears you are one of the few to deal with the Desire side effect," Scott explained, his voice low and educational, yet thrillingly close. "It's a rare after-effect of the Sire's Echo that occurs when the body's new vitality becomes unusually susceptible to pleasure during the transition. Every sensation, even the friction of your clothes, is amplified to an extreme degree."

He reached her side, then smoothly walked a slow circle around her, his presence intensifying the air. He gently lifted a finger and caressed her cheek—a feather-light, cooling touch. The contact, against her fevered, flushed skin, sent a scorching, yet paradoxically soothing, wave of cold relief through her that made her shudder and involuntarily lean into his hand.

"Oh god, why does that feel so cool?" Shelby gasped out, a genuine, desperate question mixed with a moan.

"Because your body is craving touch, craving release from the overwhelming overload," Scott explained, his voice soft, calming, yet holding a tantalizing, silken edge. "The Vitae is demanding a powerful counter-stimulus to stabilize this new sensitivity. I can help you, if you wish, my dear. I can cool down this burning sensation and bring you a release you've never felt before."

Scott practically purred the last line, leaning his head closer and teasingly nuzzling the sensitive skin of her neck, just as he had done in the intimate moments when he had fed and turned her. The deliberate, familiar contact almost made her legs buckle.

Shelby's mind was racing, battling between her lingering human inhibitions and the desperate, amplified needs of her new form. This is my Sire. This is intimate. But the fire in her body was winning. She remembered her distinct, pre-existing attraction to him and his compelling, aristocratic beauty. He is offering a cure for an excruciating pain.

Just because he helped me now, didn't mean it had to define our entire relationship, she rationalized quickly, clinging to a rationalization. It’s an exchange—a necessary one. And if he helped me, then I could help him if he ever needed it. The thought—a fair transaction, a win-win—cemented her decision.

Shelby's mind, settled by a desperate, survival logic, was made up. The excruciating internal fire demanded immediate, cool relief. She reached out, her hands trembling violently as they gripped his luxurious cloak and the material of his shirt, and pulled Scott close, closing the final distance between them.

"Mm, yes please," she managed, her voice barely a breathless whisper, threaded with a desperate, shaky plea for salvation.

 

~~~SMEXY TIME (Biting, Bleeding, Oral fixation, Sex)~~~

 

Scott responded instantly. A deep, genuine smirk—not of arrogance, but of profound satisfaction—curved his lips. He leaned his head into her neck and began to kiss and lick along her exposed pulse point, the sudden application of his cool mouth a tantalizing, expert tease against her burning skin. Simultaneously, his strong hands wrapped around her thighs, expertly gripping and effortlessly lifting her up against him.

A deep, unrestrained moan—a sound of pure physical overload—escaped Shelby. The sensation was dual: the exquisite teasing at her neck provided a necessary, cooling distraction, while the firm, intense pressure of his hands against her hyper-sensitive thighs as she was lifted high sent electric jolts through her core. She was in a blissful, overwhelming daze; Scott’s touch was simultaneously cooling the internal burn and compounding her need, making her crave deeper, more profound contact. She couldn't help the instinctive, primal reflexive grind of her hips against him as he carried her across the room.

Scott moved with slow, deliberate, almost exaggerated grace across the chamber floor. He continued to suckle lightly on her neck—a masterclass in teasing and sensation, not nourishment—stimulating the newly awakened sensitivity. Within moments, he was in front of the sturdy crafting table, and he gently set her down upon its smooth, cool wooden surface, sitting her up slightly.

His focus then shifted downward. He gently began trailing kisses, soft licks, and suckling touches down her neckline and across her collarbones, his hands reaching up to slowly and meticulously unbutton her shirt. Once the fabric was parted open, exposing the delicate skin of her chest and stomach, he trailed further down. His tongue and lips mapped the warm, flushing flesh of her torso, kissing, licking, and gently sucking all the way to her left breast. He took the nipple between his teeth, teasing it with painful, exquisite skill, before sucking harshly, then gently drawing the sensitive bud back into his mouth.

Shelby arched her back violently against the cool, rough surface of the table, a long, drawn-out wail of pleasure escaping her throat. The sensation was utterly new, overwhelming in its pure, physical intensity, and yet strangely fundamental, like an instrument being perfectly tuned and played for the first time.

Up on the surface, Owen and Pyro were entrenched in the laborious but necessary work of building the outer castle wall. The effort required focused, synchronized motion, their movements honed by vampiric strength as they hoisted and set the massive, rough-hewn stones, locking them into the six-foot-thick perimeter. They were pushing for maximum efficiency, a silent race against the eastern horizon, hoping to finish the defensive structure before the rising sun forced them into temporary rest.

"If we can manage three more layers, fully mortared, before dawn, we’ll secure the foundation against any immediate threat," Owen muttered, his voice a low, steady rumble as he guided a tremendous capstone into place.

"Agreed," Pyro replied, wiping mortar from his gloved hand with mechanical precision. "The stability of this corner is perfect. But we need to move faster on the north face."

As they began the next, meticulously aligned layer, a strange, utterly disquieting sound suddenly echoed up from the dark, open entrance of the Crypt below. It was a prolonged, eerie wail—a sound that was undeniably feminine, high-pitched, and carried a powerful note of intense, almost agonizing ecstasy or pain. It sounded achingly, recognizably like Shelby.

Pyro froze instantly, his head snapping toward the crypt entrance, his crimson eyes wide with immediate, sharp worry. "Did you hear that? That was—that sounded exactly like Shelby! What in the Void is going on down there? Is she hurt? Are the humans below?"

Owen paused in his work, the heavy stone hanging momentarily suspended in his grip. Instead of giving in to panic, he closed his eyes, focusing intensely inward. He reached out with his mind, instinctively feeling for the connection forged by the Vitae—his indelible bond with Scott. After a brief, concentrated moment, he felt his Sire's presence. Scott was not distressed, not struggling, and certainly not endangered. His core presence was resonating with a distinct, muted mix of deep pleasure and potent desire, a powerful emotional field that was unmistakable even through the distance and the thickness of the stone.

A sudden, fierce flush immediately rose across Owen’s pale cheeks, the blush undeniable even in the faint moonlight. He quickly understood the source of the desperate, intimate wail, remembering the conversations about the intensity of the Embrace and the often-necessary intimate relations shared within a brood. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a strange, faint echo of that intimacy through the bond—an unsettling mix of his own lingering attraction and the Sire’s powerful, focused pleasure.

He took a slow, steadying breath, deliberately slowing his internal rhythm before addressing Pyro. He kept his voice meticulously neutral and measured. "No, Pyro. She's not hurt. Scott is simply... attending to her needs," he said, using a careful, slightly clinical euphemism. "Remember what we talked about earlier? The intense physical effects of the Embrace, the necessity of strong bonding and stabilization?"

He cleared his throat, pushing down the unsettling heat he felt. "That sound is merely the biological process taking hold. Shelby is experiencing a highly intense sensory reaction—the Desire side effect, most likely—and Scott is stabilizing her system. It is... part of the full assimilation into the brood."

Scott gently pulled his mouth away from her left nipple, the sound a wet, sharp sigh against her skin, leaving the flesh glistening and profoundly swollen. His left hand, simultaneously, reached up to the right side, beginning a slow, deliberate tease—pinching and rolling the sensitive flesh with expert attention. He gazed up at Shelby, his eyes heavy with a languid, knowing smile that promised dangerous secrets.

"How open are you to trying new things, my dear?" Scott inquired gently, his voice a low, suggestive velvet, wrapping around her consciousness. "Your body is capable of so much more now. Shall we explore how deliciously complicated pleasure can become?"

It took Shelby a significant, dizzying moment to formulate a single coherent thought. The immediate, dual stimulation—the cooling relief of his hand, and the exquisite, aching pressure—was overwhelming her concentration. Her entire focus was on maintaining control.

"N...new things?" she stammered, her voice shaking violently. "Um, is it... is it safe?"

"Perfectly safe, and intensely satisfying," Scott assured her, his smile never wavering. He knew her answer before she gave it.

Shelby forced herself to focus past the blinding pleasure. The trust she felt, the utter reliance on him as her Sire, overcame any lingering inhibition. "I... I trust you, Scott," she finally managed, the words escaping as a shaky, breathless moan. "If you say it will be amazing, then yes, please. Show me."

Scott’s grin deepened, his satisfaction palpable. He leaned back into her left breast, but this time, his mouth didn't stop at teasing. He let his lips trace the curve of her areola before his expression shifted to one of concentrated intent. He then actually bit down, his needle-sharp fangs sinking into the soft flesh, piercing the skin deeply.

The sensation that erupted was instantaneous and utterly devastating. It was not the slow, dull ache of a normal bite, but a sharp, focused pain paired with the burning desire, which brought upon such a profound, ecstatic surge of pleasure that it completely consumed her.

Scott held the bite, applying steady pressure. He wasn't feeding for sustenance, but for effect. He sucked gently with his teeth still buried in her flesh, his tongue teasing the sensitive, swollen nipple as a thin, steady stream of blood trickled down his throat slowly. He maintained pressure, ensuring she wouldn't bleed heavily, but the focused sting and deep pressure were designed to overload her senses.

Shelby let out a deep, powerful, sustained wail—a primal cry that blended exquisite pain and overwhelming ecstasy seamlessly. She violently arched her back, throwing her chest further into Scott's mouth, offering herself completely to the agonizing, unique torment. Her core and legs trembled uncontrollably, vibrating against the wooden table, as she felt her wetness grow intensely, the paradoxical pain accelerating her towards a violent, beautiful precipice. "Scott, oh god, that hurts! Don't stop!" she choked out, her request a contradiction that perfectly captured her new state.

Scott couldn't help the deep, guttural groan that resonated, vibrating through his chest and into her breast, as he sucked just a bit more of the metallic, sweet blood. The sensation intensified his own predatory satisfaction. But as her localized bleeding began to slow to an insignificant trickle, he pulled off with a rough, raspy breath, the twin puncture marks on her breast already sealing rapidly.

He looked up at Shelby’s face, admiring the sight: her skin flushed a vibrant, feverish red, her eyes glazed over, and the raw, pure pleasure etched across her stunned features. He slowly trailed kisses and licks across her chest to her other breast before repeating the delicious torment. He bit down deeply, his fangs sinking into the tender flesh, and began sucking gently as he simultaneously teased the swollen nipple with his tongue.

Shelby was immediately wracked with another desperate wail that tore from her throat. Her whole body spasmed violently, her back arching, and she began to tremble uncontrollably, crying out as she climaxed instantly and intensely, despite barely having been touched below her waist. The raw, nerve-jangling pleasure of the bite coupled with the spontaneous orgasmic release was overwhelming.

"Oh, Scott! I can't—I can't breathe!" she screamed, her hands reaching out blindly to grip his shoulders as she rode the intense wave. The very complaint was redundant as they were undead and didn't need to breath but Scott ignored the thought.

Scott took a few moments, maintaining the sucking pressure and teasing her through the peak of her orgasm, his fangs the anchor of her pleasure, patiently waiting for her body to settle down from the explosive physical shock.

As soon as she came down from her orgasmic high, gasping raggedly for air, Scott pulled off her breast and gave her a slow, victorious, teasing grin. Shelby was utterly dazed, her posture slack, looking beautifully debauched and completely spent.

I want to ruin you more. I want to drive you past the edge of sanity, Scott thought, his predatory excitement surging.

He slowly knelt in front of the crafting table, his eyes never leaving hers, which were still glazed and unfocused. His hands reached around Shelby's hips, finding the edges of her pants and pulling them down. He carefully helped pull her pants and undergarments off, watching with focused intensity as her wet panties peeled away from her core, leaving a thin, glistening thread of arousal liquid behind. Scott’s expression became profoundly sultry, possessive, and hungry as he lowered his head further, breathing deeply and inhaling the powerful, intoxicating, musky scent of her raw arousal.

Scott barely gave her a second to register the cool air against her core. His concentration was absolute, his excitement palpable, and his gaze focused on the vulnerable, glistening flesh before him. He eagerly latched his mouth onto her, his lips and tongue immediately targeting her most sensitive point.

He began to tease and suck on her clitoris masterfully. His initial approach was calculated to drive her hyper-sensitivity to the absolute maximum. He used a delicate, varied pressure—quick, light, swirling flicks alternating with deeper, rolling suction—never stopping, never settling, relentlessly building the excruciating pressure.

Shelby immediately began to scream, her body spasming and twitching violently against the hard wood of the crafting table. She was completely overwhelmed, her mind fracturing from the intensity. "No—too much! Scott, please! Don't stop!" she pleaded, utterly unable to process the exquisite, nerve-shredding intensity of the oral contact. Her hands grabbed uselessly at the air, her hips bucking up automatically.

He waited until she was a twitching, sobbing, incoherent mess, right on the precipice of a spontaneous climax, her body vibrating from the pleasure. Then, with an agonizing suddenness that felt like abandonment, he paused.

He angled his head slightly, moving away from the immediate core of her pleasure. His tongue stroked and prodded teasingly at the slick, hot entrance of her vagina, moving in slow, agonizing circles around the vestibule. Shelby whimpered desperately, the light, indirect contact worse than the intense suction.

A few more agonizingly slow, teasing licks, forcing her to beg, before he satisfied her with a powerful, deep dive. He deeply thrust his tongue deeper inside her, the movement shocking and forceful against her internal flesh, then began to lick and suck aggressively, almost violently, as if trying to vacuum and consume all the hot, slick arousal juices from deep inside her core, claiming every last drop. "Oh, God! YES! Deep! Scott!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with the sudden, profound invasion.

Scott slowly took his time, deliberately thrusting and withdrawing his tongue inside her, meticulously licking her clean and driving her once more toward that beautiful, blinding, inevitable edge. Every desperate sound, every involuntary arch of her back, every frantic movement she made—the raw pleasure and need radiating from her—was fueling his own rapidly growing arousal, making his hardness painfully straining within his tightly tailored trousers.

He paused his deep penetration for a critical moment of ethical consideration. She is ecstatic, but she is also overwhelmed. He wasn't sure if she was a virgin, and he wasn't sure if she would want the final, ultimate intimacy to occur when she was delirious under the effects of the Desire. He needed confirmation that this was still her choice.

Decision made, Scott delved his tongue in deeper and sucked harder, simultaneously bringing his free hand up to begin rubbing her clitoris in sync with his oral thrusts. The combination was too much for her hyper-sensitized system. He slowly, relentlessly brought her over that delicious edge, eliciting another piercing, drawn-out scream that shook her body and brought about another profound, immediate orgasm.

"SCOTT! Oh, please! Stop! NO! YES!" she cried out, her voice fracturing with the impossible contradiction of pain and pleasure.

As she gasped and sobbed her way through the after-effects, slowly settling down onto the cold table, Scott finally pulled away completely. His face was glistening with her fluids, flush with intense desire, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, recovering from the exertion. He could feel his rigid cock aching and straining violently within his pants, demanding satisfaction.

He carefully nuzzled and kissed her wet inner thigh, his gaze warm and patient, yet intensely focused on her dazed eyes. His voice, though husky with unreleased desire, was soft and controlled, ensuring clarity.

"Shelby," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, watching her intently. "The purpose of the Vitae is stabilization, and you’ve reached release twice now. Do you want to continue? Or has the intense Desire faded enough that you are stable and comfortable?" He paused, letting the question settle. "If you wish to continue, and if you want to explore giving me pleasure, that is a separate choice. Just how far do you wish to go? I am uncertain of your past boundaries."

He added gently, "You can say stop at any time, my dear. Your safety and your will are paramount."

Shelby slowly came down from her recent orgasmic high, the intense, overwhelming effects of the Desire ebbing away just enough so that clear, coherent thought could return. Then Scott's soft, controlled words met her ears, and she was forced to deliberate. What did she truly want? How far did she want to go? She wasn't a virgin, but it had been so long since she had been intimate with someone that she felt profoundly unsure if her newly sensitized body could handle penetration, despite the craving.

It took her a few moments of intense internal struggle, made exponentially more difficult by Scott’s close proximity, his face still so close to her core, his breath hot against her wet skin. Every gentle nuzzle and kiss to her thigh made her core ache and beg for more, utterly overriding her hesitation.

"More," Shelby finally decided, her voice now steady with raw determination. "Let's do more, Scott. I can handle it."

Scott let out a deep, satisfied purr—a rich, vibrating sound that resonated in the small chamber—as he finally stood. He carefully helped her down off the table, their roles reversing as he leaned back against the cool wood himself. As Shelby was deposited on the ground, her legs were shaky for a moment, betraying the recent trauma, but she stabilized them with a determined effort, excitement mixing with exhaustion.

"Excellent," Scott murmured, his eyes gleaming. "Would you be a darling dear and help me from these archaic, restraining confines?" Scott drawled teasingly, a sultry invitation layered in his aristocratic tone. As he leaned back slightly on the crafting bench, he slowly began unbuttoning his own shirt, revealing his deliciously chiseled and profoundly pale body, a stark, beautiful contrast to her flushed skin.

Shelby gave a hesitant gulp, but the visual was irresistible. She immediately knelt in front of him, reaching out to begin unbuttoning his very old-styled pants. It took her a few focused attempts, as the fastenings were delicate and unfamiliar, but she managed to get them undone. She then began pulling his heavy pants and soft boxers down.

As Scott's aching cock finally came free from the soft restraint of the clothes, Shelby couldn't help but stare for a moment, her breath catching. Scott wasn't immense, but his erection seemed to be crafted for perfection—about seven or eight inches long with a satisfying two-inch thickness. His cock was fully engorged, the veins subtly prominent, yet just as pale as the rest of his body, and it gave an excited, noticeable twitch under her scrutiny.

"Like what you see, my dear?" Scott drawled teasingly, his voice a low, possessive rumble as he spread his legs slightly, presenting himself like a delicious, forbidden meal.

"Mm hmm," was all Shelby could reply, a deep, guttural agreement escaping her lips. Her mouth watered instinctively in response to the delicious meal before her. She reached forward tentatively, letting her fingers close around him, giving his cock a few gentle, exploratory strokes. Shelby glanced up at Scott, watching as an intense, unvarnished expression of pleasure shifted over his face from the simple touch. He has been asleep for centuries, she thought, the thrill of power electrifying her. He is extremely pent up.

Determined to give him the same exquisite pleasure he had given her, Shelby leaned forward. She parted her lips, took Scott's cock fully into her mouth, and began sucking and licking along the sensitive underside, focusing on her technique and trying her absolute best to give Scott as much ecstatic release as he had given her.

Scott let out a deep, throaty moan, the sound rough, utterly guttural, and deeply masculine, as Shelby continued her slow, deliberate work. Her technique, while lacking the refined skill of an experienced lover, was executed with such focused, earnest enthusiastic dedication that it was giving him potent, undeniable pleasure. He let his head fall back against the cool stone of the crafting table, savoring the wet heat of her mouth.

Shelby, in response to his raw, ragged sounds, couldn't help the fierce resurgence of her own desire. The sound of his pleasure was an intoxicating stimulus for her newly sensitized body, and she felt herself getting intensely turned on and quickly slick again. Driven by her renewed, amplified need, she used her right hand to reach down, finding her own throbbing core, and began to play with herself, mirroring his rhythm and attempting to bring about yet another release while she focused all her attention on him.

The minutes stretched out, marked by the wet, rhythmic sounds of her dedicated oral efforts, the frantic friction of her hand on herself, and the low, guttural groans and satisfied sighs emanating from Scott. Shelby was slowly but surely driving Scott toward the edge of his control while simultaneously pushing herself toward a parallel, delicious peak.

Scott, meanwhile, was fighting a desperate internal battle for control. The sensation of her wet, warm mouth, combined with the visual of her pleasuring herself and her concentrated focus on him, was driving his desire into a consuming frenzy. He felt a fierce, raw urge to take control—to grab her head and thrust himself deeper, claiming her entirely in a violent, possessive act. His legendary control was waning slowly, his hands gripping the edges of the crafting table so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn't sure if he could wait much longer before abandoning the foreplay and getting to the main course, his internal clock ticking violently toward the point of necessary release.

As Shelby was pleasuring him, utterly focused on his satisfaction, she suddenly stilled, her focus dissolving as a profound, uncontrolled tremor ran through her body. She had reached her limit, climaxing intensely on her own fingers. Her throat seized and swallowed deeply around Scott's cock, the tight, involuntary suction momentarily cutting off his air supply and sending a shocking jolt of pleasure through him.

That unexpected, intense sensation was the final breach of his control. Scott’s remaining patience snapped. He let out a low, rough growl, his eyes flashing crimson with sudden, raw need, and reached down. He lifted her up effortlessly with one powerful swoop, pulling her off his still hard and aching cock. His movements were swift, not aggressive, but undeniably dominant, fueled by intense sexual frustration and urgency.

He moved quickly, leaning her down and pressing her stomach and breasts against the cool, rough, unyielding surface of the crafting table. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to the dark wood as he shifted her body into a perfect, yielding, doggy-style placement.

"You need to be completely filled, my darling," Scott purred directly into her ear, his voice rough and heavy with command. "Let's be a good little fledgling and take what your Sire offers, alright?"

Scott carefully guided his still wet and aching cock to her dripping core. He began to push in slowly, emitting a deep, guttural moan of pure relief as her hot, tight cavern finally encased his fullness. Shelby, completely enthralled by how utterly in control and possessive Scott had instantly become, groaned aloud, her hips twitching uncontrollably, and almost climaxed again as he entered her moist core.

"Oh! Oh, Scott, yes! So deep!" she gasped, the feeling of being completely filled after so long being exquisitely, supremely good.

Scott slowly, methodically, pushed himself all the way in until he was seated deeply within her, his hips grinding lightly against her rear, claiming every last inch of her. He paused, allowing her to stretch and adjust to his size and depth for a critical, bonding moment. Scott started to give off deep, satisfied possessive purrs and trills, the sounds vibrating through her spine and settling deep in her nascent vampiric core.

Then, without warning or mercy, he pulled almost all the way out, retracting slowly only to instantly launch into a fast, harsh, hammering pace. He drove into her core deeply and relentlessly, his hips slamming into her buttocks, knowing instinctively that the bordering pain of the fierce, rapid impact would only amplify and purify her pleasure in her current, hyper-sensitive state. "Take it, little one. Take it all," he commanded, the words punctuated by the wet sounds of their coupling.

Scott's pace was relentless, a sustained, powerful rhythm that drove deep into her core. He could feel Shelby's inner muscles clench and come to the precipice several times. Each time, he would agonizingly still and slow his movements, his breathing hissing through clenched teeth, not wanting to cut the moment of supreme tension too short. Then, once she had come down from the edge, he would resume his brutal, commanding pace once more.

Eventually, the control he fought so hard to maintain fractured. With a low, final cry that bordered on a snarl, he thrust deeply, burying himself inside her. His own release came simultaneously with Shelby’s, the intensity of her final climax making her body tremble and convulse violently around him as he filled her.

 

~~~SEXY TIME DONE~~~

 

As they slowly subsided from their lust-filled high, Scott pulled out, the wet, parting sound echoing in the chamber. He was spent, yet profoundly satisfied. He tenderly picked her up, her body slack and warm, and, with the same hand, gathered their discarded, rumpled clothes from the floor. He carried her back down the crypt halls to the main Burial Tomb where his massive stone coffin lay. He set her down gently on the cool, smooth edge of the stone dais.

"Why are we back in here, Scott?" Shelby questioned, her voice still husky and breathless, yet now imbued with clear curiosity. "I thought you were building walls up top."

Scott gave a slow, satisfied smirk. "Patience, my dear. You've earned a tour." He reached down into the heavy stone coffin, pushing aside the soft, century-old burial silks. He dug past his old burial clothes to find a small hidden panel containing a set of tiny, worn bronze buttons. He couldn't remember which controlled which mechanism, so he pressed them all, each one giving a sharp, metallic click.

Shelby heard the unmistakable sound of ancient machinery, followed by the grinding friction of rock shifting against rock. Looking up, she noticed that each of the tomb's massive stone walls, which had a classical-looking statue standing sentinel in front of it, began to silently pivot inward. Three hidden doors slowly opened, revealing three distinct, preserved chambers:

1. One door opened into a large, expansive closet and treasure room, filled with racks of luxurious fabrics, silks, and preserved finery.

2. Another opened into a damp, steaming room containing a natural, underground hot spring or bathing area, the air thick with mineral vapor.

3. The last door appeared to lead into a vast, organized library, lined floor-to-ceiling with ancient tomes and scrolls.

Shelby’s jaw dropped in genuine astonishment, her fatigue and shame forgotten, replaced by scholarly excitement. "A secret wing? Scott, this is incredible!"

"Back then, we were a lot smarter about things," Scott explained, picking up the narrative thread. "We ensured certain assets couldn't be looted if a vampire was resting for an extended period. This sanctuary is meant for comfort and education."

Scott picked Shelby up once more and carried her into the steaming bathing chamber. He spent a deliberate amount of time on aftercare, tenderly cleaning and tending to her, treating the intimacy they shared with a quiet reverence. He used an old, pricey, rose-scented soap he'd preserved to wash her hair, gently massaging her scalp and assuring her, "This will make your curls more defined and silky, little one."

Once cleaned and refreshed, they wandered into the closet and treasure space. It contained a wide assortment of clothing, ranging from courtier robes to practical modern wear. Shelby picked out a comfortable, acute outfit that looked the closest to her normal clothes—a well-made, simple skirt and blouse—and quickly got dressed. Scott, meanwhile, selected an even more fancy, elaborate aristocratic outfit in dark velvet and silver thread, enhancing his noble stature.

Fully dressed, Scott escorted her into his vast, shadowed library. "Now for the important part," he stated, leading her past towering shelves. He began searching through the densely packed tomes for the specific volumes she would need to understand her new reality and the Hunter (Avid).

It didn't take him long to locate the most crucial books. He presented them to her: "Vampire Culture: Myth versus Truth" and "Ghouls: Rising Threat."

"These are the most important books you need to start with," Scott explained, placing the heavy, leather-bound tomes in her eager hands. "The first dispels common human nonsense; the second explains why we must be so vigilant—and why your new life is essential."

He noticed her eyes constantly drifting, scanning the endless rows of books and scrolls, her expression hungry. "I know, I know," he chuckled. "I promise you, you can browse at your own leisure once we are no longer in active danger from the Hunters. This library is all yours, eventually."

Shelby squealed happily, the deep-seated academic in her completely thrilled. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, planting a decisive, grateful kiss on Scott's cheek.

Chapter 14

Scott watched the look of pure, academic delight on Shelby's face, the thrill of discovery illuminating her features, and gave her an endearing, satisfied smile. He was happy, and profoundly proud that she was now his fledgling. Though he frowned internally, he truly didn't like that they had been forced to rush her transition. He had hoped to give her more time to enjoy her human life, to savor those last moments of mortality before the Embrace.

Scott slowly led her back out of the opulent Tomb and through the echoing catacombs, beginning a practical tour of the progress made below ground.

"We can't rely on simple tunnels, my dear," Scott explained, his voice low and instructive as they walked. "Everything must be secure, easily hidden, and functional."

He showed her the mining entrance that Pyro had started in one section of a hallway. The entrance was deliberately inconspicuous, merely a subtle break in the stonework, easily concealed and resealable at any time with a simple lock mechanism. "This is our escape route and source of raw materials," he noted. "We need granite for durability and silver and diamond for tools, so this mine will go deep."

He then proceeded to give her a full tour of the livestock/farm room. Shelby had been a bit preoccupied earlier—both with the Desire side effect and the subsequent intimacy—so she hadn't truly appreciated the space.

Shelby entered the large, brightly lit chamber and gazed around, taking in the carefully placed sod, the healthy, meandering cows, and the warm, yellow glow of the lanterns casting soft light on the wooden fences. She looked at Scott, her eyes wide with genuine admiration. "Scott, this is wonderful. You put so much effort into making it feel like a real pasture—the lighting, the grass. The animals look so calm and unstressed."

Scott couldn't help but preen visibly at the compliment, his chest swelling slightly. He accepted the praise gracefully. "An animal kept happy yields superior blood, my little owlet. Comfort is paramount to quality."

Shelby's attention was then instantly caught by the intricate mechanism in the corner. She moved toward the automatic chicken coop, tracing the silver mechanisms with her finger. "And this! Scott, this is fascinating. The complexity of the mechanism is astounding. How does it manage to gather and hatch eggs automatically without breaking them?"

Scott immediately brightened further, his excitement now fully engaged. He launched into a detailed explanation, gesturing emphatically. "Ah, the silver components were tricky to temper, but necessary for longevity! Each laying box is angled precisely to roll the egg onto a soft conveyor belt, which leads to the sorter. The sorter diverts the excess for our direct consumption, and the remaining eggs are incubated at a precise temperature here—" he pointed to the lower pen—"before the low-impact dispenser cracks them gently onto the dirt. A small touch of magic then accelerates the entire hatching process. It’s a completely closed-loop, self-sustaining system!"

Scott finished his enthusiastic explanation of the chicken coop with a satisfied flourish. Shelby smiled, completely captivated by both the technological marvel and the obvious pride her Sire took in his creation.

"It’s brilliant, Scott," Shelby confirmed. "A true example of resource optimization."

"Precisely," Scott agreed, giving her hair a light ruffle. "The logistics are handled. Now, for the final check."

He led her back out of the farm chamber and toward the exit. "We need to see the progress Owen and Pyro have made on the surface walls. We can't rest until we have a proper, defensible perimeter established."

As they climbed the stone steps leading out of the Crypt, they could already hear the steady, rhythmic thud of heavy stones being set into mortar. When they emerged into the starlight, they found Owen and Pyro covered in dust and sweat, the towering stone walls already reaching an impressive height.

"Sire, Fledgling," Owen greeted them, pausing in his work, his eyes briefly sweeping over Shelby, noting the relaxed, albeit spent, look in her eyes—a clear sign that her transition was stabilizing.

"Excellent work, my dears," Scott praised, his voice carrying unmistakable satisfaction as he surveyed the massive, thick walls. "The structure is solid. Shelby, you see? Soon, this entire area will be our fortified sanctuary. Inside these walls, we will build a home worthy of us."

He looked from the imposing structure to his two male fledglings and his newest addition. "Now, rest is paramount. The sun will rise soon. Owen, Pyro, take your break. Shelby, you need to familiarize yourself with those tomes and begin planning your strategy for convincing Avid. you are also stable so if you want to blend in with the humans, you would do well with getting back to town before they all wake for the day"

Shelby nodded, clutching the two heavy books close. The blend of ancient knowledge and immediate physical defense filled her with a new sense of purpose. This was more than just survival; it was the start of building a new empire.

"Where do we go for rest, Sire?" Pyro asked, gesturing to the lack of an interior roof.

Scott smirked, gesturing to the crypt entrance with a sweep of his hand. "To the sanctuary, of course. Until the roof is secure, the Tomb is the safest place for the brood to sleep." He looked at Shelby, his eyes full of soft promise. "And you, my dear, now know exactly where to find comfort."

Scott watched the look of renewed focus and strategic intent in Shelby's eyes and gave her an appreciative smile. Her transition was successful, and her determination was now fixed on the mission.

"I need to internalize this information immediately," Shelby stated, gripping the heavy tomes. "I need to start crafting a believable counter-narrative for Avid. I’ll be back as soon as I can to check in."

She gave a bubbly little giggle, delighted with her purpose, and bounced forward. She planted a final, affectionate kiss on Scott's cheek and gave an intimate, appreciative nuzzle against his neck, a comforting, instinctive gesture she was quickly adopting.

She then turned to the two male fledglings, her demeanor shifting to a slightly more formal politeness. She gave them humble greetings and goodbyes. "Owen, Pyro, thank you for making me feel welcome. I'm heading into town to maintain cover and gather information. I'll be back either later in the day or at least come nightfall."

Before she could take off, Scott reached out and gently pulled her back. "Wait, little one. You must be fully aware." He gave her a detailed overview of her nascent powers, focusing specifically on the disorienting nature of her bat-shifting abilities. "They are instinctive when you panic, but you must control the transformation, especially near the palisade. Only shift if you are absolutely sure of your safety, and never in plain sight."

Once thoroughly forewarned and gripping her two new books like sacred texts, she was finally on her way, disappearing swiftly over the crumbling stone bridge.

Scott watched her go, then turned to his other fledglings, his expression gentle, proud, and indulgent. "Come, my dears. You performed admirably on the wall. You must be sore, drained, and exhausted from the intense effort of setting that granite."

"We are, Sire," Owen confirmed, flexing his powerful forearm, the fatigue evident despite his strength. "The final layers were heavy work."

Scott softly escorted them down into the Crypt. As they walked down the hall, Scott paused dramatically at the heavy wooden door to the Livestock room, placing his hand on the latch.

"The work is done, the night is waning. Are you hungry, Owen? Pyro?" Scott asked gently, emphasizing the word hungry.

The simple question about food caused both of them to emit a deep, collective groan of acute, vampiric hunger, which made Scott chuckle indulgently. They both quickly replied, their voices cracking slightly with need, "Yes, Sire. Desperately."

"Then let me show you what you've worked for." Scott opened the door and led them inside.

The two fledglings stopped dead in the entrance, their initial fatigue forgotten, standing in stunned silence and awe. The room was a sanctuary of food. The large cow pen was now stock full of plump cows, having been magically bred. In another corner, the strange, intricate coop was fully operational, with the wet plink of eggs being launched and hatched into a pen full of chickens, some young and some already full-grown. The room was humming with quiet, sustainable life.

"Do you need a small bite to renew your strength, or something more substantial to sate the void?" Scott asked, looking over his stunned childer with immense satisfaction.

They were both dazed, staring at the sheer volume of secure blood. Owen was the first to speak, though he couldn't help but salivate fiercely, his vampiric hearing amplifying the frantic, delicious sound of the animals' tiny, beating hearts in the confined space.

"More please, Sire," Owen managed, his eyes locked on the cow pen. "Can we—can we each have a cow? A full one?"

Pyro was already nodding vigorously, his eyes wide and hungry. "Yes! We haven't had a proper feed in awhile."

"Of course, my dears," Scott agreed gently. "You earned it." He moved toward the cow pen. He quickly activated his Trance, focusing his mental compulsion on the livestock, ensuring they remained docile and compliant. He carefully led two large, adult cows out of the pen with a simple piece of wheat as a lure.

Once out, he brought them to an empty area of the room and maintained his trance, motioning his fledglings over to feed. Both of them quickly approached their designated cow. As they had seen their Sire do before, they paused for a quick, practiced, reverent moment. They both bowed their heads slightly, thanking the Cow for giving them its life before biting down and drinking deeply, the rich, warm blood the perfect reward for their hard night's work.

Scott stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, watching his Children indulge. It was a sight of deep satisfaction for a Sire—seeing his brood well-fed and thriving. He observed the intense pleasure etched on their faces as they drank the cows dry. Owen was the first to finish, pulling back with a deep, shuddering sigh, his eyes immediately glazing over. He sat in a classic 'food daze'—a state of profound physiological rest and euphoric contentment that followed a substantial Vitae feed—for several moments, completely unresponsive to the world.

Scott gave him a gentle, paternal caress on the head, stroking his hair back from his face. "Rest now, my strong one. Patience. Wait a moment, and you will be washing up and resting in the Tomb soon enough."

Scott then pulled the drained carcass away from the still-dazed Owen. With practiced, efficient speed, he began the process of harvesting. He quickly stripped the animal of its meat and leather, the process requiring no tools but his powerful claws and precision. He even expertly cracked and pried its large bones free. To a vampire establishing a new Nest, nothing was wasted. He stored the prime cuts of meat in a cooling chest built deep into the far rock wall, placed the leather hides in the chest near the door for eventual tanning, and added the bones to a separate storage barrel. "These will be crushed into a fine fertilizer for the crops," he murmured, ensuring the life cycle of the farm was perfectly closed.

Just as he finished processing the first cow, Pyro also finished draining his dry, pulling back with a similar look of profound, blissful satiation, his small frame slumped slightly against the rock wall. Scott quickly repeated the entire, efficient process on the second carcass, working silently to save as much meat and material as possible.

Once the work was done and the remains secured, he returned to his two filled fledglings. He gave a soft, resonant, vibrating trill—a sound of deep satisfaction and affection—as he gently caressed their cheeks and necks to rouse them from their stupor. They blinked slowly, their eyes taking a long moment to focus, coming back from the blissful void of their post-feeding daze.

Scott watched them with amused affection. "A bit full now, my dears?" he said, his eyes twinkling. "Perhaps you over-indulged a little?"

The fledglings nodded happily, their faces radiating simple, uncomplicated bliss, not caring at all that their Sire had found amusement in their adorable, vulnerable state.

"It was... perfect, Sire," Owen whispered, stretching slightly. "I feel stronger than I ever have."

"Thank you, Scott," Pyro added, his gratitude shining in his crimson eyes. "We won't waste any of the supplies."

Scott gave a low, teasing chuckle, a sound filled with private amusement, as he ushered his two pleasantly dazed and satisfied fledglings along. "My, my, you both are so filthy from doing all that hard work," he said lightly, inspecting the streaks of dried mortar and dirt on their pale skin. "I bet you wish you could wash off all that grime right about now, don't you?" he asked, walking them down the final stretch of the crypt halls.

Both Owen and Pyro immediately began airing their grievances about their current state.

"It's terrible, Sire," Owen sighed dramatically, running a hand over his dusty chest. "We're miles from civilization, and I can't abide going to sleep covered in grime and dried mortar. It's an insult to the skin."

"And the river is freezing," Pyro added with a shudder, recalling the icy waters of the mountain stream. "There's no way to have a proper, warm cleansing down here. We'll have to wait for the storm water, I suppose."

Scott listened to their complaints and woes with a subtle, contained smirk, thoroughly enjoying their anticipatory misery. He had purposefully closed the secret sections after Shelby's departure, preserving the moment of grand reveal. He turned the last bend and led them into the final Burial Tomb.

"Welcome to my sanctum, dears," Scott said softly, his voice echoing slightly as he walked toward his massive open stone coffin on the raised dais.

Owen and Pyro looked about the vast, echoing room. The ceiling was intricately carved with stylized bats and owls, their wings spreading across the stone. The three prominent side walls each had an elaborate, classical statue standing sentinel.

"It’s certainly impressive, Sire," Owen conceded, admiring the architecture. "The craftsmanship alone is magnificent."

"It feels incredibly safe, secure, and solid," Pyro agreed, running a hand along a thick stone wall. "But I must admit, it's rather... bare for a Lord's final resting place. Where do you keep your treasures?"

They noticed a slight, almost silent chuckle escape Scott's lips at Pyro's innocent question, and they instantly grew suspicious, exchanging quick, questioning glances.

Scott smiled, savoring their confusion. He reached down into the heavy stone coffin, pushing aside the soft, century-old burial silks. He dug past his old burial clothes to find a small hidden panel containing a set of tiny, worn bronze buttons. He pressed them all in quick succession, each one yielding a sharp, metallic click.

Owen and Pyro gasped simultaneously. They heard the unmistakable whirring of ancient machinery engaging, followed by the heavy, grinding friction of rock shifting violently against rock.

Looking up, they watched in silent, stunned astonishment as each of the tomb's massive stone walls, directly behind the classical statues, began to silently pivot inward. Three hidden doors slowly opened, bathing the central tomb in soft, preserved light and revealing three distinct, preserved chambers:

• One door opened into a large, expansive closet and treasure room, filled with racks of luxurious fabrics, silks, and preserved finery, glittering faintly in the low light.

• Another opened into a damp, steaming room containing a natural, underground hot spring or bathing area, the air thick with warm mineral vapor. The sound of running water was immediately soothing.

• The last door appeared to lead into a vast, meticulously organized library, lined floor-to-ceiling with ancient tomes, scrolls, and scholarly implements.

Owen stared, his mouth slightly ajar. "By the Void, Scott... this is not 'bare'!"

"This is better than any palace!" Pyro breathed, his eyes wide with wonder, already drawn toward the sight of the hot springs.

Scott couldn't help the deep, rolling mirth and delight that illuminated his eyes, another low chuckle escaping his lips as he watched his fledglings’ wide-eyed, awestruck response to the magnificent revelation of his ancestral secret rooms. Their sheer awe was the most satisfying reward for centuries of meticulous secrecy.

"Well, now that you know about these, you are welcome to them at all times, my dears," Scott said, his voice warm and possessive. "They are part of your new home and your inheritance. Now, let's get you out of those filthy, dusty clothes and into the springs to bathe." He gestured toward the steaming entrance with a flourish.

Owen and Pyro exchanged intensely excited, anticipatory looks; the promise of warm, clean water and instant relief from the grime was an irresistible lure. Scott ushered them into the bathing chamber.

The room they entered was vast, carved directly out of the smooth, unblemished subterranean stone, and it radiated an atmosphere of ancient, preserved luxury, akin to a Roman noble's private thermae. The ceiling was a high, gently curving vault of polished granite, preventing condensation from dripping back down. The air was thick, warm, and comforting with mineral vapor.

The centerpiece was a deep, natural pool fed by the continuous flow of the hot spring, the water steaming gently in the cooler crypt air. The edges of the pool were meticulously lined with smooth, dark, sea-green marble, worn slick and soft by centuries of immersion.

Along one side of the cavern, a small, continuous waterfall poured from a cleverly concealed stone spout high up the wall, creating a soothing white noise as it crashed gently into the main pool. This section provided a powerful "shower," designed for rapid cleansing.

Running along the wall directly next to the waterfall was a series of shallow, carved stone niches and shelves containing preserved tools of cleansing: jars of thick, aromatic oils, solid blocks of fragrant soaps, pumice stones, and bone-handled brushes.

The opposite wall held utility and ornamentation: a long, ornate bronze basin on a stand, and elaborate, intricately woven tapestries depicting scenes of ancient nobility relaxing. However, nestled discreetly among the strigils and towels on a lower marble shelf were several unusual, highly polished items carved from dark wood and smooth, weighted stone. These tools—perfectly rounded, tapered, and subtly curved—were designed for specific, private stimulation and deep, internal massage, their shapes suggesting their true, intimate purpose during periods of solitary or partnered pleasure in the warm, concealing waters. Their presence was a quiet testament to the bath's historical use beyond simple hygiene.

Owen, already tearing off his dusty shirt, let out a deep sigh of pure relief. "Blessed warmth! I haven't felt water this luxurious in centuries, Scott."

Pyro, equally eager, was kicking off his boots, his eyes briefly sweeping over the unusual items on the marble shelf, a faint, knowing curiosity sparking in his gaze before he focused on the water. "This is the perfect reward, Sire. Truly genius engineering."

Scott leaned against the marble entryway, his expression one of calm, paternal satisfaction. "Dive in, gentlemen," he instructed, his eyes lingering for a moment on the subtle tools near the basin. "Cleanse yourselves thoroughly. I shall wait here and ensure no sudden intruders decide to take a swim."

Scott watched his fledglings with keen, appreciative interest. Owen and Pyro quickly discarded their filthy, mortared clothes, tossing them carelessly onto the cool stone floor before sinking into the steaming water. They let out identical, profound sighs of deep relief as the penetrating heat of the water instantly eased the relentless ache in their sore muscles, the tension melting away as they settled up to their chests in the mineral spring.

They began the process of cleansing, taking turns scrubbing the grime and muck from each other's backs and shoulders. A palpable, natural closeness and easy physical attraction was evident in their gentle, sustained touches. This closeness stemmed not only from the powerful, shared bond as fledglings under the same Sire, but because both were undeniably fine gentlemen who clearly held open or questioning views on their own sexuality, views now amplified and liberated by the freedom and heightened senses of their vampiric existence. Their prolonged eye contact and lingering caresses were subtle invitations only a vampire would truly notice.

As they scrubbed, Scott slowly walked over to the walls holding the preserved oils and soaps. He took his time, lifting and smelling several jars, his complex senses analyzing the faint, ancient botanical notes. He finally selected a rich, earthy sandalwood mixture for Owen—a scent of strength, nobility, and grounding—and then a warm, bright, nutty hazelnut blend for Pyro—a lighter, more inviting, and slightly youthful fragrance.

Satisfied with his choices, he walked to the edge of the pool, the marble cool beneath his feet. "Come here, you two," He called softly, his voice a warm invitation that cut gently through the sound of the waterfall.

Owen and Pyro exchanged quick glances, a flicker of a blush rising to their pale cheeks as they immediately stopped their close, intimate scrubbing. They quickly waded through the water toward Scott, their movements deferential yet eager.

Scott instructed them to hold out their hands and poured a generous amount of the appropriate oil into their palms, allowing the viscous fluid to pool. "These are concentrated cleansing oils," he explained. "Scrub your hair and bodies with them. They will help cleanse, deeply moisturize, and lightly scent your skin and hair." He watched them with keen, observant eyes. "Don't worry, I chose something fitting for each of you. A scent of your own, to carry your presence and mark you as individuals."

He had been watching their subtle interactions carefully. He understood perfectly well that they were exploring the intense, new dynamics of their desires and the closeness of their bond. He was their Sire, their guide, but their affection was their own to discover. He would not command their path. 

Owen and Pyro listened intently to Scott, then immediately began rigorously scrubbing their bodies and hair with the specialized oils. The rich, viscous solution felt instantly refreshing, deeply conditioning, and wonderfully therapeutic against their skin, the herbal scents working to dissolve the deep-set grit and grime of their labor. As they inhaled their own chosen scents—the warm, grounding sandalwood for Owen and the bright, inviting hazelnut for Pyro—they couldn't help but feel an instinctive, almost euphoric draw to the fragrance. It felt perfectly curated, made just for them, satisfying a deep, primal need for identity and cleanliness. The pleasant odor made their new vampiric instincts hum with satisfaction, almost compelling them to immerse themselves fully in the fragrance and never emerge.

Once fully scrubbed and lathered in the oil, they walked toward the waterfall to rinse the excess away. Owen went first, stepping directly beneath the forceful, hot cascade. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the rushing water crash over his face and through his newly softened hair, sighing as the pressure massaged his neck and shoulders.

Pyro stood back, waiting his turn, his gaze fixed on Owen with an intensity that bordered on reverence. His fellow fledgling, illuminated by the low light reflecting off the steaming water, just looked so flawlessly beautiful and powerful—the definition of sculpted, pale masculine grace. A wave of sudden, profound insecurity washed over Pyro. He’s magnificent, Pyro thought with a painful pang. I'm just a normal, plain man given eternal life. I can't compare to that commanding presence.

But the insecurity was instantly challenged and overpowered by a fierce surge of raw, physical attraction. Despite his lingering uncertainty about his sexual identity, his eyes remained fixed on the powerful lines of Owen’s wet, exposed body. His thoughts rapidly descended into deeply intimate territory, fueled by the warmth of the spring, the proximity of his companion, and the uninhibited nature of the moment. Pyro couldn't help the undeniable physical response; his cock slowly and determinedly perked up below the surface of the water, pushing against the tension of his abdomen—a clear, undeniable sign of his rising desire for his beautiful, powerful companion.

As Owen finished rinsing and stepped from the forceful cascade of the waterfall, the air suddenly felt cooler around him. He immediately saw Pyro’s defensive reaction: his gaze sharply averted, his posture hunched, and his hands moving instinctively to cover himself almost shamefully beneath the water's surface.

Owen felt a momentary pang of alarm, quickly followed by a rush of protective concern. He didn't want his fellow fledgling to feel shame—especially not here, in their sanctuary. He had taken the time to explain the intimacies and sexual freedom inherent in vampire culture, and he had hoped Pyro would have absorbed that lesson.

Owen stepped aside, allowing Pyro to enter the rushing water to begin rinsing off.

As Pyro stood beneath the waterfall, the hot water beating down on his shoulders, his mind was in turmoil over his conflicted thoughts and his undeniable physical reaction. He was running one hand through his hair, clearing the oil, while the other was desperately anchored low, trying to hide his erection, terrified of what Owen might think of him and his rising attraction.

So deep was he in his thoughts and focused on the torrent that he hadn't realized Owen had moved until he felt the sudden warmth and solid pressure. Owen had come up silently behind him, pressing their backs together, his head resting lightly against Pyro's shoulder. Simultaneously, Owen's hand snaked around his side, settling low to gently grip and massage his hip with a firm, comforting pressure.

"What could possibly be going through that pretty little mind of yours, Pyro?" Owen asked, his voice low, husky, and edged with genuine worry, the sound vibrating right through Pyro's bones.

Pyro could feel the blush instantly spread across his face and neck, heating his pale skin, and his body reacted violently to the close proximity of Owen's strong, wet form behind him. He felt his cock twitch below his concealing hand, his interest piqued by the hushed, concerned tone of Owen's voice.

"No... nothing, Owen," he managed softly, the powerful rush of the water almost swallowing his confession. "I just feel... inadequate... compared to your elegance and strength..."

Owen tightened his grip on Pyro’s hip and shifted his head, his lips now close to Pyro's ear. "Pyro, look at me. It's okay. You've seen Scott, you've seen the freedom we have now. It's perfectly natural for us to be attracted to each other, to feel things strongly. There is no shame here, darling."

He then gently squeezed Pyro’s hip again, his voice dropping to an intensely reassuring murmur. "And don't you dare say you're inadequate. You are beautiful, Pyro. You are intelligent, devoted, and your presence is a comfort to me. Now that you are changed, you shine just as brightly as anyone else here."

Owen began a slow, sensual, circular massage on Pyro's hip bone, his thumb occasionally brushing the sensitive skin of Pyro's side. "If you want to learn, if you want to experiment with what this new life can offer—with me—I would be more than happy to help guide you. Or, if you prefer, we can even get Scott to assist or teach us both. We are family, Pyro. We explore together."

Owen maintained his pressure, giving Pyro a deliberate moment of silence to wrestle with his thoughts, allowing him the mental space to determine what he truly wanted. As Pyro struggled beneath the torrent of hot water, Owen subtly intensified the sensation: he adjusted his posture to press their bodies closer, and he leaned in, pressing gentle, tender, and increasingly deliberate kisses along Pyro's sensitive pulse point on his neck, his teeth occasionally dragging lightly against the skin.

Pyro was plunged into deep, visceral turmoil once more, unsure of everything except the overwhelming, demanding sensation of Owen's body against his own. He desperately tried to recall the logical framework Owen had explained about the intricacies of vampire culture and their communal, liberated sexual habits—the necessity of physical bonding, the removal of human taboos.

He vividly recalled the primal, intimate sounds they had heard echoing up from the crypt earlier, confirming that their Sire had been intensely pleasuring Shelby, the newest fledgling. At the time, Pyro hadn't felt disgusted or morally outraged; rather, he felt a powerful, disorienting mix of curiosity and fascination.

But now, as he tried to construct a coherent thought, Owen's warm breath and insistent kisses along his neck were melting his concentration away. He could feel his judgment and human inhibitions rapidly dissolving into a raw, undeniable, physical ache.

A simpler, instinctual logic surfaced, seizing control: It wouldn't hurt to try and see if I liked it, right? Scott and Owen both seem to enjoy this freedom. If I didn't like it, then they could just stop, couldn't they? He needed to secure this last scrap of uncertainty, to establish a safe boundary before surrendering to the desire.

Pyro took a shaky, uneven breath, leaning his head back slightly against Owen’s wet shoulder. "Owen," he whispered, his voice catching, "if... if I decide to try this with you... and I find that I truly don't... like it, or if it suddenly becomes too much for me... can we just stop? Promise me. No questions asked, no hard feelings, no judgment?" he pleaded softly, the genuine vulnerability and tentative hope clear in his voice, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Owen halted his kisses and let out a deep, gentle laugh, the sound resonating with profound sincerity, easing some of the tension visibly coiled in Pyro's shoulders. "Pyro, my darling, look at me. Of course," he confirmed earnestly. "You have the least experience, so you have the absolute most control over this encounter. If you don't like something—any sensation, any movement—say so immediately and clearly. If you want to try something specific, speak up. If you just need a moment, say something, and I can give you space to breathe."

Owen paused, his gaze melting the last of Pyro's defensiveness. "And if you find that you truly don't like any of it, if it’s not for you, that is absolutely fine. It's not a failure, Pyro. Your comfort is the only rule here." He then slowly and gently pushed Pyro forward, guiding him out from under the waterfall's harsh stream and into the warmer, calmer waters of the main pool.

A quick, confident glance from Owen showed Scott leaning casually by the marble entryway. Scott gave a slow, minute nod, his expression proud and intensely interested, clearly listening intently to the exchange and silently giving his full, paternal approval.

Pyro took a final, trembling moment, thinking everything over, fully absorbing the final details of consent and safety from Owen. He finally gave a slow, deliberate nod, the decision settling in his heart. "I... I wanna try," Pyro said softly, his voice barely a breath. "If you'll... if you'll still want me." Pyro's lingering self-doubt about his attractiveness was a persistent, heartbreaking fragility.

Owen responded with a bright, incandescent smile that banished the shadow of doubt. He reached up, cupped Pyro's wet face in his strong hands, and turned him fully, pulling him close to kiss him full on. Initially, the kiss was soft and gentle—a simple, tender brush of lips and affection. But Owen slowly deepened the contact, the kiss growing more hungry and possessive, tentatively coaxing Pyro to open his mouth. Soon, their tongues met, mingling in a sensual, eager, and exploring french kiss, the cool water of the spring rushing over their intertwined forms.

Both were momentarily distracted, lost in the immediate passion, as Scott began walking across the room once more, moving silently and purposefully. He bypassed the areas for blending soaps and headed toward a different, more secluded section of the stone wall dedicated to storing his more "appropriate tools" for the evening.

He opened a concealed, water-tight compartment in the granite. Inside, neatly arranged, was a fascinating, intimidating collection: a bundle of good, un-frayable rope made from woven silk and cured leather; various smooth, metal tools of different shapes and density; several durable metal rings of differing circumferences and thicknesses; and a long, sturdy string holding thick, rubber-like anal balls of various sizes—clearly designed for deep, internal exploration and stimulation. The air of history and intimacy that permeated the room extended to these objects.

Scott examined the collection with an expert eye. He was debating which specific, gentle tools he would introduce to his most likely virgin fledgling, weighing pleasure against inexperience, ready to facilitate the next stage of bonding.

 

~~~Smexy Time Ahead ( Voyeurism, Cock Ring Edging, Anal Beads, Biting, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Threesome ) ~~~

 

After a moment of careful deliberation, Scott made his selection. He decided to grab the smallest string of anal beads—smooth, highly polished stones, perfectly sized for initial internal exploration—and a medium-sized, simple metal cock ring. He would start by offering small, unintimidating options, allowing his fledglings the freedom to choose and explore gently. Scott was also unsure of Owen's exact experience level with such specialized toys, but he was at least certain that Owen was not a complete novice in sexual encounters.

He slowly trailed over to the water's edge and set the tools down on the marble lip, ensuring they were visible yet not intrusive—a discreet invitation. He watched his fledglings kissing enthusiastically, their bodies intertwined in the warm, steaming water. Scott then slowly shed his own immaculate clothes, carefully folding his freshly cleaned, elaborate velvet garments and setting them on the dry stone bench since they were too valuable to wrinkle.

Scott slowly entered the spring, the hot water immediately enveloping his pale, perfect form. He ensured the toys were placed securely on the dry edge of the spring as he approached his fledglings.

"Oh my, it seems my darlings have started without waiting for their Sire," Scott purred tenderly, his voice a low, suggestive vibration that carried easily over the water and the roar of the waterfall. He moved with silent, fluid grace, stepping up behind Pyro until he effectively sandwiched the startled fledgling, pressing him between his own hard body and Owen's eager front.

Scott leaned down, his chin resting lightly on Pyro's wet shoulder, and began to gently kiss and suckle at Pyro's exposed pulse point, a possessive, claiming gesture. "I wondered when you would finally grow an interest in this, little one," he murmured into Pyro's ear, his breath warm and intoxicating.

With a sudden, wet, breathless sound, Owen and Pyro abruptly pulled apart, their lips separating dramatically. Pyro gasped for air he didn't technically need, his face—already flushed from the heat—now a vibrant, shocked crimson. Owen, meanwhile, looked utterly ravenous, slowly licking his lips to savor Pyro's flavor before turning his wide, intensely desiring gaze onto Scott.

"Scott! W-we... we didn't mean to exclude you, Sire," Owen managed, his voice thick with arousal and a hint of apology. "We were just... starting the lessons."

Scott chuckled deeply against Pyro's warm, wet flesh, the sound resonating with intense satisfaction. His teeth began teasingly nipping and dragging across the sensitive curve of Pyro's shoulder and neck, drawing a slight, involuntary keening sound from Pyro's lips—a high-pitched sound of acute, unexpected pleasure. "It's quite alright, little one, we are just starting anyway," Scott murmured into his ear, his tongue tracing the delicate skin he had just nipped, confirming his claim.

Owen swallowed hard, his own arousal spiking sharply, and met Pyro's unfocused eyes across the width of Pyro's shoulder. "Pyro," Owen asked huskily, his voice thick and low with anticipation, "Will you let me start by touching you? Let me show you how good this can be."

Pyro’s eyes narrowed for a brief, disoriented moment as he desperately tried to process the sensory overload from Scott's neck teasing. Once Owen's deliberate words finally registered, he focused his gaze on his fellow fledgling, his pupils dilating with an earnest, urgent curiosity and need. "Yes," Pyro said softly, his voice trembling slightly, "Please, touch me, Owen."

Owen gave an eager, hungry look and wasted no time. He leaned down and began with Pyro's chest. Using one hand, he began to tease, roll, and pinch one of Pyro's nipples with deliberate, escalating pressure, while with his mouth, he wrapped his lips around the other, beginning to bite and suckle on it firmly. Little sparks of pure, electric pleasure seemed to shoot through Pyro's body from Owen's ministrations, his hips involuntarily tilting back into the empty space where Scott had just been.

Scott himself paused his teasing, watching Owen work with a soft, pleased smile—a Sire observing the bonding of his brood. He spoke softly to Pyro, his voice still right at his ear, a continuous stream of sensual guidance. "Owen is doing wonderfully, isn't he? You feel that deep pleasure starting to build," Scott praised him. "To ensure this pleasure doesn't end too soon for you, perhaps we should introduce something to sustain and intensify that feeling?"

Pyro could only manage a numb nod in agreement, his breath catching in a small, ragged gasp. He did not want this dizzying bout of pleasure to stop, even if the thought of the "something" was vague and promised more overwhelming sensation. "Yes, anything," he breathed out.

With the soft agreement secured, Scott gently stepped away from the intimate pairing. He walked over to the dry marble lip where the tools lay. He carefully grabbed the medium-sized metal cock ring before gliding back through the warm water toward his eagerly waiting fledglings.

Scott rejoined them, gliding with silent, fluid grace through the warm water. Owen was still intensely focused on Pyro's chest, enthusiastically sucking and biting gently at his nipples, drawing forth soft, strained sounds of pure pleasure from the younger man.

Scott quietly meandered up to Pyro’s side, gently holding up the metal cock ring just in view above the water's surface, the cold metal glinting. He waited until Pyro’s slightly glazed eyes registered the object before speaking, his voice patient and instructive.

"This, my little one, is a constraint tool," Scott explained softly, presenting the ring like a valuable artifact. "It is placed at the very base of the shaft. Its purpose is to restrict the flow of blood out of the area, maintaining a fuller, harder erection for a longer time, and significantly delaying your sensitivity. In short: it makes the pleasure more intense and sustained."

He offered the question once more, his gaze locking with Pyro's. "Would you be interested in trying this, Pyro? It's perfectly safe, and it will keep you exquisitely hard for us."

Pyro bit his lip, his eyes darting between the promise of prolonged pleasure in Scott's expression and the slightly intimidating, cold gleam of the metal ring. His curiosity and the burning desire ignited by Owen's relentless ministrations quickly overrode his remaining hesitancy. "Yes... Yes, Scott. I want to try it," he agreed, the words a strained whisper.

Scott gave an excited, deeply satisfied grin. "Excellent. Then I shall place it on you myself. I will be touching your cock for a brief moment as I slide it on and fit it into place, Pyro. Tell me instantly if the sensation is too much or uncomfortable."

He knelt gently beside Pyro, his movements careful and respectful, and reached his hand into the water at Pyro's waist. With his enhanced sight, the water was no obstruction; he could easily see and carefully grasp hold of Pyro's slowly hardening cock. With a gentle but firm hold, Scott slid the cold metal ring onto the base of his shaft. The sudden, startling chill of the metal against his heated flesh made Pyro gasp sharply.

Once the ring was positioned snugly and securely at the base of his cock, Scott started to give Pyro a few slow, firm strokes, giving his cock some focused, appreciative attention. The sensation, combined with the restriction, made it harden slightly more in Scott's hand, making the metal ring become satisfyingly snug and tight around his base, instantly increasing the localized pressure and sensation.

Meanwhile, Owen had switched his focus, now biting and gently sucking on the opposite nipple that he had teased earlier, while meticulously pinching and rolling the other with his fingers. Both nipples were rapidly becoming swollen, engorged, and intensely sensitive, ensuring Pyro remained completely overwhelmed and anchored in escalating pleasure.

Scott finished his delicate work on Pyro's cock and stood up, moving his hand away from the newly constrained flesh. He watched as Owen continued his focused, sensual teasing, his head bent to Pyro’s chest, his ministrations growing more fervent. Deciding it was time to seize control and guide the encounter to its next intense phase, Scott moved with silent, possessive grace. He took his place directly behind Pyro once more, pressing close and allowing the younger man to lean back against his solid, warm chest, effectively bracing him.

Scott ran a large, comforting hand through Pyro's clean, hazelnut-scented hair, the gesture tender, almost proprietary. With a soft, vibrating trill—a sound of deep, satisfied vampiric contentment—Scott leaned into Pyro's ear as he continued to watch Owen's work on Pyro's chest.

"You are completely lost to the pleasure now, aren't you, little one?" Scott murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble right against Pyro's skin. "But now... do you wanna try something truly different? Something risky, perhaps... something that only your Sire can truly offer and control?"

He paused, the anticipation hanging heavy in the steam-filled air. His voice dropped to a silken invitation. "Do you want to be bitten?"

Scott felt Pyro's entire body instantly tense and lock against him, the subtle fear and overwhelming curiosity battling fiercely within him. "I promise it may sound scary, a little forbidden perhaps, but the sensation—the rush of blood control, the deep, unique pleasure that comes from the giving—will be quite unlike anything you have experienced. It is the pinnacle of our most intimate bonding."

Owen, meanwhile, immediately paused his sucking, lifting his head from Pyro's chest, a slick thread of moisture connecting them momentarily. He was listening in curiously and intrigued, his eyes fixed intently on Scott, waiting to see Pyro's answer to the ultimate question of vampiric pleasure.

Pyro's entire body was locked rigid against Scott. The combination of Owen’s intense oral attention and Scott’s powerful, warm presence pressing against his back, coupled with the provocative question, caused a surge of pure adrenaline and dread. The thought of the bite—the intimacy, the inherent danger—was terrifying, but the pleasure radiating from the rest of his body was demanding more.

He could feel Scott's chest rumbling against his back as he waited, the pressure mounting. Pyro finally gave in to the insistent need for more.

"Yes," Pyro managed to whisper, the word sounding shaky but decisive. "Yes, Scott. I trust you. Show me."

Owen let out a low, approving groan and immediately resumed his ministrations on Pyro's chest, taking the agreement as a sign to escalate his own efforts. He began sucking and nipping at Pyro's nipples with renewed vigor, preparing his body for the intense sensation to come.

Scott gave a deep, satisfied hum that vibrated the length of Pyro’s spine. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice heavy with promise. "You will not regret trusting your Sire."

Scott gently shifted Pyro's head, tilting it back and exposing the elegant line of his neck. He moved his head slowly, his breath, hot and charged with anticipation, ghosting over the exact spot where he would pierce the skin. He could feel the pulse rapidly beating beneath his lips.

He didn't rush. He first used his lips and tongue to trace the skin, licking a wet trail down to the junction of Pyro's shoulder, preparing the site and further intensifying the fear-laced anticipation.

Finally, with a soft, controlled pressure, Scott allowed his fangs to extend. He sank them slowly, shallowly, and precisely into the tender skin just above the collarbone. Pyro let out a sharp, choked gasp, the initial prick of pain quickly dissolving into a profound, dizzying rush of sensation.

Scott wasn't taking blood; he was giving—injecting a small, controlled amount of his own potent Venom, using it control his blood flow and flood Pyro's senses with pure, undiluted pleasure and dominance, the ultimate physical bond between Sire and Fledgling. Pyro's legs instantly went weak, and he slumped back entirely into Scott's supporting chest, lost to the intensity.

Scott maintained the deep, intimate connection for only a few thrilling seconds, allowing a powerful surge of controlled Vitae to wash over Pyro. This intense internal rush confirmed the bond, sealing their relationship as Sire and Fledgling. Then, with professional smoothness, he gently pulled his fangs free from Pyro's neck, the suction leaving a brief, tingling ache that immediately transitioned into a profound, concentrated sensitivity.

"You see, little one?" Scott murmured into his ear, his voice low with triumph and deep affection. "The risk is worth the reward. Only your Sire can give you that."

He immediately began to move his mouth, tracing a path of small, sharp, teasing bites along Pyro's shoulder and down his upper arms. Scott nipped and dragged his fangs just enough to pierce the skin for a microsecond—a constant barrage of sharp, acute pleasure that gave a rush without causing any significant bleeding or true pain. Each delicate bite sent a fresh, electrifying jolt through Pyro’s nervous system, ensuring he remained completely suspended on the brink of overload.

"Oh, Scott," Pyro gasped, his voice tight and strained, his head rolling back against Scott's shoulder. "It's too much... it's incredible. Please... don't stop..." He was completely pliant in Scott’s arms, utterly overwhelmed by the continuous assault of sensation, his lips parted in a silent, desperate moan.

Owen, seeing Scott had taken command of the upper body and sensing Pyro's complete surrender, decided to provide a new, shocking axis of pleasure. He released Pyro's chest and gracefully knelt in the warm water. His gaze dropped to Pyro's waist, locked onto the small, restricting gleam of the metal ring at the base of the hardening cock.

Owen reached out, taking the restricted shaft in hand, feeling the solid, throbbing tension caused by the constraint. Knowing they didn't require, being undead and all, he ducked his head completely below the water's surface, the steam and murky water concealing his intent. He took Pyro's cock fully into his mouth and began the expert work of licking, sucking, and circling the shaft with his tongue.

The sensation—wet, warm, and entirely unexpected—hit Pyro with shocking force. His hips instinctively bucked forward, a silent scream of intense pleasure trapped in his chest.

"Gah! Owen!" he choked out, his eyes flying open and wide, his body arching against Scott. "What—what are you doing? Oh God..."

Pyro's body remained rigid and violently arched against Scott, the shock of the sudden, submerged intimacy registering fully. The warm, dark water around his hips felt electrically charged. 

Scott held Pyro securely against his chest, his arms wrapping around him to prevent him from instinctively jumping or pushing away. He continued the tiny, soothing nips on his shoulder and neck, maintaining the perfect level of pleasure-laced agony.

"Easy, little one, easy," Scott murmured into his ear, his voice deeply calming and rational despite the intense situation. "Owen was simply feeling left out of the fun, and he desires to give you pleasure too. He is performing fellatio, Pyro. A beautiful act of submission and worship. Focus on the sensation he is giving you."

Below the water, Owen was utterly devoted, taking his time with expert control, his mouth a source of deep, wet, enveloping heat. He used his tongue precisely, slowly licking and swirling around the head of Pyro's restricted cock before moving down the shaft, applying varying, teasing pressures.

Then, emboldened by Scott’s stability and Pyro’s physical surrender, Owen attempted something more profound and overwhelming. He eased his jaw open and began to take Pyro deeper, slowly and deliberately easing the full length of the shaft into his throat, pushing until his mouth encountered the hard, unyielding boundary of the metal ring. He couldn't go past it, but the pressure and stretching sensation were intense and fully stimulating.

Pyro's breath hitched, the sensation of deep, restricted penetration coupled with the tightness of the ring was almost unbearable. "M-mmph! S-Scott! I can't—it's too much," he tried to protest, his words tight and breathless. "I'm going to—"

Scott tightened his embrace, rubbing Pyro’s arm firmly. "I know, my dear. That is the point. It's meant to be overwhelming. Owen is pushing you to the very edge, but that little ring is ensuring you won't go over. He wants you aching for release, wanting it only from us." Scott leaned down, his voice dropping to a seductive, possessive whisper. "Let him worship you, Pyro. Accept his devotion. You are doing so well. Just breathe, and let the pleasure build and burn."

Owen worked relentlessly, moving his head up and down in a steady, determined rhythm, driving Pyro toward an unbearable peak that the metal constraint would ultimately deny him, ensuring the pleasure became a pure, intense, drawn-out need that would bind him further to his Sire and his fellow fledgling.

Pyro, utterly guided by Scott’s soothing, commanding voice and completely overwhelmed by the continuous, targeted assault from Owen, slowly began to utterly lose his grip on rational thought. The intense sensation, prolonged and restricted by the cold metal ring, drove him further and further into a state of blind, frantic, physical desire. His initial shock had dissolved entirely into a singular, agonizing focus on the pleasure building relentlessly in his restricted groin. His body ceased to struggle against Scott’s embrace, moving only to instinctively buck and thrust his hips forward in a desperate, animalistic response to the movements below the water.

Scott could feel the raw, escalating tremors running through Pyro’s frame and the violent, near-boiling escalation of his blood. The moment for the agonizing denial to end was now.

"I... I can't take it, Scott," Pyro finally pleaded, his voice cracking with a raw desperation that bordered on genuine distress, barely coherent against the sound of the waterfall. "Please, Sire... I need... the other side of the edge. Please, I need completion. I can't hold on anymore!"

Scott gave a deep, rumbling, satisfied hum that vibrated the entire length of Pyro’s back and chest. "Of course, my dear," he whispered tenderly, granting the ultimate permission. "If that is truly what you crave from us, then you shall have it."

Scott focused his mind and sent a clear, sharp, undeniable mental command directly to Owen: Release him now. The denial is over. Give him his completion.

Below the water, Owen instantly felt the powerful, clear directive from his Sire. His eyes snapped upward, meeting Scott's gaze above the steam—a silent, intense confirmation of the change in plans. Without breaking his rhythm, Owen expertly used his thumb and forefinger to quickly slip the metal ring off the base of Pyro's shaft.

The instant the constraint was removed, the agonizing pressure flow erupted into freedom. Owen, eager to fully deliver the promised, shattering release, did not pause for breath. He immediately intensified his assault, increasing the speed and depth of his rhythmic sucking and licking to a frantic pace. The sudden freedom coupled with the previously denied, heightened sensitivity was a shock wave that shattered Pyro's control. Pyro let out a sharp, choked cry that was agonizingly loud in its intensity.

"Oh! Owen—!" he screamed, the word tearing from his throat. His body seized violently against Scott’s chest as his first true, full vampiric climax tore through him, a torrent of hot cum mixing with the water in Owen’s mouth. "I'm—I'm coming! Oh, Scott!"

Owen worked relentlessly for several seconds, ensuring Pyro's completion was total and shuddering. As the last violent tremor ran through Pyro’s body, Owen eagerly swallowed the load, making a soft, audible, satisfied gulping sound beneath the water before finally pulling his head free, his lips glistening with wetness and deep satisfaction. He stood up slowly, his eyes bright, gazing down at Pyro with intense pride.

"That was incredible, Pyro," Owen breathed, his voice husky. "Absolutely breathtaking."

Pyro, spent and trembling, sagged entirely against Scott. His legs were useless.

Scott held him securely, his voice a low, soothing balm pressed right against his ear. "There you go, my brave little fledgling," Scott praised him softly. "See? You trusted us, and you made it through. That was magnificent. You did wonderfully, enduring the denial and embracing the height of the pleasure."

Scott gently lifted Pyro's limp, exhausted body out of the water, carrying him slowly to the edge of the pool. He laid him tenderly on a large, dry silk tapestry from the nearby rack, and held him close as Pyro slowly came down from the dizzying, shattering high.

After a moment of silence, as Pyro's rapid breathing gradually steadied, Scott glanced down at his charge's body beneath the silk. He noticed that despite the climax, Pyro's cock was already attempting to return to attention, not fully spent. Scott gave a knowing, patient smile.

"You're not quite done yet, are you, my dear?" Scott observed tenderly. "Your body is already responding, craving more sensation." He looked directly into Pyro's eyes, which were now clearer but still deeply dilated. "How much further do you wish to go tonight? We will not proceed without your explicit consent."

Owen, moving to stand beside Scott, leaned forward, his gaze intense. "You felt so good, Pyro. The ring really worked."

Scott then laid out the next options, his voice calm, rational, and instructional. "If you want to, there is another specialized tool to try—those small, smooth beads over there could offer a very unique, internal sensation. Or, if you are ready," he paused, letting the weight of the option settle, "one of us could pleasure you and take you from behind. That, Pyro, would be your very first true penetration, and it is a profound way to bond with your family. What does your heart and your body desire now?"

Pyro blinked slowly, still catching his breath, and managed a shaky whisper: "I... I feel amazing, Scott. Like I could float forever." He looked at Owen, then back to Scott, his eyes shining with newfound courage and curiosity. "First penetration... I don't know. Is it... is it scary?"

Scott adjusted the silk wrap around Pyro, ensuring he was comfortable and fully supported on his lap, and gave a gentle, reaffirming squeeze to his shoulder. He understood the gravity of Pyro's decision.

"It can be scary, yes," Scott confirmed softly, looking deeply into Pyro's searching eyes. "But the fear is a human instinct, Pyro. It stemmed from ignorance and lack of care. That is not the case here, my dear. Owen and I are experienced. We are your brood. We care immensely for your pleasure."

He offered a confident, soothing smile. "Owen will be exquisitely gentle, and I will be right here with you, supporting and guiding every step. We will ensure you feel nothing but pleasure and safety."

Owen nodded earnestly, kneeling beside them, his eyes locked on Pyro with reverence. "I promise you, Pyro, total care. And you maintain the stop word. We will stop at the slightest sign of discomfort."

Pyro bit his lip, debating for a final, intense moment. The denial was hard to resist, but the idea of that intimate, familial bond was intoxicating, and the promise of absolute safety from his Sire was the anchor he needed. Finally, he gave a slow, deep nod.

"Okay," Pyro whispered, his voice trembling slightly with a mixture of excitement and raw nerves. "I... I want to try. With Owen. Please."

Owen let out a low, deeply satisfied sigh, his eyes glowing. "More than willing, little flame. More than willing."

Scott smiled, triumphant. "Wonderful. Now, let's get you positioned for comfort and ease."

Scott gently shifted Pyro, pulling him fully onto his lap. Pyro was now facing Owen, his back perfectly molded against Scott's firm, warm chest, his legs draped over the pool's marble edge. Scott maintained a secure, protective hold, his arms wrapped around Pyro's waist, his presence a constant source of stability.

"Owen, begin the preparation," Scott instructed, his voice authoritative but calm. "Gently, start with the outer rings of sensation."

Owen eagerly moved forward. He gently nudged Pyro's legs apart and leaned down, his intention instantly clear. Pyro gasped softly, his body tensing, as Owen began his task: his first rim job. Owen started with slow, deliberate licks around the sensitive junction of Pyro's buttocks, using the warm, spring water still clinging to the skin as a natural lubricant.

"Mmmph! Owen!" Pyro mumbled, his body stiffening suddenly in Scott's arms at the strange, deep intimacy.

"Just relax into it, Pyro," Scott coached, his voice close to Pyro's ear, his hand rubbing comforting circles on Pyro's sternum. "It's intensely stimulating. Let Owen prepare your body for what is coming. Trust the sensation."

Owen's tongue grew more focused, exploring and stimulating the delicate area with deep, wet attention. He worked carefully until the muscles began to lose their resistance. Then, Owen moved to the next step: finger stretching. He reached for the preserved oils from the nearby niche, coating his fingers heavily with the rich, slick lubricant.

"Ready, Pyro? I'm going in slow now," Owen asked softly, looking up for explicit confirmation.

Pyro, breathing hard, his hips still responding to the residual sensation, managed only a tight nod.

Owen gently inserted one finger into Pyro's opening. He paused, feeling the muscles clench tightly around his digit, allowing the sphincter to adjust to the intrusion before slowly, painstakingly adding a second finger, then slowly a third, meticulously and thoroughly stretching and preparing his fellow fledgling for the profound intimacy that awaited them.

"Scott..." Pyro whimpered, feeling the internal pressure.

"You're doing so well, my dear," Scott immediately reassured him, placing a gentle kiss on his temple. "Just breathe through the pressure. This is necessary for pleasure. Feel how Owen cares for you."

Owen continued the stretching until the opening was fully pliable. His eyes constantly flickered up, checking Scott’s expression for any sign of true distress in Pyro’s face. When none were apparent—only wide-eyed focus and nervous acceptance—Owen carefully removed his fingers, the entrance slick and ready.

He reached for the preserved oil and generously lubricated his own cock, coating it meticulously in the rich, hazelnut-scented fluid, transforming it into a silken weapon of pleasure.

Simultaneously, Scott leaned into Pyro's ear, his voice low, intimate, and intensely supportive. "Deep breaths, little one. You've been perfectly prepared by Owen's diligent care. You're about to feel the intimacy of our nature. Relax your muscles, and anticipate the heat of the coming union."

Owen positioned himself, pressing the broad head of his cock gently against Pyro's prepared opening. He looked to Scott for the final nod, which was immediately given.

Slowly, meticulously, Owen began to push inward. The initial penetration was met with a sharp, involuntary hiss and a violent clench of pain from Pyro, whose body tensed immediately against Scott. Pyro's hands flew up, seizing the marble edge of the pool. Owen instantly stilled, holding his position only partially inserted.

"Easy, my dear. Slow, slow," Scott coached, his hand moving to rub a soothing circle over Pyro's rigid belly. "Hold that breath, and then release it slowly. This initial pressure is momentary, Pyro. Adjust to the fullness. Tell us what you feel."

"F-fire... so full... too much pressure!" Pyro choked out, his head thrashing against Scott's shoulder.

It became a slow, agonizingly deliberate process. Owen pushed forward only fractions of an inch at a time, withdrawing slightly and pausing at every desperate sound, giving Pyro's sensitive muscles maximum time to adjust.

Eventually, Owen was fully sheathed inside Pyro. Pyro's breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, but the sharp pain had faded into a deep, intense fullness—a sensation of being utterly consumed and sealed.

"There," Scott praised, kissing his temple. "You did it, my brave boy. You are filled to the fullest now. You are feeling whole and contained. Hold this feeling, my dear. Soon, the immense pleasure will drown out the fullness."

Owen began to set up a slow, shallow pace of pulling out slightly and thrusting back inside, allowing Pyro’s body to map his length. After a few tentative, careful thrusts, Owen hit a precise, explosive bundle of nerves deep within Pyro's core.

Pyro’s back arched violently against Scott’s chest, his hands gripping the marble so hard his knuckles turned white. He gasped out a sharp, strangled, high-pitched moan that was instantly cut short by the sheer intensity. His eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, seeing brief, spectacular flashes of light behind his eyes.

"Oh! Oh, that's it!" Pyro screamed, the realization tearing from his throat. "Don't... don't stop! I need that!"

With the initial discomfort completely vanquished and the deep, profound pleasure sensation now utterly dominant, Owen’s expression became fierce. He established a faster and steadier pace, becoming utterly relentless, his body moving with focused, primal power, aiming repeatedly and precisely for that newly discovered, explosive nerve cluster to drive Pyro completely mad with pleasure.

Owen's rhythm was now fierce and demanding, driven by the knowledge of the precise spot that shattered Pyro’s control. He leveraged the warm water and the slippery oil, thrusting deep and pulling back just enough to maximize the friction, his hips driving against Pyro's seated form with powerful, relentless precision. The sound of wet flesh sliding against flesh echoed faintly in the steaming chamber.

Pyro was completely beyond speech, his previous fear annihilated by the blinding waves of sensation. He was reduced to raw, involuntary physical reaction. He could only let out a series of strained, high-pitched keens and whimpers, clinging desperately to the marble edge of the pool. His hips automatically responded, rocking back against Scott's lap in an attempt to meet Owen’s driving thrusts.

Scott remained the anchor, his arms now wrapped around Pyro's waist, providing counter-pressure and stability to allow Owen the freedom to exert his full strength. He leaned down, his voice low and guttural with shared excitement, reinforcing the pleasure.

"Yes, Pyro, let him have you," Scott encouraged, his breath hot against Pyro's ear. "Feel how strong Owen is! Feel how completely you belong to us now. Let that feeling take you!"

Owen's breathing was heavy, his face flushed with the exertion and the immense satisfaction of dominating his fellow fledgling so intimately. "Give me more, Pyro! Open for me!" Owen commanded, his voice raw.

The relentless, deep thrusting, combined with the earlier restriction and the initial deep intimacy of the bite, began to pull Pyro toward another, even more catastrophic climax. His whole body began to tremble violently, not with fear, but with an escalating, desperate need for release. His back arched impossibly far, pulling his neck away from Scott's mouth.

"S-S-S-Scott! Sire! I—I can't... I'm coming again!" Pyro screamed, the sound strained and ragged.

The intense, shattering climax tore through Pyro's body with a force greater than the first, fueled by the relentless, targeted penetration and the emotional surrender to his family. Pyro let out a final, raw, agonizing scream before his entire body went completely limp and collapsed utterly against Scott's supportive chest. The overwhelming pleasure, coupled with the emotional intensity and the deliberate Vitae manipulation, immediately pulled him into a deep, restorative post-orgasm sleep.

Owen slowed his movements, gradually pulling out with a deep, liquid sound. He stood over his spent companion, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with exertion, but his eyes glowing with the fierce pride of having successfully guided Pyro to his peak and delivered the final binding sensation.

Scott held Pyro gently, stroking his wet hair and checking the calming rhythm of his Vitae. "He's done, son," Scott murmured, his voice soft but filled with command satisfaction. "He gave his all and embraced the pleasure. A truly successful lesson in giving and receiving pleasure."

Scott and Owen worked together, their movements synchronized and tender. Scott carefully lifted Pyro off his lap and moved him to the edge of the pool. Owen immediately grabbed one of the silk tapestries, gently and meticulously cleaning Pyro's lower body and clearing away any residual oil and fluid with a sense of duty and care. Scott then wrapped the soft, clean silk tightly around Pyro's exhausted form, lifting him completely.

Scott carried Pyro out of the steaming chamber and into the main Tomb, laying him softly on a prepared stone bench draped with thick furs. Scott placed a final kiss on Pyro's forehead.

Scott returned to the bathing chamber, where Owen was rinsing his own body under the waterfall. The air was thick with steam and the lingering, musky scent of sandalwood and intimacy.

Owen finished his cleansing and stepped out, toweling off with a fresh silk cloth. He approached Scott hesitantly, the shyness returning as he shed his temporary dominance. He stood before his Sire, naked and glistening, the strong lines of his body taut with a residual ache.

"Sire," Owen began softly, his gaze finally meeting Scott's. "Delivering that pleasure to Pyro—finding his edge and pushing him over it—it was incredibly fulfilling. Truly a triumph to witness and participate in the bonding." He paused, his hands tightening slightly on the towel, revealing his tension. "But being so close to it, and seeing how completely lost he became in your control, and how thoroughly he needed my touch... it reminded me keenly of what I am now missing."

Owen stepped closer, the water pooling around his feet. "I crave that comfort again, Scott. The depth of sensation and the security that comes from being the one receiving the attention and submitting to your will. I need that physical affirmation."

He met Scott's eyes, a needy, hopeful plea in his gaze. "Scott, I know you must be tired, but would you take a moment now, Sire, and indulge my wishes? I need the feeling of being completely enveloped and dominated by you. I need to feel that control and connection again."

Scott studied Owen's earnest expression, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. "You have certainly earned the reward, Owen. You were an excellent instructor and a marvelous lover to your fellow fledgling."

Scott studied Owen's earnest, pleading expression, the raw need and deep desire radiating off him in palpable waves. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across Scott's lips, acknowledging the perfect submission. "You have certainly earned the reward, Owen," he stated, his voice a low, possessive rumble that held immense promise. "You were an excellent instructor and a marvelous lover to your brother, and now it is your turn to receive."

Scott dropped the towel from Owen's hand, letting it fall onto the wet marble, and moved swiftly, closing the remaining distance between them. He seized Owen's face and pulled him into a sudden, greedy, intense kiss, instantly claiming the initiation and asserting his role. Scott's tongue was demanding and searching, a stark contrast to Owen's earlier gentle exploration of Pyro. He tasted the lingering hint of Pyro on Owen's mouth, a thrilling confirmation of his dominance running through him.

Scott slowly backed Owen up, never breaking the deep, consuming kiss, until Owen's back pressed against the smooth, cool marble of the pool's edge. He finally pulled back, leaving Owen breathless, panting softly, and entirely compliant.

"Up," Scott commanded, his voice sharp and non-negotiable, his eyes blazing with anticipation, pointing to the marble lip of the spring. "Get up on the edge, out of the water. I want to see you ready."

Owen, instantly shifting into complete, eager submission, obeyed without hesitation. He braced his hands on the cool stone and carefully hauled his muscular, glistening body out of the water and onto the edge, his form showcased by the steam and soft light.

Scott then reached over to the dry side of the marble, grabbing the unused tool from before: the smallest string of anal beads. He held them up, letting the polished, dark stones catch the faint light, a visual symbol of the intimacy to come.

"I assume it has been a while since you've been taken from behind, Owen," Scott observed, his eyes tracing the strong, tense lines of Owen's body, particularly the clenching of his inner thighs. "Your body is craving the intensity of it. We will start the preparation carefully, to honor your anticipation. We will start with these small visitors."

Scott took the jar of rich, preserved oil, coating the smallest bead generously until it was slick and shining. He positioned himself directly between Owen's knees. "Present yourself, my brave one. Spread your legs wide and show me your devotion. Don't hide anything from your Sire."

Owen immediately widened his stance, bending slightly forward at the waist, exposing his sleek, tight entrance completely to Scott. "I am yours, Scott. Do as you wish," Owen murmured, his voice tight with anticipation.

Scott grasped the first, heavily oiled bead and gently pressed it against Owen's slick opening, beginning the slow, deliberate process of feeding the beads into his hole. "Such a clean, beautiful entrance, Owen," Scott praised, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Perfectly presented for me."

Scott worked slowly, meticulously, maximizing the sensation of anticipation and fullness. He used only his fingertips to guide the first, heavily oiled bead past Owen's tight entrance. Owen let out a low, breathy hiss, gripping the cold marble edge of the spring with white knuckles as the initial intrusion settled.

"Take a deep breath, Owen," Scott instructed softly, his voice a soothing command. "This initial resistance is just excitement. Release the tension for me."

Owen inhaled sharply, consciously forcing his muscles to relax around the bead. "Ah... yes, Sire. It's... beautiful pressure."

Scott gave an approving hum. "Good boy. Such dedication to pleasure."

He then gently guided the second bead into place, pushing slowly against the resistance. The smooth stones, slick with oil, began to fill Owen, creating an intense, foreign pressure. Scott continued his verbal praise, guiding Owen's mental state.

"You are doing so well, my strong one. Feel how those small jewels deepen the sensation. They make you fully present and entirely receptive for me," Scott murmured, his eyes locked on Owen's face, watching the mixture of pain and pleasure intensify.

He continued, feeding the entire string of small beads into Owen's tight opening until the base of the string rested securely against the outer ring. Owen was now breathing in short, shallow gasps, his entire core rigid with the internal pressure and the throbbing anticipation of what was coming next.

Scott pulled his hand away, admiring his work. "Perfect. You are stretched and marked as mine, Owen. Now, prepare to receive your reward."

Scott admired his work for a brief, possessive moment, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Perfect. You are stretched and marked as mine, Owen. Now, prepare to receive your true reward, fully and completely."

Without any further warning, Scott reached down and took a firm, possessive grasp on Owen's throbbing cock at its base, squeezing just enough to heighten the sensitivity and restrict the flow. Simultaneously, he took hold of the string of beads resting at Owen's entrance and began pulling them out torturously without stopping.

Owen let out a groan, his hips flying violently forward off the edge of the marble, the sudden, intense void left by the beads instantly replaced by a screaming, desperate need.

"Ah! Scott! Stop! Wait—" he gasped, eyes wide and frantic, his body shuddering from the abrupt withdrawal.

Scott kept a tight, unyielding grip on Owen's cock. "Breathe, Owen," he commanded, his voice firm, allowing no room for negotiation. "Don't lose focus. I need that entrance open and craving me. Endure this ache." He held the tight grip for several agonizing seconds, allowing the exquisite mix of pain and pleasure to reset Owen's system, priming him for the next stage. "That sharp pull is necessary, my good boy. It reminds you of your hunger."

After a few seconds of controlled agony, Scott released his grip on the string of beads, but maintained a firm, claiming hold on Owen's cock, letting it twitch and throb under his palm.

Scott reached for the oil again, coating his own cock generously until it was slick, heavy, and ready. He then gently maneuvered Owen. "Lie down, my lovely submissive," Scott instructed, his voice melting into seductive authority. He eased Owen's torso back onto the warm, smooth marble, positioning him so he was lying partially down. One leg remained draped supported by the lip of the pool, the other bent and lifted, the position leaving Owen entirely vulnerable and presenting his throbbing entrance perfectly to his Sire.

Scott knelt between Owen’s parted legs and lined himself up. Slowly, meticulously, he began to push into Owen’s slick, crying hole. The entrance was tight, but compliant from the stretching. Scott paused, allowing Owen time to adjust to the significant difference in size and structure compared to the small beads.

"Feel my size, Owen," Scott murmured, holding still, feeling the intense warmth and grip around him. "Accept all of your Sire. You are mine now, completely."

"God... S-Scott... it's too much," Owen groaned, his hands gripping his own thighs. "But please... keep going."

Scott gave a low, satisfied laugh. "As you wish." He withdrew slightly and began his torture. He set up a maddening, unpredictable pace, switching abruptly and without warning between slow, deliberate, deep thrusts that consumed Owen entirely, feeling like they hit his very core, and fast, shallow, punishing thrusts that focused solely on the sensitive opening.

"You are so good, Owen! You take me so beautifully! So tight!" Scott praised, his voice thick with intense arousal. "Feel that stretch, Owen? That is the submission you crave!"

"Ah! Faster! Please, the fast ones! God, Scott, please!" Owen screamed, his control fraying as the unpredictable rhythm drove him to the edge, relentless, and consuming.

Scott’s breath hitched in his throat at Owen’s raw, demanding plea. He responded with a deep, tender purr that vibrated against his chest, a sound of profound acceptance. "You want it faster, my dear? You want my strength?" Scott asked softly, immediately shifting the pace to the powerful, rhythmic pattern Owen craved, driving into him with consuming force, focused entirely on delivering pleasure.

"Yes! You are so strong, Owen, and you deserve this depth! Let me fill you and give you the intensity you need!" Scott praised, deliciously consuming and filling him full with each powerful, deliberate thrust.

Scott glanced down, and a profound, tender satisfaction surged through him. He could see the slight, undeniable, hard bulge of his own cock pressing visibly outward in the lean, pale flesh of Owen’s lower belly with each deep, committed thrust. It was a visual confirmation of their deep, physical connection—a sight that affirmed the care he was giving.

He locked his gaze onto Owen's face, his voice dropping to a low, comforting murmur. "Look at me, Owen. You asked for this security, and I am giving it to you. Feel my strength inside your core—it's here to hold you and satisfy you. You are accepting all of my love and care, my beautiful fledgling."

Owen's control was rapidly dissolving under the sensory impact. He had missed this feeling of being utterly full, stretched, and intensely sensitive. The deep, predictable rhythm was guiding him past all previous limits. His head thrashed back against the cool marble, his legs trembling violently as he rode the crest of the sensation.

"Scott! Sire! Ah... I can't hold it!" Owen cried out, his body seizing up. "I need... I need you to finish me! Don't hold back! Please, please, I need to feel that break! Give it to me!" Owen begged, his voice cracking with urgent need for completion, his entire core convulsing beneath the demanding, satisfying pace.

Scott heard the complete surrender in Owen's voice—the plea for completion overriding all else. The sight of Owen's body, taut and trembling beneath him, and the desperate sound of his voice were the final catalyst.

"I hear you, my dear," Scott affirmed, his voice thick with emotion and effort, answering the call of his fledgling's need. "I will give you everything you deserve."

With a final, groan of his own, Scott increased his pace one last, explosive time, driving in deep and hard. He channeled his own impending release into the sheer force of his thrusts, pushing Owen past the breaking point.

Owen let out a prolonged, shuddering scream that was instantly muffled as Scott bent down and seized his mouth in a fierce, urgent kiss, capturing the sound and the sensation. Owen's body convulsed beneath Scott, arching violently as a torrent of release tore through him, hot and messy against Scott's grasping hand.

Scott continued the kiss through Owen's climax, injecting a final, powerful surge of comforting Vitae into the kiss—a binding, possessive act of comfort and care.

When the final tremors subsided, Scott eased his pace, sinking down heavily onto Owen's chest, his own breathing ragged. He slowly pulled out, the slick sound echoing the finality of the act.

Owen lay sprawled, utterly spent, his chest heaving, tears of pleasure tracking paths through the sweat on his temples. His eyes were closed, his muscles completely slack.

Scott rolled off him, but immediately gathered Owen into a tender embrace, pulling him up so his head rested on Scott’s shoulder. He gently brushed the wet hair back from Owen's face.

"There, my darling," Scott murmured, kissing his forehead softly. "Total security. Total care. Are you satisfied now, my brave one?"

Owen let out a long, shaky sigh. "So much, Sire... I missed that so much... Thank you. You make me feel completely whole."

Scott held him close, basking in the quiet, intimate aftermath, the sound of the waterfall the only noise in the tranquil bathing chamber.

 

~~~SMEXY END (Summary: Pyro explores sexuality with Owen, and Owen enjoys being taken by Scott)~~~

 

Scott held Owen close until his breathing stabilized and the flush of his intense climax began to recede. "We need to clean up now, little wolf, and ensure your fellow fledgling is settled for his deep rest," Scott murmured, his voice laced with the quiet exhaustion of immense effort. He gently released Owen and helped him sit up on the cool marble edge.

They quickly submerged themselves under the strong flow of the waterfall, washing away the generous amounts of oil, sweat, and the remnants of their strenuous bonding. Scott moved with focused, professional efficiency, carefully drying Owen thoroughly with a clean silk tapestry, ensuring he was warm and comfortable.

"You performed admirably, Owen," Scott praised quietly, placing a firm, affectionate hand on his shoulder. "You embrace both dominance and submission with equal grace. That duality makes your pleasure—and your value to our brood—so much richer."

"Thank you, Scott," Owen replied, his voice still low, ragged, and thick with lingering satisfaction. "It was everything I needed. Truly centering."

The two vampires returned to the main Tomb chamber where Pyro was resting. Pyro was exactly where Scott had left him, deeply asleep on the fur-draped stone bench. His color was good—a picture of deep, restorative rest. The delicate swell of his lips and the flush on his cheeks were the only visible signs of his earlier ordeal.

Scott knelt beside him, gently placing a hand on Pyro's brow. "He is well. The Vitae and the intensity ensured deep healing and full integration. He will wake up feeling perfectly whole."

Scott then looked at Owen, who was leaning heavily against the wall, his muscular frame clearly spent from the night's demands.

"You need rest now, too, little wolf," Scott instructed gently. "You pushed your limits tonight. Come here."

Scott adjusted the furs, pulling a clean, heavy velvet blanket over the lower half of the bench, creating a comfortable, shared space. "It will do both of you well to nest together. Lie down beside your brother. It reinforces the familial bond, and your combined scents will provide a stronger sense of security."

Owen smiled, a soft, weary warmth in his eyes. "I like that, Sire. Nesting." He carefully settled onto the bench beside Pyro, immediately pulling the heavy furs and velvet blanket over himself. He shifted until his shoulder was resting against Pyro's, a natural, comforting intimacy taking hold. He was asleep moments later, both fledglings now resting deeply in a tangle of silk and fur, two strong heartbeats syncing in the quiet crypt.

Scott watched them for a long moment, profound satisfaction settling deep in his chest. His brood was safe, bonded, and resting.

Scott pulled on a heavy, rough-spun shirt and dark trousers, preparing for the next task. The critical hours of the day were slipping away. He gave his fledglings one last approving look, then turned and ascended the stairs toward the castle ruins.

The mid morning hours were perfect for labor, not too hot but light enough to not need his enhanced vision. Scott reached the dilapidated outer wall and picked up a heavy masonry tool, immediately resuming his quiet, meticulous work. He was reinforcing the ancient stone defenses against the coming daylight, his strength allowing him to lift and set stones that would require three human workers, securing their sanctuary.

~~~

The air was frigid and utterly silent, a brittle stillness clinging to the final, doomed moments of the night. Shelby moved with the urgent, soundless speed only her new state allowed, a pale streak against the dark, earthen path leading down from the ruins. She wasn't running; she was gliding, every muscle movement efficient, every breath unnecessary but taken purely for habit.

Clutched to her chest were the two anchors to her new reality: the heavy leather-bound Vampire Culture: Myth versus Truth and the dense treatise on ghouls. She knew intellectual comprehension was the only way she could master the profound physical and psychological changes wrought by the Embrace.

As she traversed the uneven, shadowed path leading toward the sleeping cluster of town houses, she cracked open the vampire culture book. Her sharp, new vision devoured the cramped, centuries-old script in the rapidly fading moonlight.

Shelby focused first on the core mandates—the terrifying yet strangely reassuring facts that gave structure to the chaos.

The necessity of submission to the Sire for psychic stability is absolute, the text declared. This overwhelming physical and psychic connection, often misinterpreted by outsiders as 'corruption,' is, in fact, the essential process of Vitae-integration, required to stabilize the Fledgling psyche against the shock of immortality and the primal hunger.

Shelby nodded grimly, remembering the sheer, annihilating pleasure she had felt in Scott's presence. It wasn't just indulgence; it was therapy.

The book then detailed the rigid, yet functional, family structure: The Sire was the root and ultimate authority. The Childe (the eldest, or most trusted, surviving Fledgling) acted as the operational second-in-command. All others were the Brood.

The fluidity of relationships within the Brood is paramount to survival. Intense physical intimacy is a non-judgmental tool for group cohesion—a sharing of Vitae and strength—which effectively replaces the weak, emotionally complex ties of human family structures.

She felt a flicker of understanding for Owen and Pyro’s easy intimacy, and a curious anticipation for her own place within that dynamic.

The tone of the text grew scornful as it addressed the human perception of her kind.

The lies spread by the early Church and organizations like The Hunters are a deliberate act of fear-mongering. They purposefully conflate our kind—the sentient, Vitae-dependent immortals—with true demonic entities (which exist on a different existential plane) and the soulless undead (like reanimated corpses or lesser ghouls).

Shelby paused, her breath catching as she read a direct contradiction to the popular narrative:

• The Silver Myth: The belief that silver is instantly fatal is a fabrication. While silver, due to its properties, can cause intense localized pain and irritation when it pierces the skin, the lethal threat is exaggerated. True death comes from being staked with a blessed wood after massive Vitae depletion.

• Souls and Reflection: We possess souls, though our Vitae resonance is different. The old lore of lacking a reflection was due to the primitive, low-quality construction of early silvered mirrors, which failed to capture their specific energy signature.

This wasn't a monster she had become; it was a figure meticulously and strategically demonized. This gave her the intellectual ammunition she needed to engage Avid.

She used the deep shadows of the large oak trees lining the main road to slip into her quiet neighborhood. The air felt heavier here, saturated with the unawareness of human life. She moved with the silent, fluid grace of a hunter, easing into the back door of her small, familiar house just as the first weak, gray light—the critical, dangerous marker of dawn—filtered through the window panes.

Shelby sank onto her bed, the tome still open in her lap, utterly exhausted by the night's events but fortified by knowledge. She immediately flipped through the tome to read it over in detail. She needed to understand the Hunter's perspective, their strengths, and their vulnerabilities. She also took her time to read over the tome on Ghouls, to get the knowledge needed of the demonic creatures and their signs. She spent the final, crucial moments before the sun crested the mountains, poring over the text, determined to be the most knowledgeable person in the upcoming conversation.

"I need to know exactly what he believes," she whispered into the growing light, already planning the narrative she would weave to gain the ghoul's trust. "If the hunters mix our identity with demons, I need to know the specific vulnerabilities they'll be aiming for."

Notes:

Nickname's

Pyro: Little Flame/Ember
Owen: Little Wolf/Pup
Shelby: Owlet/Reader
Scott: Sire/Master/ Sir

Chapter 15

The first sliver of morning sun struck Shelby’s window, yet the light held no danger to her—only a muted nuisance. She woke with a silent, languid stretch, the exhaustion from the night's demands and the subsequent, deep Vitae-fueled rest already gone. She felt strong, focused, and disturbingly clear. Her body, though still bearing the fading, delicate marks of Scott’s fangs on her breast, hummed with a quiet power.

Her first and only priority was Avid. She rose swiftly, discarding the silks and velvet robes Scott had lent her for her own comfortable skirt and blouse. She grabbed the two heavy tomes—the Vampire Culture and the Ghouls book—and tucked them into a satchel. They were her weapons, but she knew the confrontation required empathy, not evidence, to start.

She glided out of her small home, moving with a silent, focused grace, heading directly for Avid’s small house, which was nestled tightly between the general store and the smithy in the center of town.

Avid's house was a grim monument to his commitment. It was tiny, almost a shack, and built for function over comfort. Shelby had always found it intensely uncomfortable, but now, with her heightened vampiric senses, the discomfort was a tangible, low-grade pain.

The air inside was thick, saturated with the faint, metallic scent of the silver. Avid, being a dedicated Hunter in a small, remote town, had been meticulous in creating his sanctuary. The very floorboards of the main room were layered beneath the carpet with a fine silver mesh to ward off demonic entities. The simple, heavy wooden furniture was inlaid with silver wire, the dining table edges were capped in silver plating, and even the small, decorative picture frames on the wall were made of hammered, dull silver.

The low, resonant hum of the metal’s irritation caused a continuous, dull ache in Shelby’s bones and sent a prickly feeling across her skin. It was a constant reminder of the Hunter’s fear and the Silver Myth she now knew to be only a minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless.

Shelby found Avid exactly where she expected: in his favorite armchair, which, predictably, had silver studs lining the leather trim. He was in a state of borderline terror, his skin unnaturally pale, stretched taut over the bone, and beaded with a thin, cold sweat.

Shelby rushed to his side, wincing slightly as the floor’s silver mesh resonated beneath her boots.

He flinched violently as she came close, pulling his arm back, his eyes fixed on his wound. The bandage had been violently ripped away, exposing the deep, ragged puncture marks on his neck from the initial attack. The surrounding flesh was a sickly, deep purple and streaked with veins of angry red. A faint, repulsive scent—a mixture of sulfur and decay—now clung to him, overpowering even the smell of the metallic environment.

“It’s the vampire infection, Shel! It’s consuming me!” Avid choked out, his voice tight and raw with strain, trembling violently. “It’s getting worse, and it’s fast. This is the change they write about in the Hunter texts. The transformation. My blood is boiling. It feels cold and hot all at once, and when I move my fingers, it feels… wrong. The sickness is setting in.”

He looked around the house at the silver. “The defenses aren’t working. The vampire’s venom is stronger than the wards. I’m turning into one of them.”

Shelby sat on the armrest next to him, close but not touching, offering a calming presence despite the silver’s presence. His terror was palpable, but something deeper—a consuming self-loathing—was poisoning his gaze.

“It’s Scott,” Avid finally whispered, his eyes squeezing shut in a grimace of pain and humiliation. “It got this bad right after he… after he bit me. When he made me a toy.”

He looked at Shelby, his expression a torn mask of condemnation and desperate confusion.

“He did this to me, didn’t he? He knew what he was doing, trying to destabilize me. He’s the monster the books warn about, Shel. The seductive one who destroys you with pleasure.”

Avid buried his face in his hand, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping him. “But… I don’t want it to be him,” he admitted, the words barely audible. “When he was near me, when he was talking, there’s this… calm. A sense of absolute security, even when I was terrified. And I feel so much stronger right now, even if I’m terrified of my own body.”

He looked up at her, tears of pure, desperate self-disgust welling in his eyes.

“Shelby, last night… when he was feeding, when he had his mouth on me, I… I liked it. He kept touching me, whispering. And I came! Not once, Shel. Multiple times. I was so humiliated, but I couldn’t stop. A vampire, a man, made me… that open. I betrayed everything. I’m disgusting.”

Shelby’s mind raced, focusing the blame on her own recent overwhelming experience and reframing Scott's actions as a distraction.

“Avid, stop. Please. Look at me,” she said, her voice firm enough to cut through his spiraling guilt.

“This is my fault,” Shelby declared, hitting the core of her strategy first—taking the blame and establishing immediate trust. “I should have stepped in. I was so caught up in what I had just experienced—the drain, the intensity of it all—that I didn’t think to put your safety first. I should have been a better friend, and I didn’t think past my own head. I am so sorry, Avid.”

She laid her hand on his uninjured shoulder, avoiding the silver studs, a steady touch.

“And about Scott…” she continued, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “He didn’t know. Truly. Scott has been asleep for centuries. He doesn't know about the current myths or what kind of wound you had before he saw you. He would have never intentionally made your situation worse.”

She shook her head sadly. “He saw that you were in pain and fear, and he did what he thought was kind: he gave you pleasure and distraction. He was trying to give you something pleasant to focus on, something of value in exchange for what you were willingly giving him. He was trying to distract you from the trauma of being fed upon.”

Shelby looked him dead in the eye, her expression earnest and sincere.

“He thought he was being respectful, Avid. That pleasure you felt? That intense reaction? That wasn't just him. That was a sudden, intense rush of physiological distraction overwhelming your nervous system, giving you an outlet for your fear and pain. It’s an involuntary physiological response, not a moral failing. You’re not disgusting; you’re a survivor.”

She paused, letting the strategic blend of honesty and deflection settle in his mind.

“I’m here now. I need to know everything you’ve learned about this corruption and about the Hunters. And I need your absolute trust, Avid, because the only way to save you is to work together.”

Shelby paused, allowing her strategic apology and rationalization to settle into Avid’s overwhelmed mind. He was still trembling, but the frantic, self-loathing look in his eyes had been replaced by a deep, pained contemplation. He took a long, shaky breath, his gaze fixed on the floor’s silver mesh.

“You’re right,” Avid whispered, the admission costing him visible effort. “I… I haven’t been rational. If Scott has been asleep for centuries, he wouldn’t know how things have changed. He wouldn’t know about the current vampire infection myths or the kind of wound I had before he saw me. It was a lapse in judgment on my part, too, for letting him near me.”

He gripped the silver-studded armrest, a sudden surge of conviction overriding his fear. “Okay. We have to figure out what that thing did to me before the transformation is complete. The Hunter Society’s archives mention signs of rapid corruption when concentrated blood is introduced—it accelerates the physical decline, destabilizes the immune system, but it also reveals specific vulnerabilities to the enemy.”

Avid leaned in, his voice dropping to a desperate, conspiratorial whisper. “The Hunters are worried about the spread of the affliction, Shelby. They track the symptoms, the timeline of the conversion. If I show definitive signs of the change, they’ll put me down. We have to figure out how to stop the vampire venom in my blood.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sudden, loud rapping on the front door, coupled with the subtle hum of the agitated silver defenses, instantly silenced Avid. He stiffened, his eyes flying wide with fresh panic.

“Who is that?” he hissed, struggling to straighten up in the chair.

“The sun is fully up now. It’s likely a concerned neighbor or…” Shelby trailed off, already moving toward the small, front window, her new vampiric vision easily piercing the gloom inside the house. “It’s Dr. Legundo.”

Avid’s terror ratcheted up another notch. Dr. Legundo was the town's only licensed physician, a kindly, if slightly stern, man who took his medical duties with solemn seriousness.

“I told him I was fine!” Avid mumbled, frantic. “I can’t let him see this, Shel. He’ll alert the militia, maybe even everyone, he’ll think I’m contagious—or worse, that I’m turning.”

Knock. Knock. Knock. The doctor’s rapping grew more insistent.

“Avid? Are you home? I noticed your curtains were still drawn, and I’m quite concerned after seeing the state of your neck yesterday. I must insist on a proper inspection!” Dr. Legundo’s voice, though muffled by the thick door, was insistent, professional, and brooked no argument. “Given our isolation here in Oakhurst, we cannot afford to take risks!”

Shelby gave Avid a quick, cautionary look. “If you refuse a licensed doctor, it will look more suspicious. He’s already concerned. Let him inspect the wound, but we must stick to the cover story of a severe gash.”

Avid hesitated, visibly torn between his fear of discovery and the raw, agonizing truth of his compromised body. But the pain in his neck was winning. The flesh surrounding the wound pulsed with an unnatural heat and cold, and the subtle, internal corruption was moving faster now.

“Fine,” Avid choked out, his voice tight. “But you stay quiet, Shel. You don’t say a word.”

He stumbled to the door, pulling it open just enough to allow the slight, bespectacled doctor to slip inside.

“Avid, thank goodness,” Dr. Legundo sighed, immediately spotting the state of the room and the obvious tension. He ignored Shelby, focusing entirely on his patient. “You look dreadful, young man. Show me that wound, right now.”

Avid reluctantly used his hand to push down the collar of his shirt, exposing the side of his neck. Dr. Legundo approached the wound carefully, his brow furrowed with professional concern. He leaned in, rotating Avid’s head gently to inspect the sickly, veined black tissue under the light.

Shelby leaned against the silver-inlaid table, watching the doctor’s methodical examination, her mind racing. The doctor's expertise was dangerous here, as he was diagnosing a supernatural affliction with mundane knowledge.

Dr. Legundo’s expression grew rapidly from concern to stark terror. He traced the angry, spreading red lines running away from the jagged gash. He leaned in, sniffing the air—the faint, repulsive scent that Avid assumed was the vampire venom’s decay—before pulling back sharply.

He released Avid's head as if it had burned him, his face pale with sudden, terrifying realization.

“Those symptoms… the speed of the necrotic spread… and that odor,” Dr. Legundo muttered, his voice barely a whisper, thick with professional dread. He stepped back several paces, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth and nose.

He looked at Avid with wide, horrified eyes.

“Avid, this is not a simple infection. This is a virulent, hemorrhagic fever!”

Dr. Legundo began shaking his head, his voice rising sharply in panic. “I’ve studied the records! The epidemics that ravaged the Old World! It’s a strain of the Crimson Plague—a fast-moving, flesh-eating pathogen that wiped out entire populations! It’s highly contagious!”

The doctor pointed a trembling finger at Avid’s neck. “The wound itself is secondary! You have a full-blown plague infection, Avid! You are now a carrier! There are fourteen people trapped in this village! I need to alert the militia now and start inspecting everyone else for symptoms! We must contain this immediately before the entire village dies!”

Dr. Legundo looked wildly between Avid and the silent Shelby. “You need to isolate yourself right now! No contact! I am imposing an immediate quarantine! I need to secure anti-contagion measures before this spreads!”

He turned and bolted toward the door, his professionalism dissolving into raw, epidemiological panic, leaving Avid standing alone, utterly condemned by a medical mistake.

~~~

The slamming of the door as Dr. Legundo fled sent a raw, chilling sound echoing through the small, silver-infused room. Avid remained frozen, his eyes wide and vacant, fixed on the empty space where the doctor had stood. The condemnation—plague, carrier, quarantine—had replaced his fear of vampiric transformation with a terrifying, mortal certainty.

“The Crimson Plague,” Avid whispered, his voice thin with disbelief. He looked down at the sickly purple corruption on his neck. “I’m contagious. I’m going to infect everyone. Oakhurst… everyone here is trapped, and I’m going to kill them all.”

He stumbled backward, clutching his neck, the fear of death instantly compounded by the terror of being the vector of death for the entire community. He knew the protocol for such an infectious threat: immediate isolation, followed by extermination if necessary to save the remaining population. He was facing a far swifter, less ambiguous death than any Hunter could inflict.

“They’ll come for me, Shelby,” Avid pleaded, his eyes locking on hers, desperate and wild. “They’ll burn the house down with me inside. They have to. It’s the only way to contain it. I can’t be responsible for this!”

Shelby moved instantly, her vampiric speed allowing her to reach Avid before he could collapse. She grasped his shoulders firmly, her touch grounding and steady despite the low ache of the surrounding silver.

“Stop, Avid. Look at me,” she commanded, her voice firm and rational, cutting through the panic. “You are not a carrier of the plague. You heard Scott—your body is fighting something else entirely. Dr. Legundo is scared and mistaken.”

She consciously amplified the calming authority of her Vitae presence, focusing her energy not to dominate, but to reassure.

“You are not going to die by fire, and you are not going to infect Oakhurst,” Shelby affirmed. “But Dr. Legundo is going straight to the Militia. Within the hour, the entire village will be convinced you are a threat. They won’t wait for symptoms; they will implement a violent quarantine.”

She gently guided him back into the silver-studded chair. “We have minutes. Right now, what do you want to do? Do you want to hide in this house and wait for them to decide your fate? Or do you want to get out right now?”

Avid slumped, exhausted by the emotional whiplash. “Go? Where, Shelby? I can’t hide in the woods—I’m weak, and I’m a sitting target. I can’t risk exposing anyone else to what’s happening to me.” He gestured wildly around the small, metallic room. “This is the safest place for me, but it’s a cage.”

Shelby took a deep breath. The time for calculated deflections was over. She needed to reveal a truth so profound it would overshadow the plague panic and cement their trust forever.

“We don’t have to run blindly,” she said, kneeling before him so their eyes were level. She reached up and gently pushed his collar aside, exposing the faint, perfectly symmetrical puncture marks on his neck where Scott had fed. Then, with a practiced, deliberate movement, she moved her hand to her own chest, pulling down the neck of her blouse just enough to reveal the subtle, two faint, almost-healed crescent marks on the pale curve of her collarbone.

Avid’s eyes widened, jumping between her marks and his own, the realization dawning with painful slowness.

“Avid, I know exactly where we can go. I know who can protect you,” Shelby stated, her voice quiet but ringing with absolute conviction. “And I know he won’t let you die.”

She met his gaze, holding nothing back. “I didn’t just meet Scott. I asked him to turn me. I am now one of them, Avid. He Embraced me.”

Avid stared at her, his initial gasp of shock softening as he processed the revelation. He didn't look angry or repulsed; he looked profoundly startled, then slowly, undeniably relieved.

“You… you asked him?” he finally managed, the words barely a breath. “You chose this?”

A faint, grateful smile touched his lips, despite the terror and the pain in his neck. “Thank you, Shelby. I know how dangerous that secret is to share with a Hunter. I’m glad you trusted me with the truth.”

He shook his head, the logic of his Hunter training immediately asserting itself over his shock. “But Scott is the reason this… corruption is accelerating. Why would he help? Why would he risk his sanctuary for the Hunter who was going to expose him?”

“Because he is my Sire now, and I am his responsibility,” Shelby explained, letting the possessive nature of the word Sire settle between them. “He promised protection and care. If I ask him to protect you—to save you from this mistaken quarantine—he will listen.”

She leaned in, her eyes shining with urgent confidence. “If we go to him, he can identify what is truly attacking you—whether it’s the Hunters’ plague or something worse. He knows more about ancient poisons and corruptions than any doctor in the world.”

“Do you think he would listen?” Avid asked, his voice now laced with a flicker of desperate hope. “After what I did, after what he did to me… do you think he would listen to you?”

Avid’s question—Do you think he would listen?—hung heavy in the charged air. He was waiting for a concrete promise, a final reason to entrust his life, and the fate of his soul, to a vampire.

Shelby didn't answer out loud yet. Instead, she focused inward, reaching across the powerful, possessive connection Scott had forged when he Embraced her. The bond, which only hours ago had been a pathway for confusing pleasure and compliance, was now a vital lifeline for communication.

Scott, Shelby projected mentally, forcing the fear and urgency of the situation into the silent, instant channel. Scott, we have a catastrophic situation. Dr. Legundo has misdiagnosed Avid’s corruption—he thinks it’s the highly contagious Crimson Plague. He’s gone to the Militia to enforce an immediate, violent quarantine. Avid is in imminent danger of being sealed in and executed to save the village.

She felt an immediate, sharp resonance of alertness from the receiving end.

I am bringing him to the Tomb immediately. He is terrified. Once we arrive, I will ask you, in his presence, to grant him sanctuary and protection from the town's madness.

She waited for the confirmation, feeling the steady, powerful force of Scott's ancient mind absorbing the complex information.

Understood, Childe. The diagnosis is a fortunate error. Bring him. The tomb is sealed. I will be waiting, and the Brood will be alerted. Prepare for swift entry.

The mental command was precise, efficient, and calming—the voice of a Sire in control of a crisis.

Shelby opened her eyes, fixing her steady gaze on Avid.

“Yes,” she confirmed, her voice ringing with absolute certainty. “He will listen. Not just because of the bond, Avid, and not just because I am now his. He will listen because he is my friend now, and by extension, you are family. He keeps his word, and he will not let an innocent be condemned by a mistake.”

The word family seemed to shatter the last of Avid’s resistance. The fear of the plague and the shame of his physical reaction were finally overridden by the basic, desperate need for security.

“Family,” Avid repeated, a broken sound of deep relief. “Okay, Shelby. I trust you. It’s the only option left.” He looked pointedly at the door, where they could already hear the distant, growing sound of agitated voices in the street—Legundo was already raising the alarm. “But we can’t go out the door. The moment we open it, we’ll be seen.”

Avid quickly moved toward his small, narrow bed in the corner of the living room, which was piled high with hunting gear and books. With a grunt of effort, he reached under the bed frame and flipped a hidden latch on the silver-inlaid floor.

The latch gave way with a soft click, and a perfectly sized, circular patch of the floorboards, including the silver mesh, swung open to reveal a cramped, dark hole beneath.

“I always planned for a situation where a vampire got in and trapped me inside my own sanctuary,” Avid explained, breathing heavily. “It’s a contingency. I dug an escape tunnel beneath the house. It’s tight, but it’s sound. I lined the whole thing myself.”

He grabbed his satchel—not of Hunter gear, but of essentials—and looked at Shelby. “We have to go now. Before they surround the house.”

Shelby nodded, grabbing her own satchel containing the tomes. “After you. Move fast, and don’t look back.”

Avid swallowed hard, the thought of descending into the dark earth almost as terrifying as the plague. He dropped his satchel into the hole, then slid down after it, the rough dirt scraping his clothes.

Shelby followed immediately, the confined space momentarily suffocating, but the lack of direct silver exposure in the dirt was a strange relief. She could hear the muffled sound of Dr. Legundo’s hysterical cries from the town center above them.

“They’re coming!” Avid’s voice echoed hollowly from the darkness ahead.

He scrambled through the tight, hand-dug tunnel, crawling on his hands and knees. Shelby, easily matching his speed, pushed the pace, ensuring the dirt wall behind them was constantly moving. The small tunnel—a frantic, claustrophobic monument to Avid's paranoia—sloped downward and away from the center of town.

After what felt like an eternity of desperate crawling, they felt the air change—it was cooler, damper, and cleaner. Avid burst out of the tunnel mouth with a grunt, collapsing into the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

Shelby followed, pulling her body free and assessing their location. They were outside the tall wooden palisade that marked the perimeter of Oakhurst, concealed beneath a thick cluster of rocks and overgrown brush—perfectly safe and unseen, for now.

“Okay,” Shelby whispered. “The first step is done. Now, we run for the sanctuary.”

Chapter 16

Scott worked with focused, relentless energy fueled by the early morning light and the necessity of protection. He had laid Pyro and Owen down for their deep, restorative sleep, and now, fueled by the satisfaction of the previous night’s intimacy, he threw himself into his work.

The massive, ancient stones of the castle ruins bowed to his strength. Working fast and meticulously, he completed the outer perimeter, sealing the sprawling space he had designated as their new sanctuary. His vampiric engineering was flawless, creating a wall that was impenetrable to any mundane force.

Though the massive walls provided security, Scott recognized the necessity of practicality. Vampires, even ancient, powerful ones, were sometimes vulnerable—too injured or too weak to shapeshift and fly over high defenses. They needed a mundane entrance.

He focused his efforts on the section of wall placed closest to the ruined bridge—a natural access point. With exquisite, patient skill, he began carving the rough-hewn stone, shaping the rock face to form a massive, powerful stone archway. The craftsmanship was sublime, turning functional defense into a piece of commanding architecture.

Once the archway was set, he retrieved cured lumber from his supply cache and built a solid, imposing Spruce double door. He affixed the door into the archway, ensuring the hinges were deep-set and the locking mechanisms robust. He tested it: the doors swung open with silent, smooth efficiency and closed with a satisfying, airtight thump. The doorway was complete, a secure, silent, and dignified entrance that brought a slow, satisfied smile to his lips.

With the outer defense secure, Scott turned to the interior. He pulled out his massive, leather-bound journal containing the meticulously detailed build schematics he had drawn. Using the materials he had salvaged, he began marking the lower floor plan within the large, encompassed space of the walls.

He outlined the foundations of the great hall, the armory, and the kitchen areas, using lines of smaller stones to delineate the rooms. Once the lower floor plan was laid out, Scott began building up the walls for the lower floors, working room by room, his immense strength allowing him to lift and set stones that would crush a human worker. The time ticked by, the sun slowly rising higher above the mountains.

It was while he was setting a crucial keystone for what would become the kitchen hearth that a subtle but undeniable presence entered his mind. It was Shelby's bond, which suddenly became prominent, cutting through the background noise of his thoughts like an urgent bell.

Scott paused, the heavy stone resting lightly in his grip. He gently placed the stone down and focused entirely, reaching back through the link. He felt the soft and gentle caress of Shelby’s presence, mixed with a sharp wave of fear and adrenaline, as her thoughts came through, relaying the crisis with urgent clarity: the misdiagnosis, the plague panic, the imminent quarantine.

Scott processed the information instantly. Crimson Plague. The misdiagnosis was unfortunate but strategically perfect. Scott knew that most Old World diseases, particularly widespread plagues, were usually linked to a supernatural source—either the viral residue of large-scale ghoul hordes or the destructive aftermath of a necromancy failure and a zombie outbreak. A vampire’s venom, though powerful, did not cause this specific type of necrosis. The Doctor’s mistake was their leverage.

Understood, Childe. The diagnosis is a fortunate error. Bring him. The tomb is sealed. I will be waiting, and the Brood will be alerted. Prepare for swift entry.

Scott instantly tossed the remaining building supplies into his massive supply chest. He had mere minutes before Shelby and Avid could reach the ruins.

He descended the great wall with fluid grace, moving swiftly toward the underground entrance to the crypt. He passed silently through the livestock room and the hallways leading to the tunnel into the mines. He followed the halls down into his Resting Tomb.

When he entered, the steam had dissipated, leaving the air warm and still. He saw Owen and Pyro exactly where he had left them, but they had shifted significantly during their rest. The sight brought a gentle, proprietary smile to his lips: Pyro had completely tucked his head under Owen’s chin, burrowing into his chest. Owen, in turn, had instinctively thrown his arms completely around Pyro, holding him securely in a deep, possessive cuddle. They were two syncopated heartbeats, resting as one.

Scott moved forward, brushing a gentle hand against each of their faces. He sent a powerful but gentle mental prod through their bond, accompanying it with a clear, beckoning call: Wake now, my darlings. Crisis.

Both fledglings shivered a moment as the call passed through their minds, their bodies registering the urgency. They began to rouse, slowly but surely, stretching languidly against each other before their eyes fluttered open.

Owen and Pyro stirred slowly from their intense, Vitae-driven sleep. They untangled themselves, blinking against the low light of the chamber, their bodies heavy with the languid satisfaction of deep rest. Pyro pulled his head from Owen’s chest, still looking slightly dazed, but Owen was immediately alert, sensing the tension radiating from their Sire.

“Sire?” Owen murmured, sitting up quickly, the silk blanket falling away from his chest. “What’s wrong? I felt a jolt through the bond.”

“A change in plans, and an urgent one,” Scott stated, his voice low and devoid of the easy affection of the night before, now sharp with command focus. He moved to the edge of the pool, grabbing a spare towel to dry his hand.

“Shelby is en route, and she is bringing the Hunter, Avid, with her,” Scott explained, his eyes sweeping over his two fledglings. “He is in immediate danger. The town doctor has seen his corruption wound and, due to his ignorance of true supernatural infection, has disastrously misdiagnosed it as the Crimson Plague.”

Pyro paled instantly. “The Plague? Scott, the fear alone will drive them to murder him.”

“Exactly,” Scott affirmed. “The entire village will be in a panic within the hour, demanding a swift, violent quarantine—which likely means burning the house with Avid inside. Shelby is escaping with him now, and she will ask for sanctuary here, for him, in front of him.”

Scott paused, his gaze hardening slightly as he emphasized the crucial point.

“Avid is still operating under the belief that his affliction is a severe vampire infection—the accelerated corruption is, to him, the venom taking hold,” Scott stressed. “He does not know yet that the wound that started all this was made by a Ghoul. He believes the creatures are mere rumor or part of the larger demonology taught by the Hunters. Shelby is operating under my instruction to reveal the truth incrementally. For now, we allow him to maintain his certainty, as it feeds his fear of the corruption and directs his paranoia away from us.”

Owen ran a hand over his tired face. “So we’re taking in an infected Hunter who thinks we’re responsible for accelerating his infection, but he’s too scared of the townsfolk and the plague to fight us.”

“Precisely. A precarious alliance born of desperation,” Scott agreed. “You both recall our earlier agreement: if the Hunter proved to be an asset who could be turned, we would consider it. This crisis is forcing the decision.”

Pyro hesitated, looking from the floor to Owen, then back to Scott. “If we take him in, he will see us. He knows Owen and I are close. He knows about the relationships between vampires. He will deduce that we are... Brood.”

“That brings us to the final point,” Scott said. “I have already assured Shelby that we will listen to her request for sanctuary. You two have an option: you do not have to reveal yourselves as part of the Brood immediately. You could remain hidden, preserving the illusion that I am a solitary master. This may reduce his initial panic.”

Scott let the suggestion linger, then offered the counterpoint, a sly, knowing look in his eye.

“However, showing yourselves, displaying the strength and unity of my family, and revealing that you are not simply prisoners but equals—fledglings—may serve a greater purpose. It may show Avid that we trust him enough to let him see the inner workings of our life. It is a risk, but it might be the fastest way to gain his final submission and trust, and prove that you, Owen and Pyro, will be part of his new family, should he choose to accept it.”

Owen met Pyro’s eyes. The unspoken communication passed between them—a silent acknowledgment of their shared dominance the previous night, and the strength of their combined bond.

Owen looked back at Scott, his gaze firm. “He is coming here because he has nowhere else to go, Sire. We should show him what he is running to. We should show him the truth.”

“I agree,” Pyro chimed in, his initial drowsiness gone. “We are stronger together. Let him see the family he needs.”

Scott nodded, a flicker of pride in his expression. “Very well. Prepare yourselves. They will be here shortly. Remember: empathy, sanctuary, and absolute control over the conversation. We must be his only source of truth now.”

~~~

Scott nodded once, satisfied with his fledglings’ unanimous decision. The time for rest was over; the time for strategic performance was beginning.

“Good. Let’s go,” Scott commanded. “We need to be visible and operational. Avid doesn’t know yet that Shelby and I have spoken through the bond. If we appear to be casually engaged in construction when they arrive, it will lend an air of normal necessity to our sanctuary, rather than panicked preparation.”

Scott led Owen and Pyro out of the depths of the crypt. They swiftly ascended the winding paths, passing through the internal halls, and emerged into the large, sunlit enclosure of the castle ruins. The morning was clear, and the sight of the massive, freshly set stones of the outer wall was imposing.

Scott immediately moved toward the unfinished section of the main structure—the outlined foundation of the Grand Hall—and began scaling the largest existing wall section.

“Owen, take the primary supply hoist,” Scott instructed. “Pyro, assist him. We will continue laying the walls for the Grand Hall. Work quietly, deliberately. We are too busy building our eternal home to worry about the petty concerns of the mortal world.”

He reached the top of the partially constructed wall. Owen and Pyro, now fully alert and synchronized, moved to the supply cache. Owen, utilizing his own significant strength, hauled large stone blocks onto a makeshift hoist, and Pyro carefully guided the rope, feeding the heavy materials up to Scott.

The three vampires fell into a focused, rhythmic pattern: the soft scrape of stone on stone, the occasional muted clank of the hoist, and the low, constant presence of Scott’s mental command directing their efforts. The image they presented was one of immense, tireless stability and purpose—a stark contrast to the human chaos unfolding in the village below.

Scott’s eyes occasionally flickered toward the forest line near the ruined bridge, his new Spruce door now the only viable entrance through the outer fortifications.

They continued the construction for what could have been minutes or just moments—time blurring in the urgency of their task.

Then, Scott’s sensitive hearing caught the faint scrape of boots on stone, quickly followed by the sound of hurried, shallow breathing. The noise came from the dilapidated, broken stone bridge leading up from the valley road.

Scott subtly signaled to Owen and Pyro to maintain their rhythm but to heighten their awareness.

Shelby and Avid appeared at the edge of the ruin. Avid was clearly in agony, leaning heavily on Shelby, his face pale and drawn. The corruption on his neck was starkly visible, a repulsive splash of purple against his skin.

They crossed the stone bridge carefully, passing the last crumbling section of ancient stone before reaching the new, fortified wall. Avid flinched, pulling back instinctively at the solid, unyielding stone archway and the heavy Spruce door, seeing the power it represented.

Shelby didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand on the cold wood, pushed the heavy door open just wide enough for them to squeeze through, and pulled Avid into the security of the enclosure.

Avid immediately stopped, his breath catching as he took in the scene. He saw the vast, sprawling space, the massive walls hemming them in, and the three figures above them: the imposing Scott, flanked by Owen and Pyro, working with impossible ease on a half-finished stone wall.

Scott paused his work, a stone block held casually in one hand, looking down at the two figures framed in the magnificent new doorway.

Shelby looked up, her expression a careful mask of urgency and deference.

“Scott!” Shelby called out, her voice slightly breathless and tentative, but loud enough for the two fledglings to hear. “Sire! We need to ask for your protection! The town thinks Avid has brought the plague!”

The sound of her voice, and the sight of the Hunter standing condemned and terrified beneath them, marked the confrontation.

Scott registered Shelby’s urgent plea—The town thinks Avid has brought the plague!—with the trained precision of a master strategist.

He smoothly slotted the large, heavy stone in his hand into its waiting place on the wall, the sound a soft, final thunk that echoed the stability of his control. He did not rush. He took a moment to look down at Owen and Pyro, who had stopped their work and were watching the entrance with focused anticipation.

“Owen, Pyro,” Scott called down, his voice clear and resonant, carrying easily across the enclosure. “Rest for a moment. We have urgent matters to address.”

He gave a slight nod, dismissing them, before leaping down from the top of the partially constructed wall. The twelve-foot jump was executed with casual, silent grace, landing without a sound on the dirt floor, demonstrating both his power and his complete lack of concern for the fall.

Scott walked deliberately toward the entrance, his focus entirely on Shelby, but he maintained a careful, noticeable distance from Avid. He stopped several feet away from the trembling Hunter. His commitment to keeping his promise—never to touch Avid again—was an unspoken assertion of honor that he knew the Hunter would keenly notice.

Avid, supported by Shelby, was in a state of barely contained shock. His breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps; the exertion of the escape, combined with the fever of the corruption on his neck, left him swaying. He stared at Scott, at the massive, powerful muscles rippling beneath the rough shirt, and then at Owen and Pyro, who were now standing near their Sire.

Avid’s eyes darted from the magnificent Spruce door—which represented the sudden, absolute safety of the lair—to the three powerful beings who now stood between him and his death. His fear of the vampire was momentarily eclipsed by the primal terror of the plague and the town's impending quarantine.

Scott’s eyes went first to the ugly, spreading corruption on Avid’s neck, noting the speed and virulence of the necrosis. He then glanced back at Shelby, his expression demanding.

“Plague is a serious word, Childe,” Scott stated, his voice a low, steady rumble that commanded attention but not panic. “This situation requires absolute clarity, not haste.”

He folded his arms across his chest, the picture of imposing, controlled power. “Begin at the moment you saw the wound this morning. I need the full account, slowly, step by step. Tell me exactly what the town doctor saw, what he said, and what the townsfolk are preparing to do.”

Scott punctuated his command with brief, sharp glances: one at Avid, whose body was rigid with shame and fear, then a lingering look at the inflamed neck wound, and finally settling back on Shelby. He was using Shelby as the narrator and shield, filtering the chaotic reality through a trusted channel, allowing Avid to listen and observe the process without being the immediate subject of their scrutiny.

Owen and Pyro had descended the wall, moving swiftly to stand a respectful distance behind Scott, their presence a silent display of unified strength. They were physically close to Scott, displaying their familial bond, but maintained the required distance from the terrified human.

Shelby took a steadying breath, positioning herself slightly in front of Avid—a clear, physical declaration of her protection.

“Sire, this morning I went to check on Avid,” she began, launching into the full narrative. “He was convinced the wound—which has worsened dramatically—was a catastrophic vampire infection. His home is heavily warded with silver, and the tension there was immense.”

She then detailed the arrival of the doctor. “Dr. Legundo was insistent, concerned about the state of his neck from yesterday. Avid finally let him in, terrified of what the doctor would say. Dr. Legundo examined the wound very closely. He traced the angry, spreading purple tissue and the red lines, and he smelled the decay coming from it.”

Shelby’s voice grew urgent as she recounted the pivotal moments. “Dr. Legundo immediately backed away, pulling a cloth over his mouth and nose. He said, explicitly: ‘This is not a simple infection. This is a virulent, hemorrhagic fever. It is a strain of the Crimson Plague.’”

She glanced quickly at Avid, who flinched at the repeated diagnosis. “He went into full panic, Sire. He said Avid was a carrier and a serious, immediate health risk to everyone in Oakhurst, especially since we are only fourteen people trapped here. He condemned Avid on the spot, imposing an immediate quarantine, and ran to alert the militia to start inspecting everyone for symptoms and contain the ‘plague’ before the village dies.”

Shelby finished by meeting Scott's gaze. “We had to flee through an escape tunnel. They will be at his house within the hour, Sire. Avid needs sanctuary and protection from the medical mistake and the town’s panic.”

Scott maintained his imposing, controlled posture, his arms still folded across his chest. He did not immediately speak, but allowed a deliberate, heavy silence to fall over the enclosure. This was a critical performance: he needed to appear to weigh a difficult choice while simultaneously asserting his ultimate authority over both the Hunter and his Childe.

He turned his gaze from Shelby to the spreading corruption on Avid's neck, studying the angry, veined tissue as if analyzing a complex schematic. He then glanced at Owen and Pyro, who stood silently, their unified presence a subtle pressure on the overwhelmed human.

Scott exhaled slowly, finally breaking the silence. His voice, when it came, was measured, authoritative, and laced with quiet contempt for the panicked Dr. Legundo.

“The doctor is not very bright,” Scott declared dismissively. “He is relying on centuries-old, fear-driven texts and conflating symptoms of a profound affliction with a mundane epidemic.”

Scott paused, allowing a small, calculated flicker of darkness to cross his features, confirming the severity of the threat while steering the diagnosis away from a simple plague.

“However, his diagnosis is not entirely off the mark,” Scott continued, his gaze returning to the wound. “It is not the Crimson Plague, no. But I am certain this is an infection of tremendous power, one that, if left unchecked, would indeed be catastrophic and could easily endanger the lives of those around him.”

He was giving Avid an updated, more accurate truth—it was a catastrophic infection—while maintaining the vital lie that the Hunter Society’s plague lore was almost right.

Scott shifted his focus entirely, locking his piercing gaze onto Avid. He looked directly into the Hunter’s wide, terrified eyes, gauging the extent of the compliance and fear.

Is the boy listening? Is he taking this seriously, or is he still plotting?

Regardless of the silent assessment, Scott offered his pronouncement.

“Shelby has vouched for you, Avid,” Scott stated, his voice now firm and absolute, leaving no room for negotiation. “She has asked me to grant you sanctuary and protection from the town’s panic. I am willing to do so. I will protect you from the quarantine, and I will protect you from this affliction until it is understood.”

Scott’s eyes flickered to Shelby, confirming the terms of her request, then back to Avid.

“You may stay in these walls for now,” Scott affirmed. “But you must understand the condition of that protection. My Brood and my life are my only priorities. I will allow you to remain here as long as you harbor absolutely no ill intent toward me or my fledglings. You will follow Shelby’s instructions without question. And you will trust that what I tell you is the truth, and the only path to your survival.”

He waited, the silence heavy, expecting a direct submission.

~~~

The transition from the panicked, silver-infused air of his house to the vast, intimidating silence of the ruins was a physical shock to Avid. Every muscle in his body screamed for stillness, for safety, but his mind raced with self-recrimination and blinding fear.

As Shelby pulled him across the threshold of the magnificent Spruce door, Avid’s training instantly clashed with his terror. His initial thought, Hunter protocol: Assess the lair. Find the vulnerability, was immediately rendered obsolete by the sheer scale of the three vampires before him.

He saw Scott, the Sire, impossibly strong, leaping from the high wall with casual grace. He saw Owen and Pyro, the two young men he’d dismissed as mere servants in the castle, now standing united, strong, and undeniably possessive of their master. Their powerful presence, even standing silently, was overwhelming.

Avid’s self-loathing was a screaming constant. I ran from a mistaken diagnosis into the arms of the creature I was sworn to destroy. He remembered the burning shame of the previous night—the humiliation of his body’s betrayal under Scott's touch and the subsequent Vitae-induced climax. Now, that shame was compounded by the literal plague sentence.

He watched Scott’s calculated approach—the deliberate distance he maintained, honoring the promise not to touch. He is demonstrating his control. He doesn't need to dominate me physically; the situation does that for him. This act of restrained honor, however small, ironically felt safer than Dr. Legundo’s hysterical abandonment.

When Shelby began speaking, Avid clung to her words. She was the one reliable voice left in his world. He heard her repeat Legundo’s terrifying diagnosis, and he watched Scott dismiss the doctor as foolish but confirm the catastrophic infection.

Not plague, but something just as deadly. Something supernatural. Scott’s certainty was solid. It was believable. It fit the horror growing on his neck better than any mundane infection.

When Scott finally turned his gaze directly onto him, Avid felt a profound, unnerving sense of exposure. Scott's eyes seemed to pierce not just his fear, but his very core, questioning the intent he had harbored for months.

“I will allow you to remain here as long as you harbor absolutely no ill intent toward me or my fledglings.”

The condition was simple, brutal, and impossible to bypass. Scott was asking him to discard the sole purpose that had defined his adult life—destroying the vampire—in exchange for a chance at survival.

Avid felt the fever in his neck burning, the skin tight and fragile. He thought of the frantic townspeople gathering pitchforks, ready to seal him in his silver cage. He was a Hunter who had been infected and condemned by the very mortals he was meant to protect.

He looked at Scott, then at Shelby, who stood ready to shield him. He was out of options, out of time, and utterly reliant on the honesty of the creatures he had sworn were incapable of it.

Ill intent. It was a meaningless term now. His will to fight, his physical ability to act on that intent, had been utterly annihilated by fear and sickness.

He pushed off Shelby, finding just enough strength to stand fully upright, though he swayed slightly. He looked straight at the towering Sire.

“I understand the terms,” Avid said, his voice raspy but clear, a final assertion of his free will before surrender. “I will agree to your conditions. I have no ill intent. My priority is survival, not conflict. I will follow Shelby’s instructions and respect your sanctuary.”

He had not promised loyalty, nor love. He had promised obedience based on a shared necessity. It was a surrender to circumstance, and the only choice a condemned man could make.

~~~

Scott watched the Hunter push off Shelby and deliver his reserved submission. “I will agree to your conditions. I have no ill intent.”

The words were spoken, the necessary contract fulfilled. But the response was flat, devoid of the passion and challenging spark that Scott had found so intriguing in the Hunter before his wound. Scott felt a slight frown crease his brow at the profound withdrawal and reserve in Avid’s demeanor. The man’s usual sharp focus and exuberant defiance were gone, replaced by a dull, feverish exhaustion.

The infection and the sheer terror of the plague diagnosis are taking a heavier toll than the Vitae. He is completely spent.

Scott let out a soft sigh, acknowledging the depth of the man’s suffering with a slight tilt of his head.

“That is all I ask, Avid,” Scott confirmed, his voice softening slightly, maintaining the air of a benevolent, powerful host.

He then addressed Shelby, initiating the next phase of control and integration—the immediate stabilization of the guest.

“Shelby, the man looks like he could use a good wash,” Scott instructed, gesturing toward Avid’s dirt-streaked clothing and the sweat on his brow. “Lead him to the bathing room. He needs to clean off the scent of the road and settle the fever.”

Scott paused, glancing deliberately at Avid’s troubled expression. He chose his next words carefully, planting the seed of the truth while maintaining plausible deniability.

“Oh, and if you lend me your bag, Childe, I’ll also locate some books that might be helpful.” Scott’s gaze flickered to Avid before returning to Shelby. “I think I might have a book on the very creature I think caused your wound, Avid.”

Scott made sure to look away from Avid immediately after delivering the line, projecting the notion that he expected the Hunter to scoff at his claim and dismiss him, thus reducing the pressure on the man to engage. He probably wouldn’t listen to me anyway, and I maintain my distance.

Shelby, understanding the precise intention behind the request, swiftly moved to hand over her satchel. The transfer was seamless and quick; the bag—which actually contained the Vampire Culture and the Ghouls book they desperately needed—was now safely in Scott’s possession.

The books are now his property. When he delivers them, it will appear as if he went to a hidden library and found them, strengthening the credibility of his ancient knowledge.

Scott took the satchel and nodded once. “Go. Attend to your guest. Owen, Pyro, you may attend to your sister and the guest if you wish, or you may return to your rest. I will handle the research.”

Scott did not wait for their reply. He turned and walked toward the center of the enclosure, the satchel in hand, giving Shelby the undisputed authority to lead Avid away.

Owen and Pyro exchanged a quick look, their decision immediate. They moved to flank Shelby, silently confirming their role as protective family.

“Come on, Avid,” Shelby said gently, taking his elbow. “A hot spring bath will feel better than anything right now.”

Avid offered no resistance. Between the fever, the corruption, and the sheer mental exhaustion, the promise of warmth and cleansing was the only thing that mattered. He allowed Shelby, Owen, and Pyro to lead him away from the Sire and deeper into the secured, subterranean sanctuary.

Scott watched them go, waiting until the group disappeared around the corner of a ruined wall. He then moved toward the darkest, most secluded part of the enclosure, pulling out Shelby's books and beginning his strategic study, preparing the materials for the next critical conversation.

~~~

Avid allowed himself to be led. His legs were heavy, his neck felt like a strip of searing wire, and the cold sweat clinging to him made the thought of the bath a powerful lure. The silence of the vampires was unnerving, but the gentle pressure of Shelby’s hand on his arm, steering him away from Scott, felt like a tether to sanity.

Owen and Pyro walked silently on either side of them, their powerful forms making the trio feel like a small, highly protected military convoy. Avid tried to focus on his surroundings, clinging to his Hunter training to catalog the sanctuary.

Shelby led them away from the sunlit enclosure, toward a section of the remaining castle wall that looked deceptively solid. She touched a specific stone, and a hidden door slid open with a low, hydraulic sigh, revealing a dark, descending staircase carved into the earth.

“The main Crypt entrance,” Shelby murmured, her voice low. “It’s sealed and warded against discovery. Hold the rail, Avid. It’s a steep descent.”

The air immediately changed. It became cooler, damper, and possessed a rich, earthy smell mixed with something mineral and ancient—the scent of deep stone and preserved power.

As they descended, the architecture was unnerving. Unlike the rough, mundane digging of his own escape tunnel, this was masterful stonework. The walls were lined with smooth, carefully cut masonry, and the stairs felt solid and eternal beneath his feet.

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a spacious, cavernous hall. The first room they passed was brightly lit by internal, steady glowstones embedded high in the walls. Avid stopped, his eyes widening in shock at the organized nature of the vampires’ sustenance.

This was clearly the livestock room, managed with surprising precision.

In the largest area, a sizable herd of healthy dairy cows was penned. They were magnificent, robust creatures, kept spotless and content, munching silently on fresh hay. Their presence meant a constant, easily renewable source of blood.

But what truly drew Avid’s attention was the chicken coop. It wasn't a simple wooden box; it was an exquisitely designed mechanism of timber and mesh, running almost the length of one wall. This coop was complexly sectioned. It was set up with auto-feeders and a gravity-fed water system. He realized it was designed not just for meat, but for sustainable, quiet harvesting.

“The chickens are vital for quick food and resource renewal,” Pyro explained, watching Avid’s fascination with the coop. “The eggs are gathered automatically and transferred to an incubator. The main flock keeps laying, while the chicks are raised in the free-range pen for meat. It’s efficient.”

Avid looked at the meticulous, self-sustaining system. They are treating living beings as objects, yes, but they are eliminating waste, cruelty, and effort. This is not the lair of sloppy monsters; this is the base of highly organized predators.

Shelby quickly guided them past the room and down a main corridor that twisted deeper into the earth. They passed the entrance to a long, straight tunnel that was blocked by heavy scaffolding and equipment.

“That leads to the mines,” Owen offered, gesturing toward the tunnel. “We’ve been excavating, recovering materials and old mineral wealth.”

Avid peered down the tunnel. It wasn't haphazard digging; it was an active construction site, professionally supported and clearly leading to rich, dark earth.

They are not just hiding; they are building. They are utilizing the land and accumulating wealth. This is not a temporary camp; it’s a fully operational estate.

Shelby finally led them into the heart of the lair: the large, cavernous chamber that served as Scott’s main crypt and sleeping area.

The space was dominated by a large, ornately carved stone sarcophagus, centrally placed and clearly the focus of the room’s energy. But what caught and held Avid’s gaze were the three walls behind the tomb, which were fronted by three elaborate, ancient statues.

These statues were not merely decorative; they flanked three distinct, seamless doorways, carved to perfectly blend into the stone behind them.

1. The Wardrobe: The door to the left was slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of a large, expansive room—a closet and treasure room. Avid could just make out racks upon racks of luxurious fabrics, silks, and preserved finery, hinting at immense accumulated wealth and centuries of existence.

2. The Hot Springs: The center doorway, tucked behind the most imposing statue, was slightly misted. The air emanating from it was damp and steaming, carrying the scent of minerals. This clearly led to a natural, underground hot spring or bathing area.

3. The Library: The door to the right opened into what looked like a vast, organized library, lined floor-to-ceiling with ancient tomes and scrolls. Avid’s Hunter mind immediately seized on this—a repository of centuries of knowledge, both mundane and forbidden.

Avid tried to step toward the library, his curiosity and intellectual need for answers overriding his physical discomfort. “That… that’s the knowledge. The archives—”

But Shelby quickly cut him off, gently but firmly redirecting him toward the misty central door.

“Later, Avid. You’ll have time for the archives later, I promise,” Shelby insisted, steering him firmly toward the steam. “First, the fever and the corruption need to be cooled. Into the hot spring, now.”

She guided him past the central statue and into the bathing chamber. The air was thick with mineral vapor, and the heat was immediately enveloping and soothing. The spring pooled in a large, naturally formed basin of smooth rock.

“No one will disturb you here,” Shelby said, her voice soft in the steaming room. “Wash off the fear and the road grime. We’ll be right outside, just down the hall. Take all the time you need.”

Avid looked at the steaming water, then at the three vampires waiting patiently. He offered no resistance. Between the fever and the promise of warmth, he could only obey.

He watched as Shelby, Owen, and Pyro turned their backs and exited the bathing chamber, their movements strangely protective, sealing the door quietly behind them. He was left alone with the steam and the promise of a temporary, fragile peace.

Avid stood shivering on the edge of the spring, utterly alone in the misty heat. The silence was absolute, broken only by the gentle hiss of the thermal water. He felt impossibly exposed, stripped bare of his identity as a Hunter and left as a mere sick, terrified human.

He reluctantly began to shed his filthy, road-grimed clothes, dropping them carelessly on the stone floor. As he did so, his instincts—the core training of his life—kicked in. If he couldn't fight, he could catalog. He forced his mind to focus on the objects in the room, treating them as evidence in the lair of the enemy.

The bathing chamber was carved directly from the rock, but niches and shelves had been meticulously built into the walls. These held various amenities.

Avid first approached a shelf containing an array of preserved toiletries. There were soaps carved into strange, geometric shapes and stacked next to vials of perfumed oils and fragrant salts. He recognized the heavy, ancient packaging—these were clearly expensive, preserved commodities, some centuries old. They smelled rich and complex, a stark contrast to the sterile, plain soap he used in Oakhurst.

His gaze then fell on a small, recessed stone container holding a collection of peculiar items. These were made of polished wood, horn, or smooth, heavy glass. They ranged in size and had highly specific, ergonomic shapes—some tapered, some curved deeply, some fitted with loops or ridges. Avid picked one up—a smoothly polished length of obsidian, cool against his feverish skin. He turned it over, frowning in confusion.

What are these? Some kind of ancient massage tools? Surgical implements? The shapes were too strange, too specialized for any common use he knew. He dismissed them as inexplicable, ancient tools used in some arcane vampiric ritual, placing the obsidian item back down with a shrug of ignorance.

Finally, he reached the edge of the large, steaming pool. The water was crystalline and clear, and the rock surrounding the basin was slick with millennia of mineral deposit.

Near the center of the pool, a captivating feature existed: a freestanding waterfall. It wasn't fed by a pipe; a sheet of clean, cool water simply poured down from a crack high in the ceiling, plunging several feet into the center of the pool. The sound was a soft, steady rush.

Avid leaned closer, noting that despite the constant addition of the waterfall, the pool never threatened to overflow. There must be a precise drainage system, perhaps through a porous rock layer or a hidden channel. The whole place was engineered for perfection and permanence.

He stepped into the spring. The immediate blast of heat was intense, making him gasp, but as he slowly lowered his body into the thermal water, the relief was instantaneous. The heat seeped into his bones, unwinding the tight, aching tension in his muscles and temporarily dulling the constant throb of the corruption on his neck.

Submerged up to his chin, Avid leaned his head back against the smooth, damp stone, letting the steam work its magic. He closed his eyes and began the painstaking process of collecting his thoughts.

1. The Threat: Not a plague, but a catastrophic infection—worse than he thought, but solvable, according to Scott.

2. The Sanctuary: Not a chaotic lair, but a highly organized, self-sufficient estate ruled by an ancient, powerful mind. They valued stability, wealth, and efficiency.

3. Shelby: She chose them. She is safe. She gave him up to the enemy, but only to save him from certain death, and her bond to the Sire is genuine. She is now his only link to life.

4. The Condition: He had promised obedience and goodwill. He had surrendered.

The water was cleansing, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer terror of the quarantine began to recede, leaving a cold, hard kernel of necessity. He was an infected Hunter, reliant on the monster he hunted. He had lost everything, but he was alive.

He watched the perpetual waterfall pour into the pool, a symbol of the endless resource and time these beings commanded. He knew, with a certainty that transcended fear, that if anyone could understand and fix the corruption growing on his neck, it would be the ancient power that built this sanctuary.

He stayed in the water, letting the shame and panic dissolve in the heat, preparing himself for the next confrontation—the one where Scott would demand the truth about the infection.

Chapter 17

Shelby closed the heavy door to the bathing chamber, sealing Avid inside the steam and the safety of the thermal springs. She leaned her back against the smooth, cold stone, letting out a long, quiet exhale—a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding since she saw the angry, spreading corruption on Avid's neck. The scent of sulfur and wet stone was a welcome relief from the metallic tang of his terror.

Owen and Pyro stood a few paces away, waiting patiently by the entrance to the crypt’s main hall. Now that the immediate crisis of the escape was over, the professional formality they maintained in front of Scott softened, replaced by a warm, familial alertness that hummed between the three of them.

“He’s safe for now. The fever needs the heat to settle,” Shelby confirmed, rubbing her temple with a weary hand. “The exertion of crawling through that escape tunnel pushed him to the limit.”

“Good work, sister,” Owen said, his reserved features softening into a rare, genuine smile that acknowledged the stress she had just endured. Pyro immediately moved closer, his hand reaching out to squeeze her shoulder—a firm, accepted gesture of family and shared strength.

“That was intense, Childe,” Pyro murmured, using the term affectionately, his voice a low, musical sound. “The sheer panic radiating from the town is palpable. We’ll be effectively sealed in now. Did you hear how desperate Legundo sounded?”

“I heard the screams,” Shelby replied, leaning into the warmth of Pyro’s shoulder. “I think he genuinely believes Avid is a biological time bomb. It gives us perfect cover. But the whole situation—the silver, the absolute terror—it was almost exhausting.”

“The Hunters cling to those old myths,” Owen scoffed, shaking his head slowly. “The Silver Myth is so persistent. If they only knew it’s just an irritant, not a death sentence, they’d invest in iron instead. It’s pitifully inefficient defense.”

“Speaking of persistent myths, and efficiency,” Pyro interjected, leaning in conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and remembered ecstasy. “Did you feel the bond last night, Shelby? The sheer, unadulterated joy Scott was radiating? I thought the ceiling was going to come down.”

Shelby’s cheeks flushed a deeper crimson than the Vitae usually allowed as she remembered the overwhelming, powerful sensation of Scott feeding from her, the delicate pain, and the consuming pleasure. It wasn't just physical; it was an emotional and psychic storm shared across their linked consciousness.

“The control is immense,” she whispered, her voice hushed with awe. “He took just enough, and the way he held me… it’s terrifying, but the security is absolute. It’s like being completely dominated, but willingly, because you want that overwhelming sensation.”

“That’s the beauty of the Vitae, sister,” Owen added, his voice low and rich with experience. “It breaks down the walls of resistance, not just physical, but mental. And the bond just amplifies what you already feel. It’s the ultimate surrender and the ultimate reward.”

“And the feeding,” Pyro breathed, his eyes wide. “He took me right after you, and the sensation—the focus, the utter need in him—it’s overwhelming. He held me so gently, but every drop of Vitae he took just incapacitated me with pure bliss.” He sighed dramatically, running a hand over his hair. “I still can’t believe he allowed us to feed from him for so long, too. That level of trust… that level of shared power…”

Owen wrapped a possessive arm around Pyro's waist, pulling him close, his voice warm with pride and subtle arrogance. “He trusts us, Shelby. He knows us. We are not just possessions; we are his family, his strength. And the fun we have with him—you’ll quickly realize, sister, that the stories the mortals tell about control and dark desires barely scratch the surface of the depth of this life. It’s better than any fantasy.”

He looked at Shelby, his gaze turning serious, drawing her back to the crisis. “But that’s why we have to protect Avid. Scott is keeping his distance and being formal to preserve the sanctity of his oath, but we are the bridge. If Avid chooses this life, he is family. And we protect our own, always. No Hunter, no plague, and certainly no incompetent doctor will take him from us.”

The shared confidence—the intimate exchange of their experiences with the Sire and the understanding of their profound duty—knitted their bond tighter. Shelby knew, without a doubt, that she was fully accepted into this powerful, functional family.

~~~

Scott walked deliberately to a secluded section of the ruins, near a massive, sun-warmed stone block that provided both a seat and a sense of cover. He was still within the protective walls, but far enough from the crypt entrance to grant Shelby and the fledglings privacy.

He sat down and immediately pulled the Ghouls book from Shelby's satchel, discarding the more general Vampire Culture text for the moment. The book was a modern Hunter Society volume—mass-produced, efficiently bound, and filled with crisp, current diagrams. The irony of learning about a creature from centuries-old feuds via a modern enemy’s field guide was not lost on him.

Scott opened the book, his eyes instantly locking onto the text. He didn't need to read; his mind absorbed the dense pages, synthesizing the information in seconds.

Ghouls. It had been eons since he had dealt with one.

He focused intently on the chapter detailing Infection and Corruption.

“The Ghoul’s bite is primarily dangerous because of the biological cocktail present in its mouth and fangs. When the resulting wound absorbs this infectious matter, the Ghoul infection takes immediate hold. This virulent strain attacks the victim’s biological systems, causing accelerated necrosis, fever, and a profound, agonizing terror known as the ‘Blood Fever.’

“There is no known way to cure a Ghoul infection. Once the infection takes hold, depending on how the initial wound is cared for, the transformation or the terminal necrosis process can take anywhere from days to years to complete. The end result is always either death or, in rare, hideous cases, a corrupted survival.”

“Hunter protocol advises immediate, violent intervention: Burning the infected alive is the only reliable method to ensure the infectious matter is completely cleansed from the earth, preventing further spread.”

Scott frowned slightly. The Hunter protocol was utterly ruthless, yet entirely consistent with their single-minded focus on purity. It also explained why Avid was so terrified of the quarantine: he knew his own people's final solution.

The text confirmed his initial diagnosis: Avid was suffering from Ghoul infection caused by the initial physical trauma and absorption of the infectious material into the wound. The subsequent rush of Scott’s potent Vitae—while meant to aid him—had aggressively accelerated the fatal process, forcing the Hunter's compromised system into crisis.

He quickly scanned the list of symptoms, cross-referencing them with what Shelby had described and what he had observed on Avid's neck:

• Incurable Nature & Accelerated Necrosis: Confirmed. The deep purple and red veining, worsened by Vitae.

• Atypical Decay Scent (Sulfurous): Confirmed. The odor the doctor noted, indicative of necrotic tissue.

• Extreme Fever/Chills (Blood Fever): Confirmed. Avid was sweating and shivering.

• Profound Psychological Terror: Confirmed. Avid’s panic and self-loathing.

The corruption was established and, by the Hunter's own rules, terminal. The immediate course of action was clear. Scott now held the only known path to survival—a path Avid’s people would call damnation.

He planned the conversation. He would use the book—the Hunter's own scripture—to prove that Avid was not suffering from a simple vampiric change, but from a separate, viral Ghoul infection that his people would execute him for. He would then explain that only the complete replacement of his blood with stable Vitae—a controlled, deliberate Embrace—would flush the Ghoul infection and stop the fatal collapse. The choice would be stark: conversion or collapse.

He stood up, the book securely tucked under his arm. The time for bathing was nearly over. It was time for the truth.

~~~

Shelby waited just outside the bathing chamber door, the sound of the running spring water a continuous, soothing murmur. The brief, gossipy communion with Owen and Pyro had recharged her, solidifying her sense of purpose and commitment to Avid’s protection.

Owen had quickly returned to the inner chambers to gather some necessities. He returned shortly, holding a bundle of freshly laundered clothing.

“These aren’t mine,” Owen explained quietly, handing Shelby the bundle. “They’re a random set I found within the Sire’s expansive wardrobe that looked the closest to Avid's size. They’re clean, at least.”

Shelby took the clothes—a soft, heavy linen shirt and simple trousers—the fabric still warm from the recent drying. They felt unfamiliar, hinting at the vast, preserved collection of finery she had glimpsed earlier.

“I’ll check on him,” Shelby murmured, nodding thanks to both fledglings. She moved to the door and gave two soft, distinct knocks.

“Avid? It’s Shelby. Are you decent? I brought you some clean clothes.”

After a brief pause, Avid’s voice returned, sounding less strained, though still weary.

“Yes, I’m done. The water… it helped. I’m just trying to figure out how to get rid of this filth without ruining the floor.”

Shelby gently pushed the door open just enough to slip through, sealing it behind her. The bathing chamber was still heavy with steam. Avid stood wrapped only in one of the thick, heavy towels, his back to her, looking down at his discarded, soiled clothes. The water had washed away the surface dirt, but the spreading purple and red streaks on his neck were now starkly visible, standing out against the damp, pale skin.

He turned slightly, pulling the towel tighter around his waist. His hair was slicked back from his forehead, and his eyes, though still red-rimmed with fever, looked clearer and more focused than they had all morning. The physical cleansing had allowed his mind to settle.

“They’re not exactly tailored,” Shelby explained, holding out the clothes. “They came from the Sire's wardrobe, so they’ll be loose, but they’re clean. Your things… we should probably burn them later, just to be safe.”

Avid nodded slowly, taking the garments. The shirt was made of incredibly fine, soft linen, an expensive fabric he wouldn’t normally wear. The idea of burning his last link to his former life didn't sting as much as it should have; he was already condemned.

“The room is incredible,” Avid said, pulling the soft shirt over his head. It hung loose on his frame, comfortable and warm. “The efficiency, the sheer scale of the operation… and the library. It’s not what the Hunter books describe. It’s… a functioning state.”

Shelby stepped closer, mindful of the lingering fear in his eyes.

“It is a functional state, Avid. And right now, it’s the only place that offers protection from Oakhurst. The Doctor will be back with the militia soon, and they will be carrying torches, not medical kits.”

Avid looked down at his clean clothes, then pressed his hand gently against the corruption on his neck.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “I realized that when I was in the water. I’ve run to the only safety available. I agreed to Scott’s conditions—I am here. But Shelby, I need to know why the symptoms suddenly accelerated last night. The fever, the smell… it was too fast. Was it… did his Vitae taint the vampire infection, making it worse?”

Shelby met his gaze, knowing the perfect opportunity for Scott to deliver the devastating truth was imminent.

“That is exactly what Scott wants to talk to you about,” Shelby confirmed, her voice serious. “He has been reviewing records—ancient texts that he has access to, unlike the thin lore the Guild possesses. He has a very clear idea of what is attacking you, Avid, and why it’s not the simple vampire infection you fear.”

She paused, letting the implication sink in: his enemy has the solution his own people never could.

“He is waiting for us. He has the answers, and he has the only treatment.”

Shelby efficiently helped Avid finish dressing. His movements were still sluggish, and the soft linen of the oversized shirt draped loosely over his frame, contrasting sharply with the familiar tightness of his Hunter gear. She helped him tuck the trousers into his boots, lending him silent, physical support.

“Feeling any better?” she asked quietly, smoothing the collar of the shirt over the angry, inflamed skin on his neck.

“Clearer,” Avid admitted, taking a deep, steadying breath. “The fear is still there, but the chaos is gone. I need to know what that thing is, Shelby. If it’s not the infection… what did Scott see?”

“You’re about to find out,” Shelby promised. “But remember what I told you: he knows more than anyone else alive. Trust the diagnosis, Avid. It’s the only way out.”

She nodded toward the door. “We need to go. He’s waiting.”

~~~

Meanwhile, Scott moved swiftly and silently through the underground halls. He carried the two books—the Ghouls field guide and the Vampire Culture text—tucked firmly under his arm.

When he entered the central tomb area, he spotted Owen and Pyro standing near the entrance, their posture alert and ready. He paused, his focus softening from strategic command to familial warmth. He walked toward them, offering them a small, endearing smile—a private moment of affection before the critical performance began.

Scott stopped and gave each of his fledglings an affectionate greeting, a brief, silent confirmation of their bond. He leaned in, giving a gentle nuzzle to Owen's cheek, then did the same to Pyro's, letting the gesture linger just a moment longer to share his confidence and approval.

With the greeting complete, Scott maneuvered himself to the side of his massive, carved stone sarcophagus. He stood leaning casually against the coffin, positioning himself specifically so that it appeared as though he had just emerged from the vast library doorway, completing the illusion that he had been researching the obscure illness on Avid’s behalf. He held the books prominently under his arm—the evidence ready.

It didn't take much longer. The heavy door to the bathing chamber quietly opened, and Shelby emerged, gently leading Avid by the elbow.

The contrast was stark. Avid was cleaner, but still pale, wearing the oversized, luxurious linen that made him look vulnerable and young. He took in the sight of the three vampires—Scott, leaning against his tomb like a sovereign, with his two powerful fledglings flanking him—and he visibly stiffened.

Shelby stopped a respectful distance from the coffin. “Sire,” she announced quietly, “Avid is clean and ready to speak with you.”

Avid looked from Scott's calm, imposing figure to the two books held tightly under his arm—the archives he had only minutes ago coveted. He was ready for the truth, however horrifying it might be.

Scott remained leaning against his stone sarcophagus, the two books tucked securely under his left arm. The silence of the tomb was profound, magnifying the tension in the chamber. He looked at Avid, now clean but deeply compromised, and sensed the exact point where fear met intellectual curiosity.

He chose his words carefully, ensuring he did not immediately trigger the Hunter's defenses.

"Avid," Scott began, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone that resonated in the large space. "You came to my sanctuary for protection, and you asked for truth. I believe I know exactly what is happening to you, and why that doctor's diagnosis—while terrifying—was fundamentally wrong."

Scott paused, his gaze sweeping over the necrosis on Avid's neck, then meeting the Hunter's eyes.

"However," he continued, "what I am about to tell you flies in the face of everything the Hunter Society has taught you. It contradicts your foundational understanding of the enemy, and I am quite certain it will challenge your sanity."

He shifted, bringing the two volumes slightly forward. "I have access to histories, texts, and accounts far older and more accurate than the simplified lore your Guild relies on. The answers are here."

Scott offered a choice, a strategic measure of respect meant to lower Avid's guard and maintain the illusion of self-determination.

"I am positive I know what this infection is, but I am unsure if you are ready to believe me based only on my word." He held the books out slightly. "I can explain everything myself, detailing the nature of the infection. Or, I can give you this book—a volume written by your own people—and let you read the terrifying truth for yourself."

Scott made a point of sliding the Ghouls book from beneath the Vampire Culture book, highlighting its title.

"The choice is yours, Avid. How do you wish to learn the truth?"

~~~

Avid stared at the two books Scott held, the silence of the massive tomb pressing in on him. The choice was a fresh wave of agony: accept the word of his lifelong enemy, or rely on the damning text written by the very people who would shortly sentence him to be burned alive.

His heart hammered against his ribs, making the corruption in his neck throb. He felt the terrifying, irresistible pull of the Library door behind Scott—the promise of answers locked within ancient pages. But he also felt the weight of Scott's gaze and the presence of Shelby's hand resting gently, protectively, on his arm.

Read the book. It’s Hunter protocol. Always rely on documented evidence, not the whispers of the enemy.

But what if Scott is lying? If he takes the book, Scott knows he’ll be reading Hunter propaganda. It will only confirm the vampiric threat, not his current unique crisis. Scott is offering him a test of trust.

Avid glanced at Shelby. She looked clean, strong, and completely at peace beside her Sire. She had chosen this life, and she was risking it all to protect him. If Shelby, the woman who risked her life to warn the village about Scott, now trusted him implicitly, perhaps that trust was earned.

Shelby trusts Scott. Shelby trusts me. Therefore, in this moment of damnation, I must trust Scott.

The thought was revolutionary, a complete abandonment of his Hunter identity, but survival trumped dogma.

Avid lifted his gaze from the books and looked directly at Scott. He took a slow, deliberate breath, steadying his voice.

“I agreed to your terms, Scott,” Avid said, his voice quiet but firm. “I have surrendered my will to fight, and I have placed my life in your hands. Shelby trusts you, and she is the only reason I am alive. I will give you the respect you are offering.”

He gestured toward the books. “Tell me first. Explain the nature of this infection, why your Vitae accelerated it, and why the town doctor is wrong. After I have heard your explanation, I will read the book to confirm the truth with my own eyes.”

He needed the verbal explanation to understand the nuance, but he needed the Hunter text to validate the lethal, damning truth—that he was already dead by his own people's law.

Scott gave a slow, measured nod, acknowledging the Hunter's compromise. It was a victory for the Sire; Avid was prioritizing Scott's direct account before seeking confirmation from his old lore.

Scott moved away from his coffin, his expression shifting into that of a learned expert preparing to deliver a difficult lecture. He still kept his distance from Avid.

“Very well. That is a wise request, Avid,” Scott confirmed. He placed the Vampire Culture book on the coffin, keeping only the Ghouls field guide in his hand. “The problem you are facing is not a simple transformation, but a viral war being fought within your bloodstream. It is far more dangerous than the town’s panic suggests.”

Scott held the Ghouls book open, its pages facing Avid, ready to deliver the information that would irrevocably shatter the Hunter's worldview.

“Let me introduce you to the real enemy you face, Avid—one your people rarely discuss because they have no defense against it,” Scott stated, his voice calm and lecture-ready. “The creature that inflicted your wound was not a vampire, nor was it a failed necromancy experiment. It was a Ghoul.”

Scott flipped the page, displaying an old, stark illustration within the text.

“Ghouls are predators that primarily subsist on the flesh of the dead, but they are opportunistic and highly infectious. They are not undead like us; they are abominations born of ancient corruption, cursed with a viral, necrotic hunger. They are, in fact, the source of many of the 'vampire myths' your people believe—the ones about cannibalism and flesh-eating.”

Scott began to describe the creature with chilling accuracy, quoting directly from his vast, ancient knowledge while referencing the Hunter's modern text.

“A Ghoul appears as a gaunt, lithe humanoid figure,” Scott explained. “They are unnaturally fast and strong for their frame. Their skin is typically a pale, sickly grey color, almost like wet clay. Their eyes are often described as soulless, milky white, lacking any visible iris or pupil. They are not merely blood-starved; they are profoundly corrupted.”

Avid felt a cold spike of recognition pierce the fever haze. He remembered the night vaguely, the confusion, the terror. Elle had described the creature to him—his best friend, the one he trusted most—in agonizing detail as they nursed his wound. He had listened, horrified, and repeated the description: "Gaunt, lithe, pale grey skin, white soulless eyes." Avid had always rationalized it away, assuming it was just a severe, starved vampire—one driven mad by hunger. Scott’s description was perfect. It wasn't a myth; it was a Ghoul.

“Perhaps the most telling feature,” Scott continued, tapping the illustration, “is the perpetual state of viral decay. They often emit a greyish, smoky haze that clings to them. This is not vapor, but the aerosolized output of the contagion they carry. They are walking pathogens.”

Scott then turned to the mechanism of infection, the cause of the hideous necrosis currently spreading across Avid’s neck.

“A Ghoul's bite is the initiation of a terminal illness. The danger lies in its saliva and the infectious material that lines its teeth—what we call Ghul-Vitae, though it's hardly Vitae at all. When the wound is inflicted, the Ghoul does not need to feed heavily; it simply needs to ensure the infectious material is absorbed into the injury.”

Scott emphasized the point, leaning closer—though still maintaining his distance—to ensure Avid understood the grim mechanism of his slow demise.

“This saliva is not just venom; it’s a living contagion. It’s highly viral and mucoid—thick, shiny, and nearly impossible to clean completely from the deep tissue of the wound.”

Avid’s breath hitched, a fresh wave of panic washing over him. He remembered the weeks following the attack. Every time he cared for the wound, cleaning it meticulously with salt and water, he could never get rid of it. There was always a strange, shiny, tenacious mucus that clung to the edges of the puncture marks. He had scrubbed at it until he wept, thinking it was just stubborn pus or tissue damage. He couldn't get the 'shiny mucus' off because it wasn't mucus—it was the Ghoul's infectious saliva, working its way into his system.

“And once it is absorbed,” Scott finished, closing the book with a resonant thump, “the Ghoul infection takes hold. It attacks the body with devastating speed, and according to your own people’s texts, there is no known cure.”

~~~

Avid’s mind was reeling, the vivid memories of the shiny, tenacious mucus clinging to his wound—the Ghoul's infectious saliva—clashing violently with the truth Scott had just revealed. His reality had fractured: he wasn't dying from a vampire's curse or a historical plague; he was infected with an incurable viral corruption.

He fixated on Scott's last words, the final, chilling sentence from the Hunter's own code: "...there is no known cure."

A wave of dizzying panic washed over Avid, worse than the fever. The vampire bite, which had terrified him, was survivable according to Hunter lore; the plague was a terrifying, swift death. But this? This was far worse.

Incurable. Terminal.

The necrosis on his neck seemed to flare with renewed heat. His eyes darted to the terrifying possibility Scott had skirted around. 'Worse than the plague... was he turning into a Ghoul?' He imagined the grey skin, the soulless eyes, the eternal hunger, and he wanted to scream. His people would kill him immediately; the execution would be swift and brutal.

Before Avid could completely spiral into despair, a reassuring warmth spread through his arm. Shelby had stepped up next to him, placing a gentle but firm hand on his bicep. Her presence—solid, calm, and vital—was a silent anchor, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss.

Scott watched the emotional shift, waiting until Avid’s breathing steadied under Shelby’s influence. He recognized the moment of maximum vulnerability and maximum receptivity.

Scott continued, his voice regaining its low, powerful authority, offering the terrifying solution.

“The Hunters, Avid, have no cure, and their protocol—as you know—advises only cleansing fire. They operate on fear and dogma,” Scott stated. “But we are not Hunters. We are beings of living energy, and we understand the mechanics of conversion and healing far better than any mortal doctor.”

Scott placed the Ghoul book onto his coffin, letting the heavy text stand as the irrefutable evidence of Avid's doom.

“You are currently battling a Ghoul infection, which, unchecked, will result in total systemic collapse or a hideous, mutated survival—a fate far worse than death. But you are with vampires, and we have a third option that grants you a chance at surviving this corruption.”

Scott looked directly at Avid, his eyes burning with focused intent.

“When a human is Embraced and converted into a vampire, their body is fundamentally purged and healed of all normal ailments—disease, infection, and contamination. Our Vitae rejects biological corruption. We do not get sick; we are simply too vital to host illness.”

Scott drove home the final, world-shattering point.

“My deduction is this: if you accept the Embrace now, the turning will either halt the Ghoul infection from spreading further by replacing your corrupted blood with pure Vitae, or, more likely, the profound biological shock of the conversion will purge the Ghoul infection from your system permanently.”

He paused, letting the severity of the choice sink in.

“Either way, it saves you from certain death, and it saves you from turning into the creature that inflicted this wound upon you.”

The silence that followed Scott’s proposition—conversion or collapse—was absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of the thermal spring.

Behind Scott, Owen and Pyro exchanged quick, nervous glances. This was the moment of truth. They had agreed to this path, but watching the powerful, terrified Hunter being cornered into making an irreversible choice was deeply unsettling. The transformation wasn't a casual gift; it was a permanent, profound death of the self.

Shelby, however, maintained her composure. She looked from Avid’s strained, horrified face to Scott, and then back to Avid, offering a silent, firm reassurance. She nodded slowly, confirming her agreement with Scott’s deduction. She knew the Ghoul infection was a death sentence; the Embrace was the only hope.

Avid felt the world tilt. The heat of the springs and the severity of the fever were nothing compared to the cold dread that seized his heart.

Vampire. Embrace. The enemy's cure.

He was being asked to trade his entire existence, his oath, his mortal soul, for a chance to stop a virus. The terms were terrifyingly simple, yet crushing in their finality.

The Immediate Reality: I am dead already. The Hunters would burn me alive. The doctor's plague diagnosis is just the slow prelude to a pyre. Scott's diagnosis is a promise of a painful, certain collapse into something monstrous—a Ghoul.

The Cost: To accept the Embrace is to accept servitude. It means becoming the thing I hunted. It means losing the sun, losing my humanity, losing my purpose. It means abandoning every single principle my life was built upon.

The Irony of Survival: But if the Vitae purges the Ghoul infection—if I can stop turning into that soulless thing Elle described—then survival is possible. It’s a complete rebirth into the darkest form, but it’s still survival.

The Decision: I am a Hunter. I was trained to endure, to survive at all costs to continue the fight. But the fight is over. My body is a ticking bomb. The only way to win this last battle is to surrender to the enemy and become the very power I need to fight the next one.

Avid swallowed hard, the muscles in his neck tightening painfully over the corrupted skin. He looked at Shelby, who returned his gaze with complete conviction. She had walked this path; she was safe.

He finally focused on Scott, the words lodged thickly in his throat.

“You are asking me to choose damnation over death,” Avid whispered, the weight of the choice almost crushing him. “You are asking me to betray my people, my past, and everything I swore to uphold.”

He wasn't asking for mercy, but confirmation of the severity of the sacrifice.

Scott did not flinch, nor did he offer false sympathy. He simply affirmed the truth. “I am offering you the only path to survival, Avid. You will not become a Ghoul. You will become a fledgling.”

Scott emphasized the distinction, his voice remaining firm and honoring his word to the Hunter. "I have made a promise to you, Avid, and I keep it. My Vitae will not be the one to give you the Embrace. But my Brood possesses the power to cure you. The choice is yours, but time is a luxury you no longer possess."

Avid's shoulders slumped, the weight of the decision settling heavily onto his clean, yet compromised, frame. He looked between the three vampires and the terrible wound on his neck, his mind agonizing over the chasm between his beliefs and his reality.

"I... I can't just choose this," Avid whispered, the words choked with disbelief. He wasn't rejecting the option out of principle alone; his entire understanding of the world was violently resisting the idea that the enemy was offering salvation.

He looked at Scott, his eyes clouded with the ingrained prejudice of his training. "My views aren't flawed to me. They are absolute truth, confirmed by centuries of documentation," he insisted, though the conviction lacked its former fire.

"Vampires are not natural. You are creatures of corruption," Avid argued, referencing the tenets drilled into him since childhood. "The Embrace is a theft of the soul, leaving only a consuming hunger and eternal servitude. It's a curse, not a cure. The thought of inflicting that... I would rather die than become a corrupting influence on the world, even to save my life."

Scott listened patiently, his gaze unwavering. He understood that Avid's resistance was purely intellectual—a final, desperate clinging to a collapsing worldview. He moved slowly, respecting the boundary and the fragility of the moment.

Scott gently placed the Vampire Culture: Truth vs. Myth book down on the smooth stone floor directly in front of Avid, then placed the Ghouls field guide beside it.

"I understand, Avid. You have been taught that our existence is defined by damnation," Scott said, his voice measured. "But your truth is based on incomplete texts and motivated fear. These books, one written by your people and the other detailing our reality, are your resources now."

Scott gestured to the volumes. "You have escaped certain execution by fire from your people and terminal infection from a Ghoul. You are safe here for now. I will not force the decision, and I will not pressure you."

He stepped back, giving Avid the space he needed, and laid out the two stark paths available to him.

"You may take the time you need. Read both. Cross-reference the fear with the facts. When you have reconciled your truth with your survival, you will let us know your decision."

Scott's expression turned solemn, acknowledging the gravity of the alternative. "If you decide that your conscience cannot bear the change, and you would rather die than become a fledgling, we will honor that choice. We will grant you a swift, painless death so you no longer suffer the infection."

He then looked at Shelby, making the second condition clear. "But if you choose to live, and accept the Embrace to purge the Ghoul's corruption, it will be done on one condition: if Shelby is willing, she will be the one to give you the Embrace."

Scott's finality in this matter was absolute. He had promised Avid he would not touch him, and he would keep that vow, even for the matter of life and death. The fate of the Hunter's transformation now rested entirely in the hands of his closest friend.

Scott accepted Avid's decision to read the truth himself. He nodded to his fledglings, a silent command for retreat. "We will respect your process, Avid," he stated quietly, then turned, maneuvering away from the coffin and the intense emotional space.

Owen and Pyro followed their Sire immediately, moving with synchronized silence. They ascended the crypt stairs, leaving the central tomb to Avid and Shelby. Their purpose was clear: to provide the Hunter the space needed to reconcile his lifelong beliefs with his imminent death.

~~~

As the heavy door to the crypt halls hissed shut, Shelby instantly moved closer to Avid. The silence now was a dense, intimate blanket. She didn't press him for a decision; she knew the magnitude of the revelation.

She pulled Avid close, wrapping her arms around his middle. "I know this is terrifying, Avid," she murmured into his shoulder, her voice warm and steady. "It's the ultimate lie they told us. But you are not alone in this. Whatever you choose, I am here."

Avid was stiff for a moment, the ingrained Hunter taboo against physical intimacy with a vampire fighting his profound need for comfort. But the fear, the fever, and the exhaustion won out. He hesitantly leaned into her embrace, gripping the soft linen of her shirt. His body shook slightly, not just from the remnants of the fever, but from the realization that his entire identity was based on a flawed, incomplete history.

"It's all... it's all a lie," Avid whispered, the words ragged. "I was fighting the wrong thing. I'm not dying because of the enemy; I'm dying because I was attacked by a plague neither side can stop."

After a long moment, Avid pulled back, wiping a hand across his damp face. He looked down at the two books lying on the stone floor. He bypassed the Vampire Culture text—he wasn't ready to face the truth about his enemy's culture. He needed confirmation of his own doom first.

He reached for the Ghouls field guide, his fingers trembling as he opened it to the section Scott had indicated.

He read quickly, hungrily, his eyes scanning the detailed pages on Ghul-Vitae and Infection. Every sentence confirmed Scott's account: the incurable nature, the mucoid contagion absorbed through the wound, the accelerated necrosis driven by the fever. Scott hadn't lied; the book was clear that the only Hunter remedy was complete incineration.

He flipped further, past the diagrams of the ghoul's jaw structure, finding the psychological and biological deterioration details. As he read, his terror escalated. Scott had offered a clinical explanation, but the book offered the gruesome reality:

• The excruciating pain as the nervous system deteriorated, causing relentless, systemic agony.

• The psychological horror of losing higher function, becoming driven purely by instinct and overwhelming hunger.

• The disgusting, infernal craving—the ghoul's defining, insatiable need for fresh, warm flesh, specifically the flesh of those closest and easiest to acquire, like friends and family.

Avid slammed the book shut, the sound echoing sharply in the tomb. He lurched back, his stomach churning, clutching his neck. The knowledge that he wasn't just facing death, but the potential transformation into a soulless, cannibalistic monster driven to consume Shelby, Owen, and Pyro, cemented his fate.

The choice was no longer about damnation versus death. It was about conversion versus monstrous obliteration.

He looked at Shelby, his eyes wide with a desperate plea. "I can't... I can't let myself become that thing," he rasped. "I have to stop it. I have to choose."

Shelby watched the sheer, visceral terror on Avid’s face as he recoiled from the Ghoul book. The pain was no longer just physical; it was existential. The Hunter’s greatest fear was not death, but corruption and the loss of the soul. Scott's solution had offered survival, but the terrifying details confirmed the horror of the alternative.

Shelby stepped forward, gently taking the Ghouls book from his trembling hand and setting it aside. She understood that he had absorbed the necessary, damning truth. Now, he needed the information that would make the choice bearable.

"I know," Shelby said softly, reaching out and gently touching his cheek. "But you don't have to jump from one terrifying option to the next without preparation."

She turned and picked up the second volume Scott had left: the Vampire Culture: Truth vs. Myth book. The binding was less aggressive, less clinical than the Ghoul guide.

"Your entire life has been focused on what happens when a vampire is hunted and killed," Shelby explained, opening the book and running her fingers over the smooth, heavy pages. "But you know nothing about what happens when a vampire lives, loves, or chooses a family."

"Scott gave you this book for a reason, Avid. He wants you to see that your damnation is not the fate you fear. The servitude is trust, the hunger is manageable, and the family is real."

She held the book out to him. "You don't have to read it alone, fighting every word. I've read a bit of this one, and I can tell you, the sections on the political structure and Vitae-based communication are fascinating."

Shelby offered a genuine, warm smile, appealing to his natural intellectual curiosity—the very thing that had always bonded them.

"It's always better to research something with a friend than alone," she said. "Let me help you understand why I chose this. Let me show you what you'd be choosing for."

She offered him the first page, ready to sit with him on the cold stone floor and begin the final, necessary education.

Avid hesitated for only a moment longer. The thought of engaging in collaborative study—a normal, comforting ritual—was a lifeline in the chaos. He accepted the book from Shelby, the heavy pages resting in his hands. He knew she was right: he needed to understand the new rules of life before he could choose it.

They moved to sit near the smooth, carved stone of the sarcophagus, leaning against the cool surface. Shelby settled close beside him, their shoulders touching. Avid opened the Vampire Culture: Truth vs. Myth book.

vid’s eyes immediately scanned the first section, which focused on the foundational myths perpetuated by the mortal world and the Church. He quickly found the header that addressed his core fear: "The Myth of the Soulless Undead."

He began to read aloud, his voice low and serious, Shelby reading along with him.

“The greatest falsehood propagated by the religious doctrine of the Old World is that the Embrace results in the theft or damnation of the human soul. This is strategically useful propaganda designed to motivate Hunters, but it is fundamentally false.”

“The soul, as the seat of personality, memory, and consciousness, remains entirely intact upon conversion. A vampire is not a resurrected corpse, but a fundamentally changed living being. If the soul were lost, the ensuing creature would possess no memory, no intellect, and no distinct personality—it would be nothing more than an automaton driven by pure instinct.”

“Indeed, the greatest struggle of the newly Embraced is reconciling the enduring, human soul and personality with the new, powerful demands of the Vitae. It is precisely because the soul remains that a vampire retains its sanity, its specific desires, and its capacity for complex emotions, loyalty, and, yes, love.”

Avid stopped reading, his breath catching. He reread the last sentence twice, his mind grappling with the information.

"It is precisely because the soul remains that a vampire retains its sanity..."

"They keep their souls," Avid whispered, looking at Shelby, the shock warring with a profound, dizzying sense of relief. "All this time, the Guild taught us that the hunger hollowed you out, that you were just shells animated by a demon."

Shelby nodded, gently touching his hand. "That's how they keep the Hunters motivated, Avid. If we were truly soulless, we couldn't be trusted or feared—we'd just be rabid animals. But we keep our intellect, our memory, and our capacity for choice. The soul stays. It just gets... a lot stronger."

Avid turned back to the text, a sudden, voracious hunger for truth replacing his fear. He continued reading, devouring the details of the transformation:

“The personality does not disappear, but it is often amplified. The traits present in the human—loyalty, rage, intellect, paranoia—are crystallized and given immense focus by the Vitae. This is why the Sire carefully selects who they Embrace; they are choosing the personality traits that will endure for centuries.”

Avid glanced at Shelby, suddenly understanding her calm intensity and her unwavering commitment to him. Her loyalty, which was always strong, had been amplified into an absolute force by the Embrace.

He then looked toward the doorway where Scott had disappeared. If Scott's personality—his commanding intelligence, his meticulous control, and his commitment to his word—was amplified, it meant his current conduct was genuine. He was not a senseless monster; he was a pragmatic, ancient sovereign, honoring a painful promise.

The damnation of his soul was, perhaps, a myth. The choice was not between salvation and sin, but between a painful, viral death or an intense, eternal life under new rules.

Avid and Shelby continued to read, moving deeper into the text. Having established that his soul was safe, Avid’s anxiety shifted to the consequences of the inevitable servitude and the loss of individual freedom implied by the Embrace. He turned the page, finding the section detailing the profound connection shared between vampires.

The next heading focused on the Vitae Bond—the psychic, emotional, and physical connection established between the Sire and the Fledgling during the Embrace.

“The Vitae Bond is the primary stabilizing force in a vampire’s life. When the Sire's Vitae is given to the Fledgling, it creates a conduit between their minds. This connection is deep and initially overwhelming, allowing the Fledgling to draw emotional strength and direction from the Sire, and allowing the Sire to exert absolute authority over the Fledgling’s will.

“However, the bond is not merely a leash. It serves as a constant, two-way communication channel, transmitting vital information, emotional states, and, crucially, a shared sense of safety and belonging. This connection is what prevents the newly Embraced from descending into solitary madness, as they always have the Sire as an anchor.”

Avid looked up, his brow furrowed. "Absolute authority," he quoted darkly. "That confirms the servitude."

"It confirms the safety," Shelby countered, gently placing her hand over his. "The bond prevents panic. And look at the next part. Not all bonds remain the same."

They continued reading, discovering the nuanced truth behind the singular, dominant bond Scott had initially established with Shelby.

“While the initial bond is one of absolute control (A), it can be reformed and redefined by both conscious effort and continued intimacy. Sires may choose to deepen the connection into one of shared dominance (B), where the fledgling’s autonomy is gradually restored alongside their power. In rarer cases, often between a dominant Fledgling and a weaker Sire, the roles may even reverse (C).

“Crucially, the bond's stability allows for the creation of secondary bonds between the Fledglings themselves, forging ties of deep friendship, partnership, and often profound emotional and physical intimacy, which further stabilizes the Brood structure.”

Avid's eyes widened. He immediately thought of Owen and Pyro, their synchronized movements and the blatant, comfortable affection they shared. He finally understood why Scott had allowed them such obvious displays of intimacy—it wasn't a flaw; it was a feature of the Brood structure, providing stability through secondary familial ties.

"Owen and Pyro," Avid breathed, a wave of realization washing over him. "They aren't just servants; they're... partners. They're connected in more than one way."

"They are," Shelby confirmed, squeezing his hand. "And the strength of that secondary bond helps keep the pressure off Scott. They share the burden of support."

Avid turned the page again, reaching the section detailing the Brood Structure and the inherent hierarchy.

“The Brood is the fundamental social unit of modern vampires, designed for defense, stability, and resource management. The structure is naturally hierarchical but is based on trust, not tyranny.

The Sire (or Regent) sits at the apex, holding ultimate authority derived from the Vitae Bond. This authority ensures the safety of the entire group.

The Fledglings (or Childe) form the next tier. They are fully capable vampires who operate with the full autonomy granted to them by the Sire. A large Brood may also include Angels or human retainers, who serve the Brood but are not connected by the Vitae Bond.”

Avid understood instantly. Scott wasn't a tyrant; he was a General, or a King, responsible for the survival of his people. His control wasn't arbitrary cruelty; it was necessary command.

"So Scott isn't just a monster controlling victims," Avid summarized, looking at Shelby. "He's the core of a family, ensuring its survival. His control over the bond... it's just the mechanism for protecting the whole system."

"It is," Shelby agreed softly. "It is the cost of eternal life and eternal protection. Now, you know the truth of the sacrifice, Avid. The time for the decision is upon us."

Avid nodded slowly, placing the Vampire Culture book on the floor between him and Shelby. He had the facts, and the facts demanded a decision.

"I know I have to choose," he confirmed, his voice heavy with resignation. "The Ghoul infection is a guarantee of a monstrous end. But to choose the Embrace... I need to understand all the rules I'd be stepping into."

He picked the book up again, still needing the objective distance of the text to process the emotional toll. Shelby waited patiently, knowing that confronting the culture of the Brood was the last hurdle before acceptance.

Avid flipped past sections on Vitae consumption methods and territory management, seeking more details on internal relationships. He found a section that was far more candid and less political than the previous entries.

Avid's eyes scanned the page, then froze. He read the next passage, his face heating up despite the fever, and a fresh wave of shock hitting him—a shock completely unrelated to death or infection.

“Due to the profound, stabilizing intimacy created by the Vitae Bond, the standard human concepts of personal space and traditional, restrictive sexual morality are often relaxed within the Brood structure. It is considered normal and healthy for fledglings to explore their desires and physical needs with one another, provided such exploration is consensual and does not interfere with the Sire’s authority or the Brood’s security.

“This shared intimacy—often spontaneous and fluid—is an essential element of Brood cohesion and emotional management, particularly among those who have not yet formed a permanent, monogamous mateship bond with another member or outside partner. The shared physical expression reinforces the secondary bonds and alleviates the high emotional intensity inherent in eternal life.”

Avid dropped the book again, staring wide-eyed at Shelby. He instantly recalled the easy, affectionate nuzzles Scott had shared with Owen and Pyro minutes earlier, and the comfortable, protective way Owen and Pyro interacted. He realized their connection wasn't just familial; it was fluidly intimate.

"The customs related to sexual relations," Avid finally managed, his voice barely a gasp. "It's... normal for the Brood to share intimacy and explore desires... with each other?"

He looked at Shelby, his mind flashing back to his previous encounters with Scott—the accidental intimacy, the overwhelming pleasure caused by the Vitae, and the immediate, powerful physical reaction he'd had. He had always been fighting the guilt of that accidental intimacy. Now, the book was telling him that the very desires he suppressed were a functional part of Brood life.

Shelby smiled, a slow, understanding, and entirely unashamed curve of her lips. She gently nudged the book with her finger, pointing to the text.

"It is, Avid," she confirmed, her voice matter-of-fact. "We're family, and we live forever. The Vitae makes us feel things more intensely, and we crave connection. In a Brood like Scott's, there's safety and acceptance in that intimacy, whether it's friendship, partnership, or... whatever else the family needs. There are no secrets, and there is no shame in desire. It reinforces the secondary bonds, just like it says."

She met his gaze, her eyes soft. "This is what you'd be choosing into, Avid. A family where the rules are entirely different. Where loyalty and trust are paramount, and everything else is open to exploration. Do you still think it's damnation, or simply a different kind of life?"

Avid stared at the passage in the Vampire Culture book, the concept of open intimacy within the Brood reverberating through him. He recalled the overwhelming flood of pleasure that had accompanied Scott’s feeding, the intense, physical reaction that had simultaneously thrilled and shamed him. He had convinced himself those feelings were a betrayal of his human will, a demonic coercion.

Now, the book casually presented it as a functional element of emotional stability and cohesion.

Avid felt a strange, detached confusion rather than moral outrage. He wasn't sure if he was upset by the custom, or if the relief that his deep, confusing feelings for Scott might be normal—at least within this new, terrifying culture—was simply overwhelming. His whole life, he had been taught that desire for the monster was a path to corruption; now, he learned it was a stabilizing social custom.

Whatever I was feeling for Scott... it must be normal, then, he conceded internally. It's part of the Vitae bond's function, a way to channel the intensity of the change.

He took a slow, deep breath, accepting this final, profound shift in understanding. The old rules of morality were utterly irrelevant here.

Avid focused on the practicalities, needing to anchor himself in structure. He turned the page again, seeking the basic tenets of conduct that governed Brood life, the operational rules that replaced Hunter Law.

He found a section titled, "Common Brood Survival Protocols."

“While Broods differ regionally, most successful, long-lived Broods adhere to strict, pragmatic rules designed to ensure longevity and prevent discovery. These include:

• Claim a Territory: A Brood must establish and rigorously defend a fixed, protected territory that can be sustained for centuries. This prevents unnecessary conflict with rival Broods, organizations (like the Hunter Guild), and encroaching mortal settlements. (Avid immediately thought of the extensive walls and the sealed crypt—Scott’s territory was meticulously secured.)

• Do Not Kill Indiscriminately: The indiscriminate murder of mortals invites undue attention, retaliation, and breaks the fundamental secrecy required for survival. Killing should only be a defensive last resort or a calculated, necessary act.

• Rely on a Good Supply of Livestock: Long-term survival demands a self-sustaining, non-mortal source of sustenance. Broods must cultivate and rely on a steady supply of livestock (cattle, game, etc.) as the primary source of Vitae. This reduces the risk associated with human hunting.

• Human Consumption: The consumption of human blood should be reserved for essential, high-risk scenarios—such as during the Embrace, when a fledgling is stabilizing, or when a Sire is offering a boon or seeking extreme power. It should only be consumed when offered consensually or required for the survival of the Brood.”*

Avid finished reading, the book heavy in his lap. He looked around the cold, quiet tomb, realizing that every action Scott had taken—from building the walls to maintaining the cattle pen to keeping his promise not to touch Avid—was in strict adherence to these rules. Scott wasn't a rampaging fiend; he was a methodical, disciplined sovereign.

He was the enemy, but he was also the only stable entity left in Avid's ruined world.

He looked at Shelby, his eyes finally clearing, the turmoil settling into a hard resolve. "I'm ready," he said, his voice quiet, final, and absolute.

Chapter 18

Shelby felt the change in Avid—the agonizing intellectual struggle had finally settled into a hard, cold resolve. His eyes, though still reflecting fear, were clear of despair. He had moved past the question of morality and landed firmly on the problem of survival.

"I'm ready," Avid said, his voice quiet but final.

Shelby nodded, a sense of relief washing over her. "I know you are."

She didn't ask for the decision there in the crypt; the ultimate pronouncement needed to be delivered to the Sire who held the power to grant or deny the request. She gently picked up the two Hunter books, tucking them back into her satchel.

"Come on," Shelby said, placing a supportive hand on his back. "Let's go tell Scott."

They quietly exited the central tomb, passing through the massive, silent chamber and ascending the winding stone stairs back toward the surface. The journey back was in stark contrast to their panicked flight just hours earlier; they walked with purpose and grim acceptance. Avid was stepping away from the sanctuary of the crypt and out into the harsh sunlight to face his ultimate fate.

As they pushed open the heavy Spruce door and stepped out into the main castle enclosure, the sounds of steady, rhythmic labor immediately met them.

Scott, Owen, and Pyro were exactly where they had left them, maintaining the illusion of perpetual industry. They were focused on the inner walls of the Grand Hall foundation, moving large blocks of dressed stone with impossible ease and precision. Scott stood higher up on the scaffolding, adjusting a support beam, while Owen and Pyro worked the heavy supply hoist below.

Shelby stopped a short distance away, drawing the attention of the three builders. She spoke clearly, her voice cutting through the sounds of construction.

"Scott! Sire!" Shelby called out. "Avid has come to a decision."

At her words, all work immediately ceased. The hoist rope went slack, and the low scrape of stone on stone stopped abruptly.

Scott, high up on the scaffolding, straightened and looked down. His posture was still commanding, but his expression was one of intense, calculating readiness. Owen and Pyro, standing below, turned as one, their eyes fixed on the man who held the key to their immediate future.

The three vampires stood silent, a focused tableau of power. Avid was now the center of their attention, exposed in the midday sun, wearing the clean, borrowed linen of his enemy.

The moment stretched, thick with consequence. The choice was his to make public.

"Avid," Scott's voice resonated from above, devoid of pressure, simply stating the reality. "We are ready to hear your choice. Life or death?"

The enclosure was silent, every eye fixed on Avid. The massive blocks of stone on the hoist, the heavy support beam Scott was adjusting—all of it waited on the Hunter's word. The sun was high, baking the exposed ruins.

Avid took a deep breath, feeling the faint, insidious sting of the Ghoul corruption on his neck. The feeling was a stark, brutal reminder of the monstrous fate awaiting him. He looked past Shelby, past Owen and Pyro, and up to Scott, the ancient Sire who had offered him the only path out of the grave.

He didn't speak immediately; he allowed the full weight of his decision to settle on the air.

"I have read the texts, Scott," Avid began, his voice raspy at first, but gaining strength. He glanced down at the place on the ground where the two books had rested, referencing the cold, hard data of his findings.

"I know that Dr. Legundo was wrong. I know that the infection is not the plague, but a corruption caused by a Ghoul's bite," he stated, asserting the new reality he now held. "And I know that my people's lore holds no cure, only a painful end."

He met Scott's steady gaze, acknowledging the complex network of truth and necessary lies that had brought him to this point.

"I also know what your culture demands, and what the Embrace entails. I know the bond is absolute, and I know that my soul is not lost, but merely... redefined."

He squared his shoulders, accepting the final, terrifying condition.

"I do not want to die."

Avid paused, the gravity of the ultimate sacrifice hanging heavy. "I choose life. I choose survival. I am willing to be embraced, under your authority, to purge this corruption and stop myself from becoming a Ghoul."

He bowed his head slightly, the ancient gesture of submission overriding his Hunter pride. The decision was made.

The reaction from the Brood was immediate. Owen and Pyro exchanged a silent look of relief and grim acceptance. The threat of the Ghoul infection was removed, and their family was about to expand. They immediately looked to their Sire for the next command.

Scott, high above them, remained still for a long moment. He did not smile; he simply nodded once, a sharp, definitive acceptance of the Hunter's submission. He had won the long game.

"Your choice is heard and accepted, Avid," Scott's voice boomed down from the scaffolding. "You have chosen wisely. You have chosen the only path."

He looked directly at Shelby, confirming the next, critical step.

"Shelby, the promise stands. If you are willing, you will administer the Embrace."

Shelby stepped forward, her hand immediately going to Avid's arm, her acceptance a silent, powerful affirmation.

Scott did not hesitate. Upon hearing Avid's solemn acceptance, he immediately abandoned his task on the scaffolding. With a smooth, powerful movement, he sprang down from the high perch, landing effortlessly on the dirt floor beside the hoist. Owen and Pyro quickly backed away from the construction materials, creating a clear space for their Sire.

Scott approached Shelby and Avid, stopping a careful distance from the pair, maintaining the physical boundary he had promised.

"The matter is critical and the need is urgent," Scott stated, his focus entirely on the logistics of the transformation. "But the Embrace is a profound, life-altering event. It is yours to define."

He offered the choice to Avid, a final courtesy before the ultimate loss of autonomy.

"The Embrace can be a private affair, Avid," Scott said. "Just you and Shelby, down in the quiet of the crypt. I will remain close by, of course, should there be any complications or if Shelby requires immediate assistance. Or," he continued, glancing at his waiting fledglings, "the entire Brood can be present. Your transformation is a matter of importance to us all."

As he spoke, Pyro and Owen had indeed drawn closer, their expressions shifting from concern to curious, keen interest. They had witnessed Shelby’s transformation, but watching a former Hunter join their ranks was an event of unique significance. They wanted to bear witness to the newest member of their family.

Scott then turned his attention to Shelby, his instructions practical and absolute.

"Before we proceed, Shelby, you require replenishment. The Embrace is a massive expenditure of Vitae, and you must be fully sustained for the process to be successful and for you to manage the subsequent bond."

Scott then looked at Avid, his gaze penetrating. "Avid, you will accompany us. You need to understand the reality of our sustenance before you join our ranks."

Scott turned to Owen and Pyro. "Escort your sister and our guest to the livestock room. We will ensure Shelby is fully sated before we proceed to the crypt."

He looked pointedly at Shelby. "Go now. We will wait there for you."

The command was non-negotiable. Shelby, accepting the necessity, squeezed Avid's hand once more.

"Come with me," she promised, her eyes conveying strength and determination. "You need to see this."

She then led Avid toward the crypt entrance, Owen and Pyro moving to flank them. Scott followed behind them, his focus already shifting to the next critical step. The final preparations were underway, and Avid was about to receive a stark, essential lesson in vampiric life.

Shelby, Avid, Owen, and Pyro descended the stairs into the deep, cool earth. The air immediately grew heavy with the organic scents of hay, earth, and animal warmth. They moved swiftly past the empty, echoing halls and into the brightly lit Livestock Room.

Avid’s eyes widened again at the sight of the large pen holding the herd of magnificent, healthy cows. The animals were placidly chewing their cud, seemingly oblivious to the predators in their midst.

Shelby walked with a distinct, excited urgency to the edge of the pen, her eyes already fixed on the largest, healthiest bovine. The necessity of the Embrace required her to be fully powered, and the Vitae of these cows was the safest, most stable source.

Before Shelby could approach the fence, Scott stepped forward, his focus absolute. He bypassed the fence entirely and walked to the edge of the main cow pen. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the herd. His eyes, normally a sharp red, seemed to soften and deepen, acquiring a profound, internal glow.

Scott's voice, when he spoke, was low—almost a non-sound—but it filled the room, a resonant, psychic hum. He was activating his Trance, not just on a single animal, but on the entire herd.

Avid watched the herd's reaction. It wasn't panic, nor was it sleep. The cows' chewing slowed, their heads lowered, and their large eyes grew distant and unfocused. They were still conscious, still standing, but their resistance, their fear, and their flight instinct had been utterly suspended. They were in a state of deep, calm compliance.

Scott then carefully beckoned one of the cows—a massive, chestnut-colored female—from the center of the pen. His soft voice, entirely gentle and coaxing, spoke softly to the bovine as he held the Trance firm.

“Come, friend. We require your strength. Do not be afraid,” Scott murmured, guiding the cow slowly toward an empty stall near the edge of the room. He used no physical force, relying purely on the soothing psychic command to keep the creature perfectly calm and cooperative.

Avid watched, mesmerized. He had only ever seen vampires feed in the chaos of a hunt or the fury of a kill. This was controlled, deliberate, and respectful—a profound display of power used for gentle coercion.

Scott brought the cow to a standstill, securing a temporary rope lead. He then turned to Shelby, who was practically vibrating with focused hunger and readiness.

She moved forward eagerly, her teeth already starting to lengthen. Scott stopped her with a measured, firm look.

“Pause, Childe,” Scott instructed, his voice low but sharp.

Shelby immediately froze, her hunger momentarily checked by the Sire’s authority.

Scott stepped back slightly, gesturing to the calm, tranquil cow. “We are predators, but we are not wasteful or ungrateful. This creature is giving its life—or its Vitae—to sustain you, to allow you to perform an essential task for the Brood. You will acknowledge that sacrifice.”

He enforced the core rule of their Brood's ethics.

Shelby, though ravenous, bowed her head slightly toward the massive animal. “Thank you for your strength. I receive your offering,” she whispered, the words sincere.

Only then did Scott nod. “Now, feed. Fully.”

Shelby moved in, the process swift and efficient, controlled by both her need and the overriding psychic calm Scott maintained over the animal. Avid, standing nearby, watched his friend feed on the calm, living creature—a final, essential step before she took his human life to grant him eternity.

Avid stood rigid, watching the entire exchange unfold. The sight of Scott wielding his power with such calm, deliberate control was a final, damning lesson. The Trance wasn't the chaotic enchantment of fairy tales; it was a focused, powerful suppression of will, used here for efficiency and a strange form of respect.

Shelby moved with a burst of focused energy, her senses completely narrowed on the massive cow. Avid watched as her teeth sank in. There was no struggle, no sound of panic—only the faint, wet sound of powerful suction. The cow remained utterly motionless, held immobile and serene by Scott’s Trance.

Avid focused on the sight, cataloging every detail. He watched Shelby’s pale skin slowly gain a subtle, vibrant blush as the Vitae flowed into her. The effect was immediate and pronounced. Her posture seemed to straighten, and the air around her thickened with a palpable surge of strength.

The process was faster than he expected. Shelby wasn't merely sipping; she was rapidly replacing the Vitae she knew she would soon expend on the Embrace. He saw the life drain from the cow almost as rapidly as the color returned to Shelby’s face. The massive animal, held in its tranquil state, slowly listed to the side, its immense body going entirely limp as the last vestiges of its life force were drawn out.

Shelby pulled back, a thin trail of blood clinging to her lips. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, and profoundly dark, but her body radiated a powerful, almost blinding fullness. She swayed slightly, momentarily disoriented by the sheer volume and potency of the Vitae she had just consumed.

Scott did not waste a second. As the cow's body settled onto the clean hay, Scott released the Trance on the rest of the herd, which instantly returned to its calm grazing, seemingly unaware of the loss.

Scott did not approach Shelby, who was still recovering from the powerful rush. Instead, he moved to the expired bovine with the immediate, cold efficiency of a trained butcher. He nodded to Owen and Pyro, who instantly sprang into action.

"No waste," Scott commanded quietly, pulling out a set of long, specialized knives from a hidden wall compartment. "The Vitae is consumed, but the meat, the hide, and the bone are resources. We utilize all."

Avid watched, stunned, as the three vampires worked with shocking speed and coordination. Scott, despite his ancient power, was the most methodical.

Owen quickly prepared the usable cuts of meat, wrapping them expertly in clean cloths and moving them toward a doorway Avid hadn't noticed—likely leading to a refrigerated storehouse.

Pyro focused on harvesting the hide, carefully separating it from the carcass.

Scott quickly drained any remaining blood into sealed containers and focused on dismantling the bones, which would be used for tools or fertilizer.

Within minutes, the remains of the cow were gone, dismantled and harvested, leaving only a clean, open stall and a few faint stains on the straw.

Avid realized that this was the truest definition of the 'functional state' he had read about. Their existence was governed by cold, resource-driven efficiency and a strict, pragmatic code of waste management.

Shelby, having shaken off the daze of her profound fullness, wiped her mouth and turned to Avid, her amber eyes burning with potent Vitae.

"Now," she said, her voice rich with power, "we finish this."

Shelby, now infused with the potent Vitae of the cow, radiated a palpable strength. She rejoined the group near the entrance of the livestock room, her eyes glowing with readiness. The area was spotless, the carcass fully harvested, and the remaining herd placidly grazing. Owen and Pyro stood nearby, observant and quiet.

"I am ready, Sire," Shelby confirmed, her voice low and steady.

Scott nodded, his gaze moving back to Avid. The Hunter, though visibly exhausted, held himself with a new, grim determination. The Ghoul book's horrific descriptions had sealed his fate, and the practical display of vampiric efficiency had provided context.

"Before we descend to the crypt and finalize this, Avid, you must make one final decision regarding the manner of your transformation," Scott stated, returning to the question of the ritual's setting.

"The time for the Embrace is now, and it will be performed by Shelby. Will this be a private affair—just the two of you, with me nearby in case of complication—or will the entire Brood be present?"

Avid hesitated, looking from Shelby, who offered a warm, supportive glance, to the silent figures of Owen and Pyro. The thought of the Embrace—the draining, the turning, the potential for pain—was terrifying enough without an audience.

"Why?" Avid asked, his voice rough. "Why would the rest of the Brood want to watch?"

Scott's expression softened slightly, betraying an affection he rarely allowed to surface during command. He easily understood the human's confusion over the required intimacy of the moment.

"The Embrace is not merely a biological procedure, Avid; it is a profound rite of passage," Scott explained gently. "It is the moment a new member, a new child, is welcomed into the family. When a human is converted, they are at their most vulnerable, their most isolated."

He gestured to Owen and Pyro, who nodded in silent agreement. "For the new fledgling, the presence of the family is endearing and reassuring. It confirms that you are immediately recognized, accepted, and protected by the entire Brood. For us, watching you cross that threshold solidifies your place and strengthens our resolve to protect you."

Scott paused, allowing his words to settle. "No one is judging you, Avid. We are simply waiting to welcome you in. Choose what brings you the most comfort."

Avid listened to Scott’s explanation, the final, crucial piece of the Brood culture clicking into place. The Hunters preached isolation and fear; the vampires practiced cohesion and shared experience. The idea that Owen and Pyro weren't waiting to mock his pain, but to offer silent, familial support and reassurance, was the last, devastating truth that broke through his defenses.

He looked at Shelby, who returned his gaze with complete warmth and sincerity. He looked up at Scott, whose posture was one of patient, powerful acceptance.

"I..." Avid paused, the word catching in his throat. He had faced death and he had faced damnation; now he faced acceptance. "I want them present."

He exhaled slowly. "If this is the most important moment of my life, the moment I cease to be the creature the Ghoul made me, then I don't want to be alone. I want the family present."

The tension instantly evaporated from the area. The expressions of the three vampires softened visibly, replacing their serious focus with a shared sense of understanding and excited anticipation.

Owen offered a small, sincere smile—a true display of welcoming. Pyro's eyes sparked with genuine warmth; he seemed eager to offer the silent strength of his presence. They were ready to fulfill their role in the ritual.

Scott nodded, his acceptance profound. "A wise choice, Avid," he confirmed, his voice holding a hint of approval. "You are choosing to accept the strength of the Brood even before you become one of us."

Scott immediately took command of the moment.

"Right. The time for delay is over. The Embrace must be done in the sanctity of the deepest part of the crypt."

Scott guided the group out of the Livestock Room. They didn't have far to travel; the main Tomb chamber, where Scott's sarcophagus was located, was adjacent to the sustenance hall, connected by a wide, short corridor.

Shelby kept her hand firmly on Avid's arm, providing physical stability. Owen and Pyro moved ahead, ensuring the heavy door into the main Tomb was securely opened.

As they entered the central chamber, the air grew cooler and quieter, dominated by the massive stone sarcophagus. The three elaborate doorways to the wardrobe, the library, and the still-steaming bathing chamber stood silent guard. This was the heart of the sanctuary, the stage for Avid's final, irreversible choice.

Scott cast a meaningful glance at the hard, cold stone floor where Avid would soon lie.

"We really need to carve a proper bed or nest in here soon," Scott mused quietly, a note of domestic practicality entering his voice. "A hard stone floor is hardly a proper welcome for a new fledgling."

He focused on the task at hand. "Shelby," Scott commanded, his tone regaining its necessary authority. "The time is now. I shall talk you through this."

The group settled into the vast, cool space of the main tomb. The air was thick with the scent of ancient stone, lingering mineral vapor from the hot spring, and a nervous, potent energy.

Scott maintained his distance, planting himself a few paces from the coffin with Owen and Pyro close beside him. The three vampires formed a silent, supportive anchor, their collective gaze fixed on the impending ritual.

Shelby led Avid directly to the sarcophagus, guiding him to sit with his back against the cold, carved stone. She knelt beside him, taking his hands. The borrowed linen shirt felt terribly thin, offering no defense against the immense transition ahead.

Scott’s voice cut through the silence, guiding the process with clinical, detached authority.

"The steps are precise, Shelby. Deviate from nothing," Scott instructed, his voice low but penetrating, carrying a chilling gravity. "Avid’s system is compromised by the Ghoul infection. We are walking a razor’s edge. If you draw too much, he dies. If you draw too little, the Ghul-Vitae wins."

He pointed to Avid's neck, near the still-spreading purple marks. "First, you must feed. You must draw his human life force down to the very threshold of death, the lowest point his heart can bear, where the Ghoul infection has maximum spread but has not yet claimed the core functions."

"You must bring him to the brink," Scott emphasized, his eyes gleaming with professional focus. "Listen for the change in the rhythm of his heart, the moment his pulse becomes weak and erratic—a flutter, a stutter. That is your only signal to stop."

Owen and Pyro leaned forward slightly, their eyes wide with intense observation, silently absorbing the life-or-death instructions.

Shelby took a ragged breath and nodded, her gaze locked onto Avid's, seeking his last human consent. Avid simply closed his eyes, offering his neck, the fear in his posture replaced by a weary resignation.

Shelby leaned in, her teeth lengthening swiftly and sinking into the tender skin adjacent to the Ghoul corruption.

Avid’s breath hitched, and a soft, surprised moan escaped his lips. His eyes flew open, wide with shock. He hadn't expected the pleasure this time—an immediate, blinding wave of euphoria and physical relief, a dizzying gift from the Vitae bond drowning out the pain of the bite.

Shelby was immediately enthralled. The Hunter’s blood was searingly sweet, potent, and vital—a taste far more intoxicating than the cow's stable Vitae. She fought the desire to linger, forcing herself to concentrate on the draining, gulping with urgent necessity.

"Listen, Shelby! Block the taste!" Scott's voice was sharp, a psychic prod overriding her intoxication. "It will feel like a tremble, a stutter. A step down in the rhythm, not just a slowing!"

As Shelby drained him, she felt the terrifying counter-effect. The removal of Avid’s stable human blood seemed to actively spur the Ghoul infection. The sulfuric scent around Avid’s skin sharpened into a sickly, acrid stench, and the corruption marks on his neck seemed to darken and spread faster under the draining stress, a dark, pulsing web against his rapidly paling skin.

Owen winced, drawing back slightly from the sudden worsening of the noxious odor. Pyro's face tightened with grim concern, recognizing the dangerous speed of the Ghoul-Vitae’s final push.

Shelby fed desperately, her senses straining over the rush of his blood, fighting past the powerful THUMP-THUMP of his heart. Avid’s grip on her arm loosened; his body went completely slack, a heavy weight supported only by the stone coffin.

Then, barely perceptible over the desperate ringing in her ears, she heard it: Avid’s heartbeat gave a small, distinct tremble, a skipped beat, a flutter that signaled the absolute precipice of his mortal existence.

Shelby pulled off quickly, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from her chest. Her face was stained with blood, and her eyes were wild with fear at how close she had brought him to terminal collapse. She looked frantically at Scott.

Scott’s voice was instantly commanding and loud, cutting through her terror.

"NOW! The Ghoul infection is working faster now—the necrosis is accelerated! You have to beat it with volume! Adjust your bite—press down and forward to activate the venom sacs. Inject your venom, quickly, Shelby!"

Shelby whipped her attention back to Avid, her fear for him providing the necessary clarity. She bit down again, hard and precise, aiming for the same entry point. She adjusted the angle precisely as Scott had described, activating the venom glands in her fangs.

A powerful, burning fluid—her own potent, stabilizing Vitae and venom—shot into Avid's circulatory system. She released the pressure slightly, but kept her fangs locked, pumping the venom with frantic urgency. She injected a large, life-saving dose, making sure to pump more than the minimum required, determined to completely overwhelm and purge the Ghoul’s corruption.

The transformation had begun. Avid’s entire body went rigid, arching violently against the cold stone coffin in a silent, agonizing seizure. His hands curled into white-knuckled claws, and a silent tremor ran through his body as the powerful Vitae and venom fought the Ghoul’s corruption for ultimate control of his new eternal life.

Chapter 19

Shelby maintained her bite for a prolonged, agonizing moment, ensuring the massive dose of potent venom was fully delivered. Then, following the final injection of transforming Vitae, she pulled back, her face pale with effort and fear, leaving the unconscious Avid to the mercy of his own biology.

The seconds that followed stretched into an eternity. Avid did not simply go still; his body became the epicenter of a horrific, violent, internal war.

He plunged into a devastating grand mal seizure. His entire spine arched so fiercely against the unforgiving stone of the sarcophagus that only the stiffness of his body prevented him from sliding to the floor. His neck muscles stood out like steel cables, his jaw clenched so tightly the bones seemed ready to fracture, and a low, continuous guttural sound—a strangled exhale of pure agony—was ripped from his throat.

The entire Brood could do nothing but watch and wait. Scott, Owen, and Pyro remained rooted to their spot, their collective attention focused entirely on the seizing man. They were observers in the most crucial battle of Avid's life.

The internal chemical warfare became horrifyingly external. The Ghoul infection, galvanized by the stress and the massive influx of potent, foreign Vitae, put up a ferocious, desperate final fight.

They could visually track the deadly exchange across Avid’s skin, a macabre map of chemical conflict.

The dark, necrotic purple veins of the Ghul-Vitae, which had been confined to his neck, suddenly surged outward. They raced like branching, black lightning bolts, streaking across his shoulder and down his left arm toward his hand.

The spread was violently checked when it abruptly hit the vampiric venom’s front line. A faint, shimmering golden hue—the essence of the transforming Vitae—seemed to pulse under his skin. This golden counter-force violently suppressed the darkness, forcing the blackness to retreat entirely from that vein, leaving the skin bruised and inflamed.

Denied that route, the Ghul-Vitae instantly re-channeled its energy, surging down a different venous pathway, aiming for his heart via the abdomen. Again, the venom was there, a pulsing, cold force that slammed the contagion back, pushing the necrotic material into stagnation.

This horrifying, spasming process continued for several minutes. Avid's body whipped and jerked with the violent chemical reactions, the rhythmic thump of his head hitting the stone offering a grim tempo. The sulfuric stench of the Ghoul infection spiked into a choking cloud, only to be battled by the clean, metallic, almost coppery scent of Shelby's Vitae, creating a dizzying, sickening miasma.

Shelby watched, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes streaming, unable to interfere but desperately wishing she could. Owen and Pyro looked away briefly, Owen shaking his head at the sheer virulence of the Ghoul's curse while Pyro was cringing just imaging how painful it must be. Scott remained perfectly still, his eyes narrowing, memorizing every stage of the suppression process.

Slowly, inevitably, the Ghul-Vitae began to lose its systemic reach.

The territory claimed by the infection shrank. The golden, stabilizing power of the vampiric venom acted like a net, compressing and forcing the necrotic material back toward its central entry point—the Ghoul-infected wound on his neck.

The dark veins retreated from his limbs and torso, leaving behind only bruised, pale skin. The corruption coalesced into a dense, angry, stagnant mass around the wound site. The Ghul-Vitae was entrapped, neutralized, and localized.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the violent seizure ceased. Avid's body stopped trembling, his muscles slackened, and he slumped heavily and unnaturally against the stone.

The necrotic area on his neck was still a dense, ugly purple mass, but it was contained. The infection was no longer a mobile threat.

Avid's breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. His body temperature dropped rapidly, his skin becoming unnaturally cold to the touch. The immediate, mortal threat was over, replaced by the profound stillness of the Embrace.

He had passed the final, agonizing threshold. He was now fully in the process of turning.

A profound, collective exhale swept through the crypt as Avid's convulsing body finally stilled. The sudden, absolute silence following the violence of the seizure felt jarringly loud.

Scott, Owen, and Pyro visibly relaxed, their shoulders slumping from the extreme tension of the watch. The danger had been acute; any longer, and the Ghoul-Vitae might have won.

"The venom held," Scott stated, his voice quiet with relief, confirming the victory. "The systemic corruption is contained. He is in the Embrace now."

Owen let out a low sigh. "By the Ancestors, that was worse than watching you turn, Shelby. That virulence was... aggressive."

Pyro nodded, his earlier professional detachment replaced by sincere concern. "A clean win, Sire. He fought hard."

Shelby, however, was still shaking, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the motionless Avid.

"Shelby," Scott instructed gently, his voice shifting from command to quiet guidance. "You must calm yourself. You did exactly as required. Now, we must check him."

He paused, acknowledging the ironclad boundary he had set. "I would prefer to assess the severity of the bite and the containment of the necrotic tissue myself, but my promise stands. I will not approach or touch Avid. You must do it."

Scott directed her. "Pull him partially into your lap, Shelby. Give him support. Then, look him over carefully. Check his wounds, check his eyes, check his mouth. Look for anything that stands out—any immediate residual effects of the Ghoul's curse."

Shelby immediately obeyed, gently maneuvering Avid's heavy, unnaturally cold body. She pulled him toward her, cradling his head against her chest, offering a warmth the stone could not provide.

She ran her fingers over the injection site. "My bite wound is small, Sire, closing quickly. The purple mass... it's still there, but it's cold now. It's not radiating heat or spreading."

She then examined his face, pulling his slack jaw down. "His eyes are glazed, not responsive. But... I think he bit his tongue during the seizure."

Scott listened intently. "That is common with violent seizure, Childe. It will heal during the turning. The Vitae ensures that. The important thing is the containment."

Satisfied, Scott gave her the final instructions for the turning process itself. He spoke softly, giving a lesson in the intimacy of the new relationship.

"Now, the wait begins. It could take anywhere from a few minutes to several hours, depending on the severity of the mortal damage and how aggressively his body is adapting to the Vitae. There is nothing more to be done but to provide comfort."

Scott encouraged the intimacy that was now part of their purpose. "Give him affection, Shelby. Caress him. This is the moment where the bond is knitting together, even if he is unconscious. Your physical presence anchors him to the family."

He then gave her the final, intimate sign to look for. "You will know the Embrace is successfully completed, and he is a fledgling, when a new bond snaps into place in your mind. It will be a distinct, fresh psychic connection."

Scott looked at her with meaningful eyes. "It will feel similar to the one you share with me—a sense of belonging, a deep intimacy. But it might be different. It may be more innocent or naive, reflecting his own personality. Or it may carry a different feeling or emotion tied to it. Be receptive. You will feel him."

Shelby nodded, her fear replaced by a quiet, determined focus. She shifted her position, pulling Avid fully into her lap, cradling him against her. She began to gently stroke his hair and cheek, patiently waiting for the moment her former friend and newest family member would finally return to her, reborn.

"The immediate crisis is contained, but the external threat remains," Scott stated, his voice low and professional. "While we wait for Avid to wake, we must finalize our strategy regarding Oakhurst. We are currently four, soon to be five strong, and we need reliable alliances."

Scott addressed the alliance strategy, explaining his initial deductions to Shelby, who had been absent during the first observations.

"The greatest asset in that village, excluding the one currently in your lap, is the duo of Pearl and Cleo," Scott began.

"On the day of the house judging, when I initially swept the village for threats, I focused intensely on the residences. When I passed the house belonging to Pearl and Cleo, while Cleo was away at the farm, I detected something undeniable: the sharp, musky scent of dog and profound wildness clinging heavily to the interior and Pearl herself. This scent is not human; it is the unmistakable marker of a shapeshifter."

Scott paused, allowing his observation to sink in. "I deduced that Pearl is almost certainly a Werewolf. She possesses the necessary speed and protective instinct that I have seen in passing."

He then moved to the strategy regarding their potential partnership.

"Most solitary Werewolves eventually seek a pack or, failing that, form strong, stable alliances with likeminded creatures. Given their profound, immediate crisis, it should not be difficult to convince Pearl that an alliance with us—a stable, powerful Brood that offers sanctuary—is her best path to survival."

"The unknown factor," Scott continued, "is Cleo. She is highly likely to be Pearl’s mateship partner. While Cleo is human, her loyalty to Pearl is absolute. We cannot approach Pearl without offering Cleo the same security and respect. We require both."

Scott looked to his fledglings for their input on the two women.

Owen voiced his pragmatic assessment. "I agree with the necessity, Sire. Werewolves are dangerous if hostile, but their physical resilience is unparalleled. They possess natural defenses against the Ghoul-Vitae that we lack. Cleo, though human, seems level-headed. A predictable factor is safer than a volatile one."

Pyro added his observation. "They are fierce protectors of one another. The emotional bond is very strong—it's the kind of loyalty that will hold up under siege. If we secure them as allies, they are permanent assets."

Scott finally turned his attention to Shelby, who was gently tracing a scar on Avid’s forearm. "Shelby, you are now our newest voice of reason, and soon to be a Sire yourself. What is your opinion on approaching Pearl and Cleo for alliance?"

Scott turned to Shelby, waiting for her input. She paused her gentle caress of Avid's hair, her gaze still distant but focused, clearly processing the information through the filter of her recent conversion and her deep, ongoing empathy.

"I agree with the strategy, Sire," Shelby began, her voice low and steady. "An alliance is far better than an adversarial relationship. Werewolves are predictable in their need for territory and their loyalty to their mates. If Pearl is a werewolf, she will be primarily concerned with Cleo's safety and having a safe, defensible space to shift and recover."

Shelby drew on her own experience as a former human friend now adjusting to the Brood's ruthless pragmatism.

"The key is how we approach Cleo," she cautioned. "If we frame the alliance as protection for Cleo—offering her a security that the mortal world and the Hunter Guild certainly cannot provide, especially during the Purge—Pearl will be compliant. Pearl will see the Brood not as a threat, but as the only power capable of guaranteeing her mate's survival."

"Furthermore," Shelby continued, looking between Owen and Pyro, "if the Werewolves possess natural defenses against the Ghoul-Vitae, that information alone is vital to our survival. We need to learn their limits and their strengths immediately."

She glanced down at Avid's peaceful, unconscious face. "We cannot afford to keep any potential ally outside the walls, especially one who can fight and secure the perimeter in ways we cannot during daylight. An alliance with a stable pack is essential."

Scott nodded, satisfied. Shelby’s counsel was sound—pragmatic, focused on security, yet still rooted in an understanding of the mortal bond.

"The alliance is approved then," Scott declared. "We will approach them once Avid is stable and the sun is set. Now, we must assess the others."

With the strategy for Pearl and Cleo settled, Scott turned the Brood's attention to the remaining inhabitants of the castle ruins.

"We have seven other human variables who will shortly either be assets, subjects, or liabilities," Scott stated. "Let's begin with the identified group currently converting the beacons."

Scott referred to the recent activity reports gathered by Owen and Pyro.

"The four mortals who have been most active in securing the defenses—setting up alarms and lighting the beacons—are Abolish, Dr. Legundo, Apo, and Martyn." Scott looked to his fledglings. "Apo has started referring to this small group as 'the Militia,' despite the clear range of skills and enthusiasm within it."

Pyro started the assessment. "Apo is the functional leader. She has training and enforces order. She's predictable and valuable for her discipline, though perhaps too rigid. Abolish is a simple functionary; he simply follows the highest authority's orders and provides logistics."

Owen chimed in, addressing the other two. "Martyn is useful only for his access to resources and his name, but he's physically useless. He'll follow anyone who promises him security."

When the conversation turned to Dr. Legundo, a noticeable hesitation crept into Owen’s demeanor. He avoided Scott’s direct gaze, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his tunic.

"Legundo is... valuable for his medical knowledge," Owen said, his defense lacking its usual conviction. "He knows the layout of Oakhurst and its people. He was instrumental in providing the false plague narrative, which bought us time. That suggests a measure of self-preservation and perhaps a willingness to collaborate."

Scott, whose senses were highly attuned to his Brood, immediately registered the unusual restraint. "Is there something more, Owen? You typically advise cutting loose any mortal who is a source of unnecessary complication. Legundo is a known liar and medically incompetent regarding the actual threat."

Owen’s cheeks flushed slightly—a residual human reaction. "He is... complicated," Owen mumbled, choosing his words carefully. "He is scared, but he is fundamentally kind. He was clearly hesitant to accept the title of 'Militia' member; he sees himself as a healer, not a fighter. It would be a waste of a potentially useful temperament to simply discard him."

The subtext was clear: Owen was exhibiting budding feelings for the human doctor. The bond had intensified Owen's emotional landscape, and Dr. Legundo's perceived kindness and vulnerability were clearly appealing to him.

Scott understood immediately, but offered no judgment. "We shall keep him for now, based on your counsel and his limited utility, Owen. But he remains a high liability."

"That leaves us with Drift, Ren, and Sausage," Scott continued, shifting the focus away from Owen's emotional entanglement.

Shelby, ever mindful of Avid, spoke up for his associate. "Drift must stay. She was Avid's closest friend. She's skilled with her hands, and having a familiar face when Avid wakes will be a crucial anchor for his stability as a new fledgling. We need him safe."

Pyro offered the final assessment. "Ren and Sausage are the wild cards. We know little about their skills or loyalties. They remain isolated and unpredictable. They should be observed closely, but they are low priority until the fortifications are complete."

Scott summarized, nodding. "Very well. Drift is protected. Legundo is retained under observation. The others remain subjects. Our focus is still the external threat and the alliance with the Werewolves."

He looked down at the pale, still figure of Avid in Shelby's lap. "Now, we wait for our newest fledgling to open his eyes."

The Brood fell back into a quiet rhythm of conversation, discussing the structural integrity of the castle walls and the best way to secure the outer perimeter. Owen and Pyro were huddled with Scott, detailing the necessary materials for a stable gatehouse, while Shelby remained focused on cradling Avid.

She had settled into a gentle, rhythmic caress, watching the still figure in her lap. Avid was unnaturally cold, his face pale, but the containment of the necrotic tissue was a success. She focused entirely on the waiting, listening for the internal change Scott had described.

Scott was mid-sentence, outlining the necessary use of granite for the main portcullis, when the change happened.

It wasn't a slow build, but a sudden, violent, psychic snap.

An intense, raw connection, like a live wire, suddenly flared to life in the deepest part of Shelby's mind. It was a feeling of profound oneness and immediate responsibility, startling in its clarity. Shelby gasped sharply, her hands flying to her temples.

"Shelby! What is it?" Scott’s voice was instantly commanding, his attention pulled violently from the conversation.

She wasn't just connecting with Avid; she was experiencing the simultaneous burden of two powerful, highly sensitized states: her own fledgling state (which intensified all emotion) and the flooding intensity of a new Vitae Bond.

A cascade of unfamiliar, raw feelings hit her: Avid's overwhelming relief and his immediate, profound existential terror. This newborn Bond was amplifying his every feeling directly into her consciousness. She, a fledgling who was never meant to sire anyone for months, was now tasked with handling not only her own heightened mental state but the full, unprocessed emotional output of her new childe until he learned how to quiet his own mind.

As the bond snapped into place, Avid's body confirmed the psychic event. His fingers gave a faint, involuntary twitch, and a low tremor ran through his limbs, signaling his imminent awakening.

"Scott," Shelby managed, her voice trembling slightly with the new psychic weight. "It's done. The bond... it's formed."

Scott moved instantly, but remained out of reach. "He is awake. Be ready, Childe."

Avid’s eyes fluttered open. They were the color of hazy, soft purple. He took a harsh, rattling breath—his first as a fledgling—and looked directly at Shelby, his new Sire.

He was coherent enough only for the most vital question.

“Shelby… is it over?” he rasped, his voice dry and hollow. “Is the infection… is the Ghoul’s curse gone?”

Shelby gently cradled his head, easing the intense emotional flood she was receiving through the bond.

“It’s over, Avid. The turning is complete,” she confirmed. She had to be precise, maintaining Scott’s ethical standard. “But the infection isn’t gone. The venom contained it. It’s trapped in the wound, neutralized. As long as you stay a vampire, the Vitae will keep it suppressed. You are safe.”

Relief, so powerful it was nearly physical pain, flooded Avid’s end of the bond, making Shelby momentarily dizzy.

But the relief was instantly undercut by a new, more profound sensation: the Sire's Echo—the primal instinct of the newly Embraced.

Avid felt an immense, echoing void within him, an aching pain in his core, coupled with a demanding, all-consuming thirst. He didn't know what he craved, only that the need was absolute and agonizing.

He clamped his hands to his throat, his new, hyper-sensitive skin screaming in protest. A high, desperate keen of pain was torn from him. "Something! I need something! It hurts!"

Scott's voice was sharp, cutting through Avid's distress and Shelby's panic.

"Shelby! He is experiencing the initial Sire's Echo! The Vitae is demanding replacement! You must initiate the first feeding!"

Scott instructed her with urgent clarity: "Bite a wound into your own wrist, Childe. Open your vein. Press it to his mouth and get him to feed! He needs to consume your Vitae now to settle the turning and allow his body to adjust to the new form of sustenance. If he doesn't feed now, his system will reject other forms of blood when he tries to consume them!"

Shelby didn't hesitate. Driven by the instinct of the Bond and the sheer panic radiating from Avid, she quickly bared her own teeth. She bit down hard on her inner wrist, opening a clean, deep wound, and immediately brought her bleeding arm to Avid’s desperate, keening mouth.

Avid latched onto the wound with blinding, desperate instinct. His purple eyes, glazed with confusion and need, focused entirely on the source of relief. His fangs extended slightly, a primal reflex, though they barely scraped her skin as he bit down.

Shelby flinched sharply, anticipating the familiar, sharp pain of a vampire's bite. She paused, surprised, when she realized she felt no pain beyond the ache of her own self-inflicted wound.

Avid, oblivious to anything but the void in his chest, began to suckle greedily, large gulps of Vitae easing the agonizing burn of the Sire’s Echo. Shelby looked down at him, her worried expression softening into deep, maternal concern. She began to murmur soft praises and reassurances, stroking his hair, just as she vaguely remembered Scott had done for her during her own first feeding.

The bond pulsed with the receding terror and the immense, satisfying warmth of her Vitae entering his system.

When Avid finally slowed his feeding to barely a hesitant sip, Shelby gently pulled her wrist away. The raw wound on her inner arm quickly began to heal, but she inspected the skin immediately surrounding it. Besides the clean, ragged tears left by her own fangs, Avid had not left any fang marks or any new wounds on her skin. He hadn't broken the surface at all.

Avid was already drifting into a slight food doze, his body relaxed on the precipice of a restorative sleep.

Shelby gave an urgent look to Scott, motioning him over with a sharp nod. Scott, maintaining his distance, approached her side, watching his hands.

"Scott, look," Shelby stated, holding her wrist out to him. "He drank, he fed—but he didn't hurt me. He didn't make any fang marks."

Scott’s eyes, fixed on her wrist, gained a sudden, deep alarmed look. He glanced down at the sleeping Avid, then back to Shelby.

"Open his mouth, Childe. Quickly. We need to see," Scott instructed, his voice tense.

Shelby gently cradled Avid’s head, cooing softly to him. "Just checking something, sweetling. Go back to sleep." She carefully pried open his mouth. Ignoring the milky, Vitae-colored tint to his teeth, she took a close, analytical look at his fangs.

They were abnormally small. They had the shape of fangs, but they were short, underdeveloped, and didnt extend past the canine teeth.

Shelby tested her own, feeling the familiar muscular pressure at the back of her jaw that propelled her own fangs out. She located the equivalent muscle in Avid's mouth and pressed against it gently, attempting to help him extend his fangs.

The muscle did nothing. It was inert, unresponsive, likely damaged or paralyzed.

Shelby explained her findings to Scott, her voice low with dread. "Scott, his fangs are tiny, and the muscle to extend them is dead. They won't engage. He can't break the skin."

Scott’s expression grew pained, a wave of profound disappointment washing over him. He lowered his head slightly, then began to pace the stone floor with troubled, deliberate steps.

Owen and Pyro immediately grew worried, rushing closer.

"What does it mean, Sire?" Pyro asked, his voice sharp with concern.

"Is he... is he still corrupted?" Owen feared the Ghoul-Vitae had won after all.

Scott paced twice more, accepting the devastating realization. He let out a sorrowful sigh that echoed softly in the crypt.

"No, the Vitae won the systemic battle. The Ghoul is contained," Scott confirmed. He stopped pacing and looked directly at his Brood, his eyes clouded with regret.

"But the infection caused residual, localized damage before it was fully entrapped. The sheer virulence of the Ghul-Vitae damaged the specific muscle necessary for the vampiric fang extension."

Scott delivered the devastating diagnosis. "He will never be able to fully extend his fangs to pierce skin, and thus, Avid will probably never be able to hunt for food alone. He will always require assistance—either a feeding device, or a willing, controlled victim whose skin is already broken."

Scott shook his head slowly. "The Ghoul infection didn't kill him, but it has crippled him. It's crippled my fledgling."

The devastating diagnosis—that the Ghoul infection had crippled Avid, neutralizing the threat of death but robbing him of fundamental vampiric autonomy—hung heavy in the cold, still air of the tomb. Scott’s sorrowful sigh was the final, crushing affirmation.

Shelby’s breath hitched in her chest. For a fleeting moment, the immense psychic burden of Avid’s newborn emotional state—the raw relief, the terror, the dazed satisfaction—combined with her own sudden despair, threatened to overwhelm her. She was a fledgling, already overwhelmed by her own intense emotions, and now she was responsible for a childe who was physically disabled by the very curse they had risked everything to purge.

Tears, hot and foreign, welled in her eyes. Not tears of fear, but of profound, protective rage against the lingering wickedness of the Ghoul-Vitae.

She looked down at Avid, who was now sleeping soundly in the absolute safety of her lap, oblivious to the cost of his survival. The sight of his peaceful face, his life saved but marked by such profound vulnerability, hardened her resolve.

Shelby did not complain, nor did she question Scott’s judgment. Instead, she tightened her arms around her childe, pulling him protectively closer to her chest. The Vitae Bond, so recently formed and still raw, immediately pulsed with an intensified feeling of fierce, maternal devotion and absolute acceptance.

"Then we adapt," Shelby declared, her voice low, steady, and utterly unwavering. The fragility was gone; only the amplified, permanent loyalty remained.

She looked directly at Scott, her eyes burning with an almost frightening intensity—the amplified loyalty of the Brood in full effect.

"He is my fledgling. He is my childe," she stated, her words slow and deliberate, cementing the responsibility not as a burden, but as a sacred duty. "I will hunt for him. I will feed him. If he cannot break the skin, I will break it for him."

She ran her thumb over the unmarred skin of her wrist, already seeing the solution. "He will never go hungry. The cost of his survival is simply that I must ensure his sustenance, always. I will manage his feedings, whether that means using a tool or ensuring there is a wound already prepared on the livestock."

Owen and Pyro exchanged a knowing look. This was the strength of the Sire-Childe bond; it replaced fear with an absolute, protective love.

Owen offered a quiet reassurance. "You won't be entirely alone in this, Shelby. We will help ensure his stability. We will secure any necessary tools."

Pyro nodded. "He will still be useful. His hands and mind are intact. He is not crippled in his intellect or his ability to protect the Brood. He simply has a specific, manageable need."

Scott watched his fledging, pride tempering his regret. He saw the transformation of a nervous friend into a fierce, protective Sire.

"Indeed," Scott confirmed, nodding his acceptance of her vow. "He is one of us now, Childe. His weakness is the Brood's burden, and his survival is our victory. Now, you hold him, and you wait. The next stage of his life, and ours, begins when he wakes."

Chapter 20

The light filtering through the small, high window of Drift’s modest, well-built home was the soft, reliable gray of an Oakhurst morning. Drift stretched, feeling the stiffness of the night fade. Her house, neat and functional, stood comfortably close to Avid’s—just the right distance for privacy, but near enough that a raised voice could carry a question across the yards. They had become close, she and the perpetually stressed Hunter, sharing tools and companionship, but both valued their independent space.

As she moved about her morning routine, the strangeness of the last few days—the increasing tension in Oakhurst—pressed on her mind.

She recalled the house judging just a few days ago, the way the towering, odd nobleman, Scott, had deliberately used a human skeleton skull to unsettle Avid. The whole performance had been bizarre, theatrical, and vaguely threatening.

More recently, the Militia—Apo, Legundo, Martyn, and Abolish—had been trying to secure the castle ruins, only to have one of their carefully erected beacons instantly flare an ominous, angry red. The rumor whispered through the town was that the Militia had trespassed on some dark, primal force residing in the ruins, which had immediately corrupted the beacon.

Drift slipped on a thick wool tunic and headed out, needing to secure breakfast before her stomach started complaining.

As she walked the short path connecting the houses, she passed a familiar figure heading in the opposite direction, toward Avid’s front door. It was Shelby, walking with a distinct, almost buoyant energy.

She looks different, Drift thought, slowing her steps as she observed her friend. Shelby had always been kind and spirited, but today, there was an unnerving intensity to her presence. Her movements were unnervingly precise. Maybe she and Avid had plans?

Drift simply offered a quick wave, which Shelby returned with a genuine, if slightly distracted, smile before continuing toward Avid's house.

Drift continued down the road to the home of Cleo and Pearl. She knocked gently on the sturdy wooden frame, then called out softly.

"Cleo? You up? I was hoping you might spare some wheat so I can mill a quick breakfast. I'm craving bread this morning."

It took a few moments, but the door cracked open. Cleo appeared, her thick, dark hair charmingly ruffled from sleep. A deep, contented sigh seemed to linger in the air around her. Drift immediately noticed a distinct hickey blooming just below the collar of Cleo’s shirt, an undeniable mark of passion.

Cleo offered a soft affirmative, a gentle smile on her lips, and quickly opened the door wider to hand over a small sack of wheat from their stores.

Drift grinned, taking the wheat. "Well, good morning, Cleo. Looks like someone had a very restful night. You two finally stop pretending you're just 'roommates'?" Drift teased, winking knowingly.

Cleo simply laughed, her cheeks coloring slightly. "We're comfortable, Drift. Just comfortable."

As if summoned by the casual mention, Pearl quietly sauntered up behind Cleo. She was a woman of silent, powerful presence, and she wrapped her arms around Cleo’s waist, resting her chin possessively on Cleo’s shoulder, a faint scent of earth and something wild clinging to her clothes.

"Good morning, Drift," Pearl murmured, her voice deep and low, joining the idle chatter.

The three women stood chatting idly about the mundane—the status of the communal garden, the latest eccentric decisions of the town—when their conversation paused abruptly.

They watched as Dr. Legundo, looking slightly nervous in his doctors robes, walked down the road and approached Avid's house. He raised a hesitant hand and gave a quiet knock. After a short pause, Legundo knocked again.

Drift’s brow furrowed, her good mood fading into concern.

"That's the second person to see Avid this morning," Drift commented, her voice laced with worry. "Shelby was just there. Avid usually gets his day started early. He's been stressed since the house judging."

They watched as Legundo gave one last gentle rap on the door before entering the home without further hesitation.

"I hope he's alright," Cleo commented softly, adjusting Pearl’s arms around her. "He seems under a lot of pressure."

"He's a Hunter, he's always under pressure," Pearl grumbled quietly, though her focus was clearly on the exchange at Avid's house.

Drift, Cleo, and Pearl watched the closed door of Avid's house for a quiet moment, the simple act of Dr. Legundo entering the Hunter's private space feeling strangely significant. Their conversation lagged, filled with unvoiced concern about Avid’s recent stress and the growing oddity of the town. They turned back to their idle chat, speculating about the red beacon and the strange silence from the castle ruins.

A few minutes passed—enough time for the three women to exchange thoughts on the oddity of the beacons and the escalating nervousness of Martyn.

Suddenly, the door to Avid’s home burst open with a jarring sound. Dr. Legundo practically fled the house, moving with an urgency that bordered on panic. He slammed the door shut behind him and frantically brought a handkerchief to his face, holding it tightly over his mouth and nose, as if warding off a physical threat.

He didn't look left or right. His robes flared as he rushed across the town square toward the dilapidated tower where Apo and the others had set up their base—the local Militia Tower.

Drift, Cleo, and Pearl immediately exchanged sharp, worried glances.

"That's not normal medical practice," Cleo stated, her voice tight. "He's running from something."

"And using a handkerchief," Pearl added, her deep voice carrying a note of alarm. "He suspects contagion."

Driven by fear and the immediate need for answers, the three women dropped their discussion and quickly made to follow Legundo.

They hurried across the short distance to the old stone tower. As they approached, they could hear Legundo's voice—hurried, high-pitched, and strained—speaking to the others who were present.

They found Legundo standing amidst Apo (the military woman), Abolish (the orderly butler), Martyn (the young noble), and Ren (one of the wild cards). He was clearly in distress, gesturing wildly with the hand not holding the handkerchief.

Drift, Cleo, and Pearl walked up to the edge of the tense cluster, their presence ignored in the urgency of the moment.

"...it's worse than I thought!" Legundo was practically breathless, his eyes bulging behind his glasses. "I was finally able to check the wound! The laceration on his neck—it’s not healing; it's spreading necrosis."

He swallowed hard, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It's systemic! He’s suffering from a profound, acute hemorrhagic fever."

Legundo wiped his brow with his handkerchief, his eyes wide with diagnosis and terror.

"It's a form of the Crimson Plague. I believe he's caught it. Avid is infected with a highly virulent, fatal contagion!"

The gathered group—the Militia and the new listeners—went utterly still, the implication of the Hunter, carrying a fatal, highly contagious disease silencing the entire tower.

The physician's panicked pronouncement—that Avid was infected with a virulent form of the Crimson Plague—smashed the uneasy calm in Oakhurst. Legundo, clutching his handkerchief, tried desperately to enforce order.

"Everyone needs to remain calm, but listen!" Legundo insisted, his voice cracking with urgency. "We all need to be monitored for symptoms immediately! Apo, you need to restrict movement within the town."

He pointed emphatically back toward Avid’s empty house. "And Avid must be kept contained. Absolutely contained! No one, under any circumstances, is to approach his house. We must ensure that he is entirely isolated."

The group reacted with immediate, sharp concern:

Apo spoke up quickly, "Containment is paramount. Abolish, go secure the perimeter around the Hunter’s house. Martyn, retrieve the spare lockbox of supplies."

 Martyn’s eyes were wide with pure terror. "Contagion? We must barricade the tower! I'm not ready to die of fever!"

 Ren backed away slowly, his face etched with suspicion. "Plague? I'ma wary ta trust ya, Doctor."

 Abolish wrung his hands, his usual composure entirely broken. "But is it safe to just leave him there, Doctor? If it is highly infectious, shouldn't we move him to a controlled isolation chamber? Leaving him in the middle of the village could compromise the entire settlement!"

Legundo ignored Abolish's practical worry, too worried about the seriousness of the matter. "And risk more exposure to everyone?? You must trust my medical training on this; this is a highly infectious, fatal disease!"

Drift stepped forward, her worry for Avid giving way to sharp, investigative skepticism, recalling the intimate details Avid had shared days ago.

"Hold on, Doctor, you're wrong about the wound!" Drift challenged, pointing back toward the Hunter's home. "Avid didn't get that wound recently, or right before coming here. He spoke about it days ago—he got that scarring when he was a child, during an animal attack in the woods near his village!"

She crossed her arms, the logical inconsistency hitting her hard. "If he's had this 'fatal hemorrhagic plague' for years, it should have killed him already! A virulent fever doesn't wait a decade to suddenly turn necrotic!"

The statement hung in the air, a massive flaw in Legundo's panicked medical analysis. The necrotic, spreading nature of the wound was terrifyingly real, but the timeline Drift presented shattered the diagnosis of a fast-acting, newly acquired plague. It meant the corruption was something far older, slower, and perhaps something entirely outside of Legundo's understanding.

Dr. Legundo, despite the massive chronological flaw in his diagnosis presented by Drift, was too invested in the idea of the Crimson Plague to back down. The evidence of necrosis and fever were too strong a sign of the contagion he was trained to recognize.

"You are correct, Miss Drift, that the age of the laceration is an anomaly," Legundo conceded, running a shaky hand through his hair. "But that is the key! Avid came to Oakhurst with an existing, chronic wound. Over the years, whatever pathogen entered that wound has simply worsened."

He puffed out his chest slightly, embracing a more complicated, terrifying conclusion. "The infection has most likely mutated into a highly aggressive, localized plague strain."

Legundo was steadfast, clinging to the only scientific framework he had. "It is not unheard of for old, unattended wounds to fester and mutate into something virulent. He has likely grown accustomed to the wound's lesser ailments over the years and hadn't noticed the changes in its symptoms until the fever spiked this morning."

He looked around, settling the fear in the faces of the Militia with his conviction. "The signs—the systemic weakness, the fever, the necrosis—they point undeniably to a hemorrhagic plague. We must proceed with isolation."

Just as Legundo finished his forceful defense of the diagnosis, the last of the key mortals, Sausage, sauntered up to the tower, looking curious and slightly confused by the agitated gathering.

"What's all the fuss about, Doctor?" Sausage asked, peering into the anxious circle. "Did someone finally figure out how to stop the wind from rattling that fence?"

Sausage then narrowed his eyes, looking directly at the group. "Has anyone seen Owen? He didn't come home to rest last night, and I haven't seen him since dinner."

Drift, still worried about Avid but now thinking of the two strange visits he received, suddenly snapped her attention back to Shelby's earlier movements.

"Wait a minute!" Drift exclaimed, turning to Legundo. "Shelby! You said you went to check on Avid—was Shelby still there when you rushed out of the house?"

Legundo shook his head, his mind already spinning on contagion vectors. "I... I don't know, Miss Drift. I saw the necrotic tissue, and I left immediately! I didn't confirm who was still inside."

This sparked another realization, this time from the leader of the Militia.

Apo frowned deeply, her military focus instantly shifting from the sick to the missing. "Wait, I just realized Pyro isn't here either. I woke up this morning, and he hadn't returned to his post. He hasn't missed a morning watch since we started setting up the perimeter."

The implications clicked into place for the remaining mortals:

1. Avid is deathly ill with a mutating plague.

2. Shelby went into the contaminated house and hasn't been seen since Legundo fled.

3. Owen and Pyro were also missing.

The fear of contagion was now coupled with the fear of the unknown.

~~~

The rising panic over Avid’s diagnosis and the missing persons had paralyzed the group by the Militia Tower. Cleo leaned against Pearl, her brow furrowed with anxiety, trying to rationalize the chaos.

“Contagion, missing people, and that awful red beacon… what in the hell is Scott even doing?” Cleo muttered, low enough that only Pearl could hear. “Where is he? Shouldn’t the nobleman who claimed responsibility for the area be here?”

Pearl squeezed Cleo reassuringly, sensing her mate’s distress. She could feel the human tension building—Apo demanding isolation, Martyn dissolving into fear, and Abolish fixated on protocol. This whole situation was a clusterfuck, and Cleo was struggling with the instinct to help versus the confusion of the sudden health crisis.

Pearl took a deep, calming breath, pulling the familiar, clean scent of Cleo into her lungs, trying to anchor herself. But as she inhaled, her heightened Werewolf senses caught something else on the subtle morning breeze—a scent trail overlaid on the dust and the faint stench of the necrotic wound.

It was definitely Shelby’s scent, distinct and familiar. But it had a strange, metallic edge to it, a powerful, clean, musky note that was sharp and utterly unnatural. It was similar, almost identical, to the faint, lingering scent she had often caught on Scott and Owen. It was the scent of a predator, yet refined.

Pearl’s focus sharpened. She tracked the scent trail effortlessly: it crossed town from Shelby’s house, led straight to Avid’s house, and then... stopped. The scent was slowly dissipating in the wind.

Pearl leaned closer to Cleo’s ear, dropping her voice to a low, quiet murmur meant only for her mate.

“Cleo, something is wrong, and it’s not just the sickness,” Pearl whispered, her eyes fixed on the path leading to Avid's house. “Shelby has a new scent. It’s powerful, and it smells exactly like that nobleman, Scott. She’s changed, and the scent trail ends right at Avid’s door.”

Meanwhile, the main group had moved past Legundo’s scientific defense and focused on the immediate, tangible threat.

"We can't just leave Avid there!" Drift insisted, fueled by loyalty. "He's sick and alone! We have to check on him, and we have to confirm if Shelby is still inside and, if so, get her out before she catches whatever this mutated plague is!"

"If it's contagious, you can't go in there!" Apo argued, attempting to enforce a perimeter.

"We have to know if he's conscious!" Ren shouted over Apo. "If he's lying there, we need to move him, Dont'cha know"

Martyn, terrified, could only offer, "Someone use a pole to open the door! Don't touch anything!"

Ultimately, the confusion and the desperate need for information won out over Apo's demands for quarantine. They couldn't ignore the possibility of two people—one of whom might be newly infected—being trapped inside the Hunter’s house.

The crowd began to surge forward, headed toward Avid’s door, determined to confirm the status of the sick Hunter and the missing Shelby.

The group—Drift, Apo, Abolish, Martyn, Ren, and Sausage—followed by Cleo and Pearl, moved with a hesitant, staggered pace toward Avid’s quiet house. Fear of the contagion made them wary, but the fear of the unknown drove them forward.

Drift, ignoring Apo's protests about violating quarantine, was the one who reached the door first. She raised a shaking hand and knocked gently, then louder.

"Avid? Shelby? Are you in there? We need to know if you're alright!" Drift called out, her voice tight with anxiety.

Silence. Only the faint creak of the door in the morning breeze answered her.

Apo stepped up, adopting a louder, more commanding tone. "Hunter Avid! This is Apo of the Militia. If you are conscious, you need to respond! We require immediate confirmation of your health status!"

Again, nothing. The house remained utterly silent.

Pearl stood a few feet back with Cleo, her powerful senses focused entirely on the structure. Werewolves could often hear the faintest heartbeat, the smallest breath, even through thick walls.

She listened intently for Avid's usual sounds: the paranoid, quick thump-thump of his Hunter's heart, always running high; and Shelby's calm and steady rhythm.

Pearl frowned, her eyes narrowing. She could hear the faint scuttling of mice in the floorboards, the settling of the wood—but she heard no heartbeat at all.

She leaned down and quietly voiced her observation to Cleo, her breath warm against her ear. "Cleo, they’re gone. I don't hear anything. No one is inside."

The silence was the final catalyst. Drift, unable to bear the suspense any longer, ignored the risks.

"They're not answering," Drift whispered, her hand wrapping around the cool metal of the doorknob. "We have to know."

Martyn made a small whimpering sound and backed away slightly, Abolish looked ready to faint, and Apo positioned herself defensively, ready for potential contamination.

With a final surge of nerve, Drift pushed the door open and stepped inside, the rest of the group crowding the threshold behind her.

The interior of Avid’s small, tidy home was perfectly still. There was no sign of struggle, but the house was unmistakably empty.

"Avid? Shelby?" Drift called out to the stillness.

They had vanished.

The interior of Avid’s house was spotless and unnervingly quiet. Drift, Apo, Abolish, Martyn, Ren, and Sausage clustered inside, their anxiety spiking in the face of the empty room.

Outside, Cleo and Pearl remained on the porch, refusing to step over the threshold.

"It's pointless, Cleo," Pearl muttered, keeping her senses focused on the area outside the door. "My ears tell me the house is dead silent. Whatever happened, it happened fast, and they're long gone."

Cleo nodded grimly, keeping her eyes on the windows. "If that mutated plague is real, I'm not risking it. They left minutes ago. Whatever clues are inside, they won't tell us where they went."

Inside, the mortals began their tentative search. Apo focused on the kitchen, looking for signs of a struggle or spilled fluids. Drift, however, moved with a different kind of focus. She was intimately familiar with Avid's quirks.

She remembered Avid's peculiar paranoid preparedness for vampires—his fixation on protecting himself from the creatures he hunted. Drift took note of the strange, subtle sheen on the room.

The wooden furniture, the floors, and even the wall paneling were all laced with silver. It was a subtle detail most wouldn't notice, designed as a passive deterrent. He didn't trust anyone, she thought, confirming her long-held suspicions about her neighbor's professional paranoia. He had prepared this house as a fortress against the undead.

Drift began to search more carefully, inspecting the nooks and crannies. If Avid was forced to leave, his escape wouldn't be through the front door.

Drift checked the closet, the small pantry, and the loose floorboards by the fireplace. Nothing. Just as she was about to give up hope, she moved toward the bed—the last item of furniture in the small room.

Kneeling down, she noticed the edge of the large rug by the headboard was slightly askew, folded back perhaps an inch more than it should have been. It was too slight for Apo or Martyn to notice, but Drift knew the house's immaculate order.

With a surge of adrenaline, Drift pushed the rug aside entirely. Beneath the heavy rug, a rectangular seam was clearly visible in the wood flooring, indicating a trapdoor.

She immediately knelt down and looked under the bed skirt, peering into the dark space. Her heart pounded as she confirmed her discovery: the trapdoor was open, leading down into the ground.

And there, snagged on the rough wooden edge of the open hatch, was a small, torn piece of gray fabric, just barely peeking out. It looked like a shred from a shirt or a pair of trousers—evidence of someone rushing down the hidden stairs in haste, tearing their clothing on the jagged edge.

"I found something!" Drift yelled, kneeling by the bed. She quickly pulled the heavy rug entirely away to expose the full, wooden hatch.

The other mortals—Apo, Abolish, Martyn, Ren, and Sausage—crowded around the bed, peering down at the open, dark hole in the floor.

"It's a hidden passage!" Drift confirmed, pointing to the small, frayed piece of gray fabric caught on the edge. "Avid and Shelby must have fled down here. Look, he was in such a rush that his shirt tore on the wood."

The immediate panic shifted from "Where are they?" to "Why did they run?"

"Fled?" Apo questioned, her military mind struggling with the concept. "Why would a Hunter flee his own fortress? Especially if he's sick?"

Drift turned sharply back to Dr. Legundo, her eyes narrowed with accusation. The timeline was too tight, too coincidental.

"Doctor, exactly what did you say to Avid when you were in here?" Drift demanded. "How did you act? Did you mention containment? Did you mention plague?"

Legundo, still clutching his handkerchief, looked profoundly agitated. "I merely conducted a brief visual exam! I observed the necrosis, realized it was virulent, and then I left immediately to warn the others! I didn't wait around for him to feel better!"

"But did you act scared?" Drift pressed. "You practically ran out of here! Avid is paranoid. He prepares for the worst!"

Martyn, terrified of the contagion, finally spoke up, forcing the logic of their current predicament into the open.

"If it's the Plague... if it's hemorrhagic," Martyn stammered, looking to the Doctor, "what is the protocol? We are the Militia! We have to contain the spread!"

Legundo looked around at the desperate faces, accepting his role as the reluctant authority. He stated the necessary steps in a grave, clinical tone, citing old quarantine measures.

"The protocol for a highly virulent, hemorrhagic plague is strict isolation and containment of the infected individual," Legundo stated. He swallowed hard before forcing out the unthinkable, final step. "If containment fails, or if the subject poses an unacceptable threat to the wider population, the protocol demands... elimination."

As the word elimination hung in the air, a chilling realization washed over everyone present. They froze, gazing from the terrified face of the Doctor to the dark, open hole in the floor.

Drift was the first to articulate the terrifying, simple truth. "The moment Avid saw you run, Doctor... the moment he realized you diagnosed him with a fatal plague and you were bringing back the 'Militia' for containment..."

She looked down at the torn fabric on the trapdoor. "He assumed the worst. He didn't run because he was sick; he ran because he thought we—his own neighbors—were coming back to kill him to stop the plague from spreading."

The mortification was immediate and absolute. They hadn't protected Avid; they had simply confirmed his darkest paranoia. And Shelby, who was with him, had likely fled with him to protect him from the villagers' justifiable fear.

The mortification of the group was palpable. The heavy realization that they had terrified their protector into flight—and possibly left him to die alone—shook their resolve. Apo’s military focus dissolved into confusion; Martyn was crying quietly.

~~~

Outside the front door, Cleo had heard the entire frantic exchange. Pearl, her arm draped protectively around her, felt the subtle shift in Cleo's posture as the realization of Avid's paranoia hit home.

Cleo turned her gaze not directly toward the ruins—as they were partially obscured by a stretch of forest and the rising slope of the mountain—but toward the direction of the castle ruins. She focused on the vague, imposing mass she knew was up that hill.

Where would a man terrified of execution go?

Cleo leaned in, speaking quietly to Pearl first. “Avid is running from us. He’s running from the threat of elimination. And he needs shelter. I know Scott is up at the ruins, building something—he hasn't been back to town since yesterday. Pyro and Owen are missing too; it’s highly likely they are with him."

"Scott is the only person with a proper structure outside of town, even if it is just ruins. He’s the only one with the resources to keep a secret safe," Cleo continued, her voice firm. "It’s possible Avid fled in that direction, looking to Scott for protection."

Cleo took a breath and then stepped forward, addressing the distraught group gathered around the trapdoor, her voice steady and clear, cutting through the anxiety.

"Everyone, stop! We’ve scared them off, and chasing them now will only make it worse."

She met Drift's worried gaze. "We have no idea where that tunnel leads. If we go in after them, Avid and Shelby will see us as an attack group fulfilling the Doctor's protocol."

Cleo spoke with measured common sense. "We know Scott is out of town, working on his construction project. There is a strong chance that Scott, Owen, and Pyro are together wherever he is building. If Avid is fleeing, there is a possibility that he may stumble upon them and ask for help."

"For now, we need to take Dr. Legundo's advice on the contagion seriously. We need to take health precautions, secure the area, and we need to wait. If we chase them, we confirm their fear. We must prove we are not the threat."

The logic of Cleo’s counsel—the danger of chasing the paranoid, possibly sick Hunter—finally settled over the frantic group. They reluctantly agreed to halt their immediate pursuit down the dark tunnel.

"Alright, Cleo is right," Apo conceded, her shoulders slumping. "If they went toward the woods, Scott might just have to handle the situation if Avid approaches him." She turned to Legundo. "Doctor, containment is off the table, but monitoring is on. Give us a schedule."

Legundo, relieved that he wasn't being forced down a possibly contaminated hole, quickly regained his focus on medical necessity. He scribbled a quick list on the back of his handkerchief.

"We must maintain a strict monitoring schedule for the next forty-eight hours," Legundo declared, his glasses glinting. "We must catch any signs of the hemorrhagic fever immediately."

He read off the first names on his list, prioritizing based on proximity and social contact:

1. Drift: Due to her close proximity to Avid and having entered his house, she was designated as the highest-risk individual for contamination.

2. Cleo and Pearl: Because Drift tended to visit them each day, and they were her immediate contacts, they were next on the list.

"The rest of you will be seen later this afternoon," Legundo instructed the remaining Militia. "But I must examine the highest-risk first. Follow me, please."

As the group dispersed—Apo and the others heading back to the Militia Tower to lock down supplies—Drift, Cleo, and Pearl turned and headed back toward Cleo’s farmhouse, with Legundo hurrying anxiously behind them.

They paused just outside the farmhouse door, deciding it was best to conduct the potentially contaminated examination outdoors. The morning air was crisp and cool.

Legundo produced a small, silver-tipped thermometer and a clean cloth from his bag. He approached Drift first, his demeanor shifting from panicked to clinical, though still deeply apprehensive.

"I need to check your temperature, Miss Drift," he instructed, placing the thermometer under her tongue. He held her wrist, checking her pulse with exaggerated caution. "Any headaches? Muscle aches? Abdominal pain?"

Drift shook her head, feeling fine but incredibly tense. "No, Doctor. I feel fine. I didn't touch anything in there."

Next, Legundo moved to Cleo. He inspected the hickey on her neck with a nervous frown, convinced it might be an early symptom of subcutaneous hemorrhaging, before realizing it was just a bruise.

"Miss Cleo, any nausea, any dizziness? Fever?" Legundo asked, holding the thermometer to her forehead since the under-tongue method was already used.

Cleo remained calm. "No, Doctor. I was asleep all night. I haven't been near Avid in days."

Finally, he approached Pearl. Pearl remained utterly stoic, allowing the doctor to take her pulse, though the faint wild scent around her seemed to make the physician even more nervous.

"And you, Miss Pearl? Any unusual fatigue? Your pulse is quite strong," Legundo noted, unable to categorize the powerful, steady beat of the Werewolf.

Pearl simply shook her head. "I'm fine, Doctor. And I haven't been near the Hunter."

Legundo finished the quick roadside exam, wiping his brow with relief that no immediate signs of plague were present, but his worry remained etched on his face.

"Very well. You are clear for now," he announced. "But I will return to monitor you all every four hours. You are not to leave the immediate farm vicinity until Avid's situation is resolved."

Drift watched Dr. Legundo hurry back toward the Militia Tower, his mind consumed by fever charts and contagion vectors. The moment he was out of sight, her resolve hardened. The idea of Avid, sick and terrified, running into the wilderness because his friends had scared him off, was intolerable.

Drift turned instantly to Pearl and Cleo.

“I’m leaving,” she stated, her voice tight with decision. “I have to go after him. I have to find him and let him know we aren’t going to hurt him.”

She looked directly at Pearl. “Pearl, you have to cover for me. Tell the Doctor and Apo that I’m inside the farmhouse, resting, if they come back. I know you shouldn’t lie, but I can’t let him die out there alone.” Drift was ignoring the fact that Shelby had been with him with how worried she was for him.

Pearl’s eyes widened, immediately conflicted. They had all just agreed to stay put, and Legundo had explicitly threatened quarantine. Yet, the thought of the relatively small, vulnerable Drift heading into the woods alone—where Pearl knew very real dangers, perhaps even wild animals, lurked—sent a sharp spike of protective anxiety through her.

Cleo, however, was immediately firm. “No, Drift, you are going to stay put. We just agreed not to confirm his paranoia by chasing him, and you are supposedly high-risk!”

Drift didn't listen. She simply turned and began walking away, choosing a small, overgrown side path that led out of the village toward the woods

Cleo let out a heavy, annoyed sigh at Drift's stubbornness. "Great. Just great. She’s going to get herself killed."

Pearl, meanwhile, was experiencing a profound internal struggle. Her protective instincts, amplified by her nature, screamed at the sight of the vulnerable human friend walking into danger. Her sense of duty warred with her instinct to protect.

Then, the instinct won.

Pearl gave a small, worried whine, a low sound deep in her throat, and immediately set off after Drift, moving with powerful, silent strides.

Cleo watched her partner bolt, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Pearl! Where are you going? We were supposed to wait!”

Pearl glanced back only momentarily. “I can’t let Drift go alone, Cleo! She’s not built for the woods!”

Cleo groaned irritatedly, running a hand through her hair. She looked back longingly at her comfortable, safe farmhouse and the promise of a quiet day before caving. Safety in numbers, she decided. She took a moment to ensure the farmhouse door was latched and then, muttering under her breath about "idiotic chivalry," she followed the two women, sneaking quickly out of town.

On the outskirts of Oakhurst, near the treeline, Cleo caught up to the pair.

“Alright, fine! But we’re doing this smart!” Cleo snapped, catching her breath. She looked pointedly at Pearl. “Pearl, you’re the one who can find things. Use that excellent nose of yours. Try and figure out where Avid went—is there a clear scent trail leading out of that tunnel?”

Drift, hearing this, immediately perked up, her face lighting with excitement. “Wait, you can track him? You know how to track people?”

Drift stared at Pearl, her expression shifting instantly from desperate determination to excited curiosity. The realization that her quiet, powerful friend possessed a specialized, almost supernatural skill was a thrilling new piece of information.

Pearl offered a slight, sheepish shrug, subtly confirming Drift's suspicion, but her focus remained on the task. She didn't often expose this side of herself to the humans in Oakhurst, but the necessity outweighed the secrecy.

“I can follow a fresh trail, yes,” Pearl confirmed, dropping into a posture of intense concentration. She ignored Cleo and Drift for a moment, letting the thick, complex scent of the forest floor—pine needles, damp earth, and moss—wash over her. She mentally filtered out the myriad of animal scents.

She needed to find the specific scent trail leading away from the tunnel. Since the group hadn't actually gone down the passage, the fugitives would have emerged somewhere nearby, likely trying to maintain cover.

Pearl lowered her head, moving cautiously along the edge of the woods near the cluster of houses. She was looking for three distinct, intertwined scents:

1. Avid’s scent: A strong, musky scent of anxiety, old leather, and now, a faint, sickly sulfuric edge from the wound—which was the strongest indicator of his flight.

2. Shelby’s scent: The familiar, clean scent, now dominated by that sharp, metallic, new note she recognized from Scott.

3. The new scent of the ground: The subtle displacement of dirt and crushed vegetation indicating a path taken only minutes ago.

It didn't take long. Just a few yards into the overgrown path that led up the mountain slope, Pearl caught the undeniable, potent cocktail of the two escapees.

The scent was starting to fade, meaning they must have fled immediately after Legundo had left Avid's house.

Chapter 21

The crowd dispersed from the threshold of Avid’s empty home, everyone returning to their duties. Abolish, though, stood alone for a moment in thought. He unconsciously straightened the cuffs of his stiff, black butler’s uniform. To the townspeople, he was the picture of orderly service, a man obsessed with logistics and etiquette. But beneath the polished facade, his mind was a sharp, calculating instrument.

 

Abolish looked about and scanned the quiet street. He had traveled to Oakhurst undercover, officially to pay respects to his parents and provide them with a proper burial. Lord Thornvale, his adoptive father, had once mentioned that his actual ancestors hailed from this very valley, and he felt an obligation to honor those roots.

 

However, the uniform was more than a tribute to his station. Abolish was an operative for a secret organization dedicated to rooting out and eliminating the darker, more predatory stains on the world—predominantly vampires. He had training to spot the subtle rot in a community, the shadows that moved with too much grace, and the "plague" that didn't follow the laws of nature.

 

He looked up at the silhouette of the Militia Tower. The beacons he had helped Apo consecrate, he assumed, were seen as symbols of hope and protection. Instead, seeing that one flare an ominous, unnatural red had chilled him. It didn't look like a mechanical failure; it looked like a spiritual infection, a dark force claiming the ground the Militia tried to defend.

 

This is far beyond simple town politics, he thought, his fingers twitching toward the hidden compartment in his belt where he kept his specialized tools. The "Militia" thinks they are fighting a fever. They are children playing with a much older fire.

 

While Abolish watched the roads, he caught a glimpse as Drift, Cleo, and Pearl disappeared toward the farmhouse. He noted their departure but decided against following. His current objective needed him to remain within the town's defensive structure. If Avid had truly fled, and the town was now under the threat of a plague outbreak, his best move would be to remain at the side of the woman holding the reins of power: Apo.

 

He needed to see how the Militia would react to a threat they didn't understand. If he remained Apo’s right hand, he would have access to the beacons, the town’s resources, and the tactical decisions that would inevitably lead them to the source of the darkness.

 

"Etiquette dictates that one should never leave their post when the master—or in this case, the officer—is in need," he whispered to the empty air, his voice regaining its calm, clipped tone.

 

With a final, sharp tug on his lapels, Abolish turned and headed back toward the ‘Militia’ Tower, as Apo had called it. He would find Apo and offer his services for whatever she deemed necessary. Whether it was fortifying the perimeter, organizing the quarantine supplies, or preparing for the "elimination" Legundo had so fearfully suggested. He would be the perfect, helpful servant, all while keeping his silver-tipped stakes close at hand.

 

Abolish arrived at the base of the stone tower just as Apo was barking orders to a panicked Martyn. The young noble was fumbling with a crate of lanterns, his hands shaking so violently that the glass rattled against the wood.

 

"Focus, Martyn! We must keep the perimeter secure. As long as our beacon holds, we have a fighting chance!" Apo’s voice was like a whip-crack, though her eyes flickered toward the forest.

 

Abolish stepped into the light of the entryway, his presence a sudden, cooling balm of order. He looked over, squinting slightly at the town’s beacon. It was a marvel of the Militia’s recent efforts—a towering light emitting a pure, brilliant golden glow that bathed the square in a sense of artificial, holy warmth.

To the townspeople, it was a shield. To Abolish, it was a lighthouse in a sea of encroaching shadows.

 

"Apo," he greeted with a shallow, perfectly measured bow. "I have ensured the perimeter of the Hunter's residence is clear. How may I assist in the current situation?"

 

Apo turned, her expression softening with visible relief. She seemed to trust Abolish; his obsession with protocol mirrored her own military discipline. "Abolish. Good. I need you to oversee the inventory of the medical supplies Legundo left here. We need to know exactly how much lye and alcohol we have for sanitation."

 

Abolish gave a brisk nod as he quickly walked over to the small assortment of boxes and went through the supplies. He carefully cataloged the inventory, making note that it had only a paltry amount of supplies. The supplies were more suited to minor ailments and common injuries, enough to perhaps last a couple of weeks, at most 3, but what if they had a plague outbreak? They were severely understocked and underprepared.

 

Abolish quickly gave Apo an overview of the supplies, emphasizing that the supplies on hand were not enough for a prolonged plague outbreak but were sufficient for common injuries for a few weeks. Apo gave a grim understanding look. None of them had come here with any knowledge or idea of what they would be dealing with, let alone the possible challenges they would face.

 

Apo must have figured there wasn't much else they could do medically to prepare for the outbreak, so she decided to refocus on others. She gestured toward the makeshift map of Oakhurst spread across a table. "Onto other matters, Martyn is useless for tactical planning. I need to plot a containment zone. If the plague spreads from Avid's house, we need to know which streets to block off first."

 

Abolish stepped to the table, his gloved finger tracing the lines of the village. It was a rough sketch of what the town currently looked like, though Abolish had seen mentions from before coming here that the town used to be a bit bigger.

 

"Of course, Commander," he said smoothly. "However, might I suggest we maintain a high watch on the forest edge? While our beacon here remains pure, we cannot ignore the corruption at the ruins."

 

He turned his gaze toward the nearby wooded mountain. Just on the other side, he knew the castle ruins stood like a jagged tooth on the other side of a crumbling, centuries-old bridge. Unlike the golden light of the town, the beacon at the ruins had been tainted. It pulsed with a sickly, ominous red glow deep within the ruins.

 

That is the heart of it, Abolish thought, his fingers twitching toward the hidden compartment in his belt. The Militia thinks they are fighting a fever. They don't realize that red light is a predatory claim. Whatever took those ruins is most likely what infected Avid. He was of the mind that Legundo’s claims of the plague, while they might not be entirely accurate, at least emphasized that whatever Avid’s wound was, it was dangerous.

 

Abolish had heard of wounds caused by creatures sometimes taking days if not years to kill or even corrupt a person. He had a sinking suspicion that a beast might have caused Avid’s wound, or he had been infected with something recently that had made his wound worse.

 

"Abolish," Apo said, snapping him back to the moment. "I want you on the first watch tonight. Martyn will be with you. We need eyes on the outskirts for any sign of the missing townspeople. I suppose if Avid or Shelby is seen, immediately alert Legundo. If anything unknown enters the perimeter, though, take measures to protect the town."

 

"A wise decision," Abolish replied. He adjusted his sleeves habitually once more, though his mind strayed to the crimson pulse he knew was in the ruins. "I shall ensure that nothing—be it man, animal, or... ailment—crosses the threshold of Oakhurst undetected."

 

As he moved to the tower's upper gallery to begin his preparations, Abolish felt the weight of the silver-tipped stakes hidden within the lining of his coat. He wasn't just watching for a plague. He was waiting for the owners of that red light to come out from the shadows.

 

~~~

 

Their trek through the forest and up the mountain was grueling. The higher that Pearl, Cleo, and Drift climbed, the thinner the air grew; it became crisp and smelled of ancient pine and cold stone. Pearl led the way with a predator’s grace, her head low, her nostrils flared as she tracked the faint, metallic-sweet scent of Shelby and the sickly, sulfuric trail left by Avid.

 

"The trail is getting stronger," Pearl whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "They didn't wander. They moved with purpose, straight for the high ground."

 

As they crested a jagged ridge that offered a side-vantage over the old castle grounds, the three women skidded to a halt. All three of them stood stunned, their eyes widening in sheer disbelief at the sight below.

 

The "ruins" were no longer just a pile of moss-covered rubble.

 

A tall, outer protective wall had been erected, standing dark and imposing against the mountain backdrop. It was built of heavy stone, seamlessly fitted together with an architectural precision that seemed impossible for the timeframe. A grand entrance had been built directly in the wall, facing the crumbling stone bridge spanning the chasm.

 

From their higher angle on the mountainside, they could peer just over the lip of the ramparts. Inside the courtyard, the progress was even more staggering. The main castle structure was already well underway; several inner walls were partially completed, and the skeletal frame of a great hall rose from the earth.

 

"How..." Drift breathed, her voice trembling. "This was all rubble just days ago. There’s no way humans did this. Even with the whole village working day and night, you couldn't move stones that size."

 

The courtyard was eerily empty. No laborers, no horses, no sound of hammers—just the silent, towering evidence of an immense, unnatural labor.

 

"Stop," Cleo commanded, her hand reaching out to grab Drift’s arm as she made to continue down towards the ruins, pulling her back from the ridge's edge.

She looked toward the center of the inner courtyard. While the desecrated red beacon wasn't visible from this specific angle, she knew exactly where it was.

 

The new castle walls seemed explicitly constructed to confine and protect it, wrapping the corrupted light in a boundary.

 

"We can’t go any further," Cleo said, her voice sharp with caution. "This isn't a building site. This is a claim. Whoever did this isn't just building a house; they're fortifying their territory."

 

Pearl stood beside her, her gaze fixed on the entrance. "The scent trail leads right inside those walls. Avid and Shelby are in there. But I don't hear any heartbeats from the entrance, and I don't like the feel of the air here."

 

Cleo looked at the sheer scale of the stone walls. "Whatever lives there has the power to reshape the earth in a weekend. We would be fools to anger it by approaching uninvited."

 

She looked back toward the path they had climbed. "We’ll wait here for a while. We’ll keep watch to see if anyone—Shelby, the boys, anyone—comes out. But if we don't see anything soon, we’ll have to return to town. We can’t be caught out here after dark, and Legundo will be looking for us for his next 'inspection.'"

Drift bit her lip, looking at the silent fortress. "But Avid..."

 

"If he's in there, he's behind those walls," Cleo said firmly. "And right now, those walls are the only thing between him and a 'protocol' of elimination. We wait. Then we move."

 

~~~

 

The crypt was a tomb of silence, broken only by the low, rhythmic rasp of Avid’s breathing. He lay cocooned in the heavy, expensive fabric of a cloak Shelby had draped over him, his head still pillowed in her lap. Scott had carefully brought the cloak out of the wardrobe area, offering it as something to cover Avid up for the time being.

 

Scott stood a few paces away, his silhouette long and sharp against the stone wall. Owen and Pyro were huddled near him, their voices barely more than a vibration in the cold air as they discussed the state of the village.

 

"Legundo's 'plague' will be the talk of the town by now," Scott murmured, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the crypt. "It serves our purpose; it keeps the mortals contained and fearful. They won't venture near the ruins if they think the air itself is lethal."

 

"The outer walls are holding," Pyro reported quietly. "Most of the townspeople are too busy hiding behind their locked doors to notice the construction speed. They think the 'Militia' is handling the defenses."

 

Scott nodded, his gaze shifting to the side. "The only real variable is the wolf. Pearl. She's the only one with the senses to suspect we are more than just human. If she catches a scent of the construction or the change in Shelby, she’ll know exactly what we are, that is, if she’s encountered vampires before."

 

Owen glanced toward Shelby and the unconscious Avid. "And then there’s the newest fledgling. He’s stable, but different. That damage to his jaw is going to be dependent, Scott. It changes the dynamic of the Brood."

 

Shelby looked up. Her eyes were bright with a new, fierce intensity. "He is not a burden, Owen. He is a survivor. We will adapt to whatever he needs."

A sharp, jagged intake of breath from Avid cut through the conversation.

 

The feeding nap was finally over. Avid’s body stiffened, his muscles coiling with a sudden, twitching energy. His eyes slowly fluttered open, his vibrant purple eyes stared back, though they were now several shades darker, swirling with a deep, bruised violet that seemed to draw in the room's shadows.

 

He slowly looked up at Shelby, his gaze unfocused for a split second before the bond roused his consciousness. To Shelby, it felt like a sudden, warm pressure settling in her mind; to Avid, it was the only anchor in a world that had suddenly become terrifyingly loud and sharp.

 

"Shelby?" he rasped, his throat aching slightly. His voice sounded somewhat different—deeper, vibrating with a resonance that rattled his own chest.

Avid sat up slowly, his movements unnervingly fluid. He pressed a hand to his throat, feeling the absence of the agonizing fire that had consumed him earlier.

 

The necrotic wound on his neck was still there—he could feel the heavy, stagnant pressure of it—but the pain was gone, replaced by a dull, cold ache.

He ran a tongue over his teeth, an instinct for a newborn predator.

 

He froze.

He felt the sharp points of his fangs, but they felt... wrong. They were small, stunted things. He tried to flex the muscle at the back of his jaw, the one he had spent years studying in the creatures he hunted—the one that should have propelled his fangs forward into a lethal strike.

 

Nothing. The muscle was a dead weight. No matter how hard he pushed, his mouth remained a useless, blunt tool. He couldn't extend them. He couldn't even properly bear them.

 

Avid’s breathing hitched, turning into a panicked, shallow wheeze. He looked at Scott, then back to Shelby, his hands flying to his mouth, his fingers frantically feeling the underdeveloped bone.

 

"What... what did it do to me?" Avid choked out, his voice rising in a panicked register. "Shelby, my fangs... I can't move them! Why can't I move them?!"

The bond flooded Shelby with his sudden, crushing realization of powerlessness. The Hunter, who had lived and died by the strength of his weapons, realized he had been reborn without his primary means of survival.

 

The panic radiating from Avid was a physical force, a jagged storm of terror that Shelby could not only see but also feel deep within her mind, as his bond lay wide open. She moved instantly, almost instinctively, shifting from her seated position to pull Avid close and firmly against her chest.

 

"Shh, Avid. Look at me. Just look at me," Shelby whispered, her voice a soothing balm against his frantic wheezing. She wrapped her arms around him, her new strength allowing her to hold him still despite his tremors. "You’re safe. You’re here with us. Breathe, Avid. Just breathe."

 

Scott stepped closer, his shadow falling over them. For a man who usually projected an aura of absolute, cold authority, his expression was uncharacteristically soft—haunted by a rare flicker of remorse.

 

"I am sorry, Avid," Scott said, his voice low and heavy with sincerity. "I gave you my word that the infection would be stopped, and it was. But the cost was higher than I anticipated. The damage occurred before the Vitae could fully claim you. It was out of my control, but I regret the loss nonetheless."

 

Avid’s breathing began to level out, though his hands still trembled where they clutched at Shelby’s shirt. He leaned into her, his dark purple eyes searching hers for the truth. "What happened? I remember the fire and then nothing but darkness."

 

Shelby took a steadying breath, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.

"While you were turning, your body became a battlefield," she explained softly. "The venom and the infection, they fought for total control against each other. You suffered a severe seizure as a side effect of the internal battle, Avid. Your body couldn't handle the violence of the two forces colliding."

 

She paused, her amber eyes reflecting her sorrow. "When you finally stabilized, and the turning was complete, we realized that the Ghoul-Vitae had done more damage than we could see from the surface. Before the venom could trap the infection in that wound on your neck, the rot had reached the nerves in your jaw. It paralyzed the muscles that allow you to hunt."

 

Avid went still as the information sank in. He was a Hunter who could no longer bite—a predator without a strike. The irony was a bitter, cold weight in his stomach.

 

"So I'm a monster who can't even feed himself," Avid whispered, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh catching in his throat.

 

"No," Shelby corrected him instantly, her grip tightening. Through the Bond, she projected a wave of absolute, unwavering protection. "You are a member of this Brood. You survived a curse that would have turned anyone else into a mindless beast. If you cannot hunt, then we hunt for you. If you cannot bite, then I am your teeth."

 

Scott nodded in agreement, his gaze firm. "You are not a liability, Avid. You are a survivor of the Crimson Plague. Your mind and your skills are intact. The Brood takes care of its own. We will ensure you are never without what you need."

 

Avid looked from Shelby to Scott, the dark violet of his eyes shimmering. For the first time since he had entered Oakhurst, the crushing weight of his inevitable death was gone, replaced by a strange, fragile new life, one where he was no longer alone.

 

As the initial shock of Avid's discovery began to settle into a heavy, quiet acceptance, Owen and Pyro stepped forward from the shadows of the crypt. The hierarchy of the Brood was shifting; they were no longer just observers, but brothers in this strange new existence.

 

Owen was the first to speak, his voice uncharacteristically warm. "You fought harder than any of us did during the change, Avid. Most would have crumbled under that fever. The fact that you’re sitting here, coherent and whole in mind, is a testament to your strength." He offered a small, knowing smile. "Don't fret about the feeding. We’ve all had to learn new ways to survive. You have a head start on the 'relying on others' part."

 

Pyro nodded, his gaze steady and respectful. "You’ve spent your life hunting us, Avid. You know our weaknesses better than we do. That knowledge is worth more to this Brood than a pair of fangs. You’re our strategist now. We’ll provide the muscle; you provide the mind."

 

The collective support of the Brood acted like a physical weight against Avid's shoulders, grounding him. For a man who had spent his life in solitary paranoia, the presence of others, monsters though they were, offering genuine kinship was overwhelming.

 

Shelby gently tilted Avid’s head to the side, her fingers ghosting over the skin of his neck.

"Look at this, Avid," she murmured, guiding his hand to the site of the original wound. "It's changed."

 

As Avid’s fingers brushed the side of his neck, he felt a difference. The jagged, gaping laceration he had carried since childhood—the one that had recently begun to rot and weep—had shrunken significantly. The edges were no longer raw and angry; the Vitae had forced the skin to knit together as much as it could.

 

However, it was far from gone. In place of the open wound was a thick, raised scar surrounded by a deep, sickly bruising color—a swirl of mottled purples and grays that seemed to throb beneath the surface.

 

"The venom couldn't erase it," Shelby explained, her amber eyes scanning the mark. "But it has contained it. The infection is trapped there, neutralized by the Vitae. It’s a permanent part of you now—a reminder of what you survived, but it can no longer spread."

 

Empowered by the blood he had taken from Shelby and the support of his new family, Avid finally attempted to move. He felt light. The constant, grinding fatigue of the infection had vanished, replaced by a humming, electric vitality that made every nerve ending tingle.

 

He stood up, and for a moment, the world tilted. His new vampiric senses slammed into him all at once.

As his eyes finally adjusted to the space, the dim crypt suddenly became as bright as a moonlit field, with every crack in the stone and every speck of dust visible in high definition.

 

He could hear the blood rushing through Shelby’s veins, the distant trickle of water deep in the mountain, and the heartbeats of the nearby animals in the Livestock room.

 

Taking in a deep, unneeded breath, he could smell the cold stone, the ancient dust, and the intoxicating, spicy-sweet aroma of the Vitae flowing through his companions.

 

He wobbled, his balance adjusting to his new center of gravity. Shelby was right there, her hand on his arm to steady him.

"Easy," she whispered. "The world is much louder now, isn't it?"

 

Avid took a tentative step, his boots silent on the stone. He looked at his hands—pale, strong, and steady. He was a Hunter who had become his own prey, but as he looked at the purple-eyed reflection in the polished stone of a nearby sarcophagus, he realized he had never felt more alive.

 

The air in the crypt felt charged with a new kind of tension—not the frantic energy of a medical crisis, but the heavy, deliberate focus of a mentor and a student. Avid stood in the center of the chamber, testing the weight of his own limbs as if they belonged to someone else.

 

"We need to know what you are capable of, Avid," Scott said, his tone shifting back to that of a seasoned Sire. "The transition to a fledgling usually follows a predictable path of physical and mental enhancement. But in your case, we are working with variables we have never encountered."

 

He emphasized the word "should" with a grave look. "You should possess the speed of a predator, the strength to crush stone, and eventually, the ability to influence the minds of mortals. But the infection, we don't know what else it may have touched besides your jaw."

 

Pyro and Owen straightened up, sensing that the intimate coaching session was about to begin.

 

"We'll leave you to the lessons, Sire," Pyro said, giving Avid a respectful nod. "The sun is high, and those inner walls won't build themselves. We're heading up top to continue the masonry. If you need us, just well, we'll hear you."

 

Owen patted Avid’s shoulder—a gesture of solidarity that would have been unthinkable a few days ago—and the two of them ascended the stone stairs, their movements unnervingly synchronized and silent.

 

Once the heavy echo of the door above settled, Shelby stepped in front of Avid, taking his hands in hers. Her amber eyes searched his dark violet ones.

"We start with the senses," Shelby murmured. "You’ve already felt them opening up. The trick isn't just seeing or hearing more—it's learning how to filter it out so the world doesn't overwhelm you. Close your eyes, Avid."

 

Avid obeyed. Immediately, the world became a symphony of vibrations. He could hear Scott’s slow, steady pulse of flowing vitae and the rustle of Shelby’s clothes.

 

"Focus only on me," Shelby coached. "Ignore the stone, ignore the wind above. Find the rhythm of my blood. That is your anchor."

 

Scott paced a slow circle around them, his voice a low vibration. "Physicality is next. A vampire does not move like a human. We don't struggle against gravity; we flow through it. Let’s see if you still have your innate speed. Try to move to the far wall, Avid. Don't think about walking. Think about being there."

 

Avid attempted to push off, but he overcompensated. He moved with a blurred, jagged burst of speed that nearly sent him crashing into a sarcophagus. He caught himself with a reflex so fast it surprised him, his fingers digging shallow grooves into the solid stone of the lid.

 

He stared at the stone dust on his fingertips. "I didn't even feel the resistance," he whispered.

 

"Good," Scott noted, though his brow remained furrowed. "Strength and speed seem intact. But we must be cautious. The seizure you suffered suggests a neurological strain. We won't test your mental gifts yet; the Bond with Shelby is currently providing too much 'noise' for you to reach out to a mortal mind safely."

 

Shelby watched him with a mixture of pride and lingering worry. "We'll take it slow, Avid. One ability at a time. We need to make sure the infection in your neck stays stable when you exert yourself."

 

Avid looked at the bruised, mottled mark on his throat in a nearby mirror, then back at his teachers. He was a student again, learning a lethal craft, but this time, the stakes weren't just the success of a hunt—it was his own fundamental identity.

 

~~~

 

The ridge was silent, save for the whistling of the wind through the pines. For nearly an hour, Cleo, Pearl, and Drift had remained huddled in the brush, their eyes fixed on the uncanny stone fortress.

 

"There!" Drift whispered, her hand tightening on a branch.

 

From behind a finished section of the inner curtain wall, two figures emerged into the open courtyard.

It was Owen and Pyro.

 

They walked with an easy, casual stride, as if in the middle of a lighthearted conversation. They stopped near a stack of massive granite blocks.

"They look... fine," Drift breathed, relief warring with the fear of the unknown. "They don't look sick. Where have they been?"

 

Cleo, however, was focused on the unsettling grace of their movement. She had already harbored deep suspicion about Scott—the way he dressed, the way he spoke, his unnervingly precise behavior, and the strange, intense "courting" tactics he used on Avid.

 

Cleo felt a cold certainty settle in her stomach. "They're similar to Scott," she murmured to Pearl, her voice laced with suspicion. "I think we're looking at a Brood."

 

As the women watched, the casual atmosphere shattered under a display of terrifying power.

 

Owen stopped at the base of a ten-foot wall. Without a ladder or apparent effort, he leapt—a silent, impossibly quick blur—and landed perfectly balanced on the narrow ledge of the half-constructed wall.

 

Then, Pyro moved to the pile of stone. These were massive granite slabs. Pyro reached down, his hands finding purchase, and tossed a block upward. The stone sailed through the air like a piece of foam. Owen caught it with a single hand, positioned it with a loud thud, and signaled for the next.

Cleo and Drift pulled back instantly, sinking deeper into the shadows.

 

"That’s not masonry. That’s not human strength," Cleo stated, her voice trembling but gaining resolve. The implications were immense. She was looking at creatures of the night, not neighbors.

 

Drift was shaking, tears welling in her eyes as her fear for her friends spiked. "Avid and Shelby... they went to them. What did they do to them?"

 

Cleo pulled Drift close, trying to anchor her. "Listen to me, Drift. They didn't seem to hurt Avid before actively. Scott seemed interested in him. And Shelby is his friend and roommate. I don't think Scott intentionally means them harm. My only prayer now is that this Brood is willing to live in peace and confine themselves to this fortress, provided we don't instigate any attacks."

 

Pearl, meanwhile, was processing the information differently. While Cleo feared the power, Pearl was captivated by it. She observed the strength of Owen and Pyro with a subtle, rising intrigue and curiosity. She was a werewolf—a creature of strength and the night—, but she had been alone since she lost her pack and her parents long ago. Seeing others from the supernatural world acting with such effortless power was a potent lure.

 

They are strong, Pearl thought, her gaze glued to the golden-eyed creatures working above. I haven't seen power like this since I was a child.

 

"We have to get back," Cleo said, her voice firm. "We’ve seen enough. If they catch us watching them, we risk confirming their fears and inciting a conflict we cannot win."

Chapter 22

The descent from the ridge was a frantic, silent blur. Cleo didn't give them a moment to linger or debate; she kept a firm hand on Drift’s shoulder, ushering her away from the ledge before a stray glance from the Brood could pin them down.

 

They moved quickly through the thickening shadows of the mountain pines, the sound of the unnatural masonry—the heavy thud of granite—fading behind them. Pearl took the rear, her eyes constantly darting back toward the ruins, her lupine senses on high alert for any sound of pursuit.

 

"Wait, Cleo—we just saw them tossing stones like they were nothing!" Drift whispered, her voice cracking as they reached the relative safety of the lower treeline. "We have to tell Apo! We have to tell the Militia that Scott and the others aren't what they say they are!"

 

Cleo stopped abruptly, turning to face Drift. She placed both hands on the younger woman’s shoulders, her expression more serious than Drift had ever seen it.

 

"No, Drift. You are going to keep absolutely quiet about what we saw up there," Cleo commanded, her voice a low, urgent hiss. Drift blinked, stunned. "But they’re dangerous! If they’re—whatever they are—the whole town is in the dark!"

 

"Exactly," Cleo countered. "And if you tell the town that Scott is a vampire and his 'servants' have the strength of ten men, what do you think will happen? Apo will lose her mind. Legundo will call for a 'cleansing.' They’ll march up there with torches and pitchforks, and they will be slaughtered."

 

Cleo looked toward the mountain peak. "Right now, there is a peace. A fragile, deceptive peace. As long as the town thinks they’re eccentric men building a house, everyone stays alive. If we bring attention to them, we bring a war we cannot win."

 

She squeezed Drift’s arms. "I don't think Scott wants to hurt us. He’s courting Avid, for heaven's sake. And Shelby, she’s his friend. If we stay out of their way, maybe they’ll stay out of ours. Promise me, Drift. For Avid’s sake, and for yours. Not a word to the Militia." Cleo gave Drift a desperate, almost pleading look.

 

Drift looked at Pearl, seeking some support, but Pearl only gave a slow, solemn nod. "The Hunter's house is empty, and the town is safe for now," Pearl rumbled. "Keep it that way."

 

Drift finally slumped, her shoulders dropping in defeat. "Fine. I promise. Not a word."

 

The three women slipped back into the outskirts of Oakhurst just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The town's golden beacon was bathing the square in its artificial, protective glow, with the lower tower doors open.

 

If anyone took notice, they were just three friends returning from a walk near the farm. But as they passed Dr. Legundo, who was busy scribbling notes by the tower, Cleo felt the weight of the secret weighing down on her.

 

"Everything alright, ladies?" Legundo called out as he caught sight of them. He paused in his note-taking, most likely writing down everyone's health inspection results to keep track of changes. "No signs of the fever, I trust?" "None at all, Doctor," Cleo replied with a practiced, weary smile. "Just a bit of fresh air to clear our heads."

 

She kept walking, her heart hammering. They were living in the shadow of a fortress of monsters, and she was the one holding the curtain shut.

 

~~~

 

High atop the stone gallery of the Militia Tower, Abolish stood as a silent sentinel.  To any observer below, he was merely the diligent servant, arms folded behind his back, performing his civic duty. His eyes were scanning the treeline with predatory focus.

 

As the sun’s final rays bled into a deep, bruised purple behind the mountains, he caught a flicker of movement. Three figures were emerging from a side path—not the main road, but a narrow, overgrown trail that led down from the higher slopes near the ruins.

 

It was Drift, Pearl, and Cleo.

 

Abolish adjusted his glasses, his analytical mind immediately cataloging their movements. They weren't walking with the relaxed gait of neighbors returning from a casual stroll. They were huddled close, their steps hurried and light, their heads constantly swiveling back toward the forest.

 

On edge. Guarded. Terrified, Abolish noted. Even from this distance, he could perceive the rigid set of Cleo’s shoulders and the way Drift seemed to shrink into her tunic.

 

He leaned slightly over the stone parapet, watching them enter the golden light of the town square. He expected them to turn toward the tower—to rush to Apo or the Doctor with whatever discovery had driven that look into their eyes. He prepared himself to descend and "assist" in the debriefing, ready to extract the truth from their panicked reports.

 

But they didn't turn.

 

Instead, they kept their heads down. When they passed Dr. Legundo, Cleo offered a brief, strained pleasantry that Abolish recognized as a textbook deflection. They didn't stop to report a sighting. They didn't mention the "contagious" Hunter. They walked past the tower, heading straight for their respective homes.

 

Why the silence? Abolish wondered, his pulse quickening with a cold, professional worry. If they saw Avid or Shelby, they should be shouting for help. If they saw the 'Plague,' they should be screaming for the Doctor.

 

The fact that they were hiding their discovery was far more alarming to Abolish than any report of a monster. It meant they had seen something that transcended the Militia's authority—or something so terrifying that they believed the town was safer in the dark.

 

He looked back toward the mountain, where he knew the corrupted red beacon at the ruins lay pulsing quietly under the darkening sky.

They went to the ruins, he deduced. And whatever they saw there has successfully silenced them.

 

Abolish reached into his inner pocket, his fingers brushing the cool wood of a silver-tipped stake. He looked down at Apo, who was busy speaking with Martyn, utterly oblivious to the silent drama that had just unfolded.

 

"The sheep have seen a wolf," Abolish whispered to the wind, his voice thin and sharp. "And now they are trying to pretend the wolf doesn't exist. A dangerous game, ladies. Very dangerous indeed."

 

He knew then that his "undercover" mission was about to become much more active. If the mortals were going to keep secrets from the town about whatever is on the mountain, he would have to be the one to uncover the truth before it reached the town gates.

 

~~~

 

From the shadows of the stone chamber, Scott watched his two newest fledglings with the detached precision of a master craftsman. The crypt was filled with the humming energy of Avid’s new existence, a vibration Scott could feel in the marrow of his own ancient bones.

 

Despite the clinical nature of the training, Scott remained at a distinct distance. He kept to the shadows of the far wall, his hands clasped behind his back. He had given Avid his word—a promise born of the Hunter's deep-seated trauma—that he would never lay a hand on him again without permission. Even now, with Avid reborn into his own kind, Scott respected that boundary with a rigid, silent honor.

 

"Shelby," Scott said, his voice resonant, echoing off the damp masonry. "Continue the physical calibration. Watch the way his shadow moves, the way his pupils react to the shifts in light. We must be certain the seizure didn't leave a lingering fog in his mind."

 

Scott paced a slow, wide arc around the pair, maintaining a ten-foot radius. The desire to personally inspect him, to touch him and check him over thoroughly burned within, but he stamped down the desire. Knowing Shelby could do it just as well. To a human, Avid looked like a miracle of recovery. To Scott, he was a puzzle. The paralysis of the fangs was an obvious physical deformity, but he feared the unseen costs.

 

"He appears stable," Shelby reported. She stood close to Avid, her hands resting on his shoulders to guide his movements. "His reflexes are sharpening faster than mine did. It's as if the Hunter’s instincts were finally given a body that could keep up."

 

Scott leaned against a pillar, his eyes tracking every micro-expression on Avid's face. "The virus he carried was a corruption of nature. It doesn't just damage tissue; it twists the spirit. Ask him about his thermal sensitivity, Shelby. Does he feel the cold of the stone, or is it a void to him?"

 

Shelby placed a hand against Avid’s cheek, then his chest. "He’s cold, Scott. But he’s responsive. No tremors, no loss of motor function outside of the jaw." Avid then speaks up in response as well, glancing towards Scott, then back to Shelby, “I can feel Shelby’s subtly cold hands, and the cold of the stone floor.”

 

Avid moved at her command, his dark violet eyes tracking Shelby with an unnervingly intense focus. He seemed to be absorbing the information, his mind a sponge for the new rules of his reality.

 

Scott leaned forward slightly, squinting to inspect the bruised, mottled mark of the contained infection on Avid's neck from across the gap. He could see it pulse with a dull rhythm, but it remained localized in the spot on his neck.

 

"Incredible," Scott murmured, his voice laced with a dark fascination. "The venom and your vitae have built a cage around the rot. You are a walking paradox, Avid. A predator carrying its own poison."

 

He straightened up, his silhouette tall and imposing. "So far, nothing seems amiss. Your strength is at its peak for a fledgling, and your senses are opening as they should. It seems the damage was mercifully limited to the primary feeding mechanism."

 

Scott turned his gaze toward the stone stairs where the faint, muffled thuds of Pyro and Owen’s construction echoed from above. The sun had officially set; the mountain was now under the night's watchful gaze.

 

"You have joined the brood," Scott declared, his dark eyes shining with satisfaction. "But the true test begins now. The moon is up, and your hunger will soon move from a dull ache to a driving need. We have built walls to keep the town out, but we must also ensure we can provide for what we have brought inside."

 

He looked at Shelby, a silent command passing through the air. "Take him up, Shelby. Let him see the stars through his new eyes. Let him see the fortress we are building."

 

As Shelby began to lead Avid toward the surface, Scott lingered in the shadows for a moment longer, watching them go. He gave a deep sigh as he watched after them. He was happy and content with Avid now in their ranks, but deep inside, he knew that it would be harder and more painful to ignore his desires for Avid. For the moment, he paused, his hand raising to feel where he knew his heart rested in his chest. He could feel the dark ache inside, growing stronger the longer he held to his promise. He wondered vaguely if the ache would ever go away.

 

~~~

 

The ascent up the stone stairs felt different than any climb Avid had ever made. There was no strain in his thighs, no shortness of breath, no heavy pounding of his heart like when he would struggle against the incline. He moved with a smooth ease, his boots finding purchase on the stone as if he were weightless.

As Shelby escorted him out into the courtyard at the top of the stairs, the night air rushed in to meet him—and for a moment, Avid staggered.

 

It wasn't just air anymore. It was a flood of information. He could smell the sharp, cold scent of the mountain snow, the ancient pine needles, the damp earth, and the faint, sweet metallic tang of the mortar being used in the construction. He could hear the wind whistling through the jagged gaps in the old ruins, sounding like a choir of low, mournful voices.

 

But it was the sight that truly overwhelmed him.

 

The night wasn't black. To his dark violet eyes, the world was bathed in a spectrum of deep blues, luminous silvers, and sharp, high-contrast grays. He could see the individual needles on the trees on the edge of the forest on the other side of the bridge. He could see the heat rising from a small field mouse scurrying near the base of a wall. The stars above weren't just pinpricks of light; they were brilliant, throbbing diamonds set against a velvet sky that felt close enough to touch.

 

"It's... It's beautiful," Avid whispered, his voice vibrating with a depth he still didn't recognize. "I spent my life hiding from the dark, thinking it was a void. I didn't know it was full of everything."

 

Shelby led him out into the center of the courtyard, and Avid stopped, his head tilting back as he took in the sheer, impossible scale of the construction.

The walls rose like silent giants around them. He could see the work Pyro and Owen had done; the stones were fitted together with a precision that defied human masonry. There were no tool marks, no uneven edges. It was a fortress grown from the mountain itself, dark and impenetrable.

 

He saw Pyro and Owen standing atop one of the nearly finished walls of the grand hall, their silhouettes sharp against the moon. Both of them moved with a casual, predatory grace that Avid was slowly beginning to realize he now shared.

 

"They built this for us?" Avid asked, his gaze sweeping over the rising great hall and the protective curtain wall.

 

"They built it for the Brood," Shelby replied, her hand finding his in the dark. Her touch felt electric, a warm anchor in the sensory storm. "This is our sanctuary, Avid—a place where the town can't reach you, where the 'protocol' doesn't exist. Here, you aren't a sick man or a monster to be eliminated. You're home."

 

Avid looked toward the center of the courtyard, where he knew the red beacon lay. He couldn't see the light from here, but he could feel its pulse, a heavy, rhythmic thrumming that matched the cold ache in his neck. A small temporary protective boundary had been built around it. Avid assumed a proper altar or room would be built around it once the castle was complete.

 

He reached up, his fingers brushing the bruised, mottled mark of the contained infection. The world was beautiful, and his body felt like a well-oiled machine, but the reminder of the rot remained. He was a creature of the night, a part of a powerful Brood, but he was also a man who carried his own poison.

"I can't bite," he reminded himself softly, the words catching in his blunt, stunted teeth.

 

"You don't need to," Shelby reminded him, her amber eyes glowing with a fierce, protective light. "We are your strength now, Avid. Just look at the stars. For the first time in your life, you don't have to worry about your wound worsening by sunrise."

 

~~~

 

Scott ascended from the dark maw of the crypt, his long coat snapping in the mountain breeze. He paused at the threshold, watching the scene in the courtyard. Under the silver wash of the moon, his Brood looked complete. Avid stood beside Shelby, bathed in the starlight, his dark violet eyes wide as he took in the sheer majesty of the nocturnal world.

 

Owen and Pyro, sensing their Sire’s presence and the fledgling’s arrival, were eager to join the group. They stepped off the high walls, dropping twenty feet in a silent, blurred descent. They landed with the soft puff of dust, their knees barely bending to absorb a force that would have shattered human legs.

 

"How’s the view from the new perspective?" Owen asked, his eyes bright with a friendly, predatory glint. He clapped a hand—carefully, mindful of the new strength—onto Avid’s shoulder.

 

"It's... a lot," Avid admitted, his voice still vibrating with a strange, new tone. He looked at Owen and Pyro, seeing the subtle perspiration on their skin, hearing the smooth fluidity of their movements. "I feel like I'm seeing the world for the first time."

 

"You are," Pyro said with a sharp, toothy grin. "The sun just hides the details. The moon shows you the truth."

 

Scott stepped forward, maintaining his promised distance while anchoring the group with his presence. He watched them mingle quietly together. Watching the way Shelby stood protectively near Avid as she spoke with the others, noting the way Owen and Pyro naturally flanked them. The tension of the turning had finally faded, replaced by the humming energy of a brood at peace.

 

"He is adjusting well," Scott observed, his voice cutting through the quiet chatter like a velvet blade. "But senses and strength are only the foundation. A Brood is not defined by the stone walls they build, but by the blood they share and the ground they claim." He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze finally settling on Avid.

 

"The moon is high, and the forest is teeming with life that thinks itself hidden," Scott said. "I suggest we go on a hunt together. All of us." Shelby’s eyes brightened. She had fed, but the instinct to move, to run with the Brood, was a powerful lure.

 

"It will serve two purposes," Scott continued. "First, it will allow Avid and Shelby to see how a proper hunt is conducted—how to move as one, how to stalk without sound, and how to choose the right prey. Second, and most importantly, it is time for this Brood to bond outside of these ruins."

 

He looked at Avid’s bruised neck, then at his stunted fangs. "You cannot bite, Avid, but you can track. You have the Hunter’s mind. You will be our eyes in the brush. We will show you that even without teeth, you are a vital part of the kill."

 

Owen and Pyro shifted instinctively, their bodies already coiling for the run. The prospect of a group hunt—the first for this newly formed family—sent a ripple of excitement through the Bond.

 

"Shall we?" Scott asked, gesturing toward the entrance by the bridge that looked out over the dark, sprawling forest.

 

Avid looked at Shelby, then at the powerful creatures around him. The fear of Legundos' "protocol" and the "plague" felt like a distant, foggy memory from a life he no longer needed to live. "I'm ready," Avid said, his eyes shimmering with a new, dangerous purpose.

 

Without another word, the five of them moved. They didn't walk; they flowed across the courtyard and out into the night. They quickly disappeared into the trees with a speed that no human eye could follow.

 

The forest was a blur of silver-streaked bark and deep emerald moss. Scott led the way initially, moving with a terrifying, effortless speed that forced the others to push their new limits. But as they crested a ridge deep in the mountain's heart, miles from Oakhurst and the rising walls of the ruins, Scott slowed his pace.

 

The group came to a silent halt in a wide, moon-drenched clearing where the air was thick with the scent of damp ferns and nocturnal life. Scott turned, his silhouette tall and imposing against the ancient trees. He looked directly at Avid.

 

"We have reached the hunting grounds," Scott stated, his voice a low vibration that seemed to meld with the wind. "From here, the direction is yours. Tonight, Avid, you will guide the hunt."

 

Avid blinked, his dark violet eyes wide. "Me? But I don't even have my fangs, Scott. I don't know how you track."

 

"You know better than any of us," Scott countered, his gaze firm but encouraging. "You’re a Hunter, Avid, even if your later training was focused on Vampires. You know how to spot the trails, the bedding grounds, and the behavior of the wild. Now, those instincts are amplified tenfold. Focus, Avid."

 

Scott stepped back, merging into the shadows of a cedar tree, urging Avid to take the center of the clearing. Shelby stood close by, her presence a supportive hum in the back of his mind through the Bond.

 

"Close your eyes," Shelby whispered. "Don't look with your mind. Listen. Scent."

 

Avid obeyed. He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. The air was no longer just 'air.' It was a map.

 

He smelled the pine resin, sharp and sticky. The cold water of a stream is half a mile to the east. Then, he caught it: a warm, heavy, musky scent. It was salt and fur and the iron-rich tang of life. Deer.

 

He shifted his focus to his hearing. He filtered out the rustle of the leaves and the habitual breathing of the Brood behind him. Then, he heard it—the rhythmic crunch-slide of a hoof stepping through dry brush, and the slow, heavy exhale of a large animal.

 

"Three hundred yards," Avid whispered, his eyes snapping open. The deep violet was swirling with a predatory focus. "A buck. A large one. He’s moving toward the water, downwind from us."

 

Scott’s eyes shimmered with a dark satisfaction. "Lead on, Tracker. Show us the way."

 

Avid didn't hesitate. He took off into the brush, but he didn't move like the heavy, armored Hunter of his past. He moved like a ghost, his boots barely whispering against the leaves. Behind him, the Brood fell into a perfect, silent formation, following the man who had once been their greatest threat.

 

He guided them through a thicket of thorns that would have shredded human skin, over a fallen log with a single, liquid leap, and stopped just behind a screen of ancient ferns.

 

He pointed. There, standing in the silver moonlight by the edge of a bubbling brook, was a massive twelve-point buck. It was majestic, powerful, and utterly oblivious to the five predators watching from the shadows.

 

Avid looked back at Scott and Shelby, the thrill of the hunt—the actual hunt—surging through him. He couldn't bite, but he had found the heart of the forest for them.

 

The massive buck stood motionless by the stream, its ears twitching occasionally at the sounds of the night, unaware that five pairs of eyes were fixed upon it. The air was thick with the scent of the animal's vitality, a pull that made the hunger in the Brood's veins hum with a cold, insistent demand.

 

Scott turned his gaze to Owen. "Owen," he whispered, the sound barely a ripple in the air. "Today I want to test your focus. Use the Trance. See if you can quiet the beast's heart."

 

Owen nodded, his expression becoming intensely serious. He stepped forward slightly, taking a steadying breath. Then his eyes began to glow with a concentrated, shimmering light. This was a mental feat, requiring him to project his will across the clearing and override the animal’s flight instinct.

 

At first, the buck snorted, its head snapping up as it sensed a shift in the atmosphere. But Owen didn't waver. He fixed his gaze on the animal's large, dark eye and began to speak in a low, rhythmic, lulling tone.

 

"Peace, wanderer," Owen murmured, the words carrying a melodic, hypnotic weight. "There is no fear here—only the grass and the water. Be still. Be calm."

The buck’s ears flattened. Its frantic breathing slowed, and its tense muscles visibly relaxed. The animal’s head drooped slightly as if it were falling into a deep, waking dream. Owen’s brow was furrowed with effort, sweat beading at his temples, but he held the connection.

 

"It's working," Avid breathed, watching the majestic creature become a docile statue.

"Move in," Scott commanded softly.

 

With Owen maintaining the trance, the rest of the Brood glided out from the ferns. They moved with a terrifying grace, surrounding the buck in a perfect circle. The animal didn't flinch as they closed the distance; it remained locked in Owen's golden gaze.

 

Scott looked at Pyro. "You first, Pyro. Take only what you need for now; there will be more later."

 

Pyro stepped forward, his fangs sliding out with a quiet click. He was efficient and respectful, taking a measured draught before stepping back, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

 

"Now, Shelby," Scott directed.

 

Shelby approached, her eyes flicking to Avid for a brief second before she leaned in. She fed with a controlled grace, ensuring the animal remained calm under Owen's spell. When she pulled away, she looked more vibrant, the new Vitae flushing her skin with a healthy, predatory glow.

 

Finally, Scott turned to Avid. "The rest is yours, Avid. You cannot bite, but you must learn to take what is offered. Use the wound Shelby made. Do not let life go to waste."

 

Avid stepped toward the buck. The scent was overwhelming now—rich, salt-sweet, and pulsing. He felt a pang of his old human guilt, but it was quickly drowned out by the biological necessity of his new form. Because he couldn't use fangs, he reached out, his fingers steadying the animal's neck as he fed from the small, clean puncture Shelby had left behind.

 

The Vitae hit his system like a bolt of lightning. The cold ache in his jaw and the stagnant pressure in his neck seemed to recede, replaced by a roaring, golden heat. As the buck’s life force ebbed away, Avid felt his connection to the night grow even stronger.

 

The buck eventually slumped to the mossy ground, the trance finally breaking as the last of its life departed.

 

"Well done," Scott said, looking at the unified group. "Owen, your focus was exceptional. Avid, you have tasted the wild. But one animal is not enough for a Brood of five. We move again. Tracker, find us another."

 

Avid wiped his mouth, his dark purple eyes now glowing with a terrifying, beautiful clarity. He didn't feel like a monster; he felt like a part of a machine that was finally, perfectly synchronized.

 

He paused, listening and scenting once more before turning to Scott excitedly. "There's a pack of elk a mile north," Avid said, his voice stronger than ever. "I can hear them."

 

The Brood moved through the forest like a singular, multi-limbed shadow. Avid led them with unerring precision, navigating the dense thickets and rocky outcrops until the air changed, carrying the heavy, musky scent of a larger herd.

 

They emerged onto a high mountain meadow where a small group of elk was grazing on the silver-tipped grass. A massive bull stood guard, his antlers silhouetted against the moon, while several cows and a few spindly-legged calves—barely a few months old—rested in the tall weeds.

 

Scott held up a hand, and the Brood froze instantly. His eyes swept over the herd, his mind calculating with ancient, predatory wisdom.

 

"We take what we need to sustain the Brood," Scott whispered, his voice cold as the mountain air. "But we are not butchers. We leave the calves and the lead cow to guide them. The balance of the forest must be maintained if we are to call it our home."

 

Scott stepped forward into the open moonlight in the clearing. Unlike Owen’s focused, straining effort, Scott’s power was effortless and expansive. He didn't just target one animal; his focus was on the whole herd. He opened his arms slightly, his dark eyes deep and shimmering.

 

"Be still," he commanded. He didn't speak loudly, but the weight of his will rippled through the clearing like a physical wave.

 

The effect was instantaneous. The bull elk’s head snapped up, a bugle dying in its throat. The cows stopped chewing. The entire herd went unnaturally still, their eyes glazing over as Scott’s mental net ensnared them. Even the calves dropped their heads, falling into a peaceful, heavy slumber where they stood.

 

The whole brood watched with a mixture of awe and professional respect. Owen felt a small amount of pride at being asked to perform the Trance earlier, to prove his skills. He deeply admired his Sire’s abilities. To hold a dozen minds at once, silencing their frantic instincts with a single thought, was a level of mastery he could only dream of reaching.

 

"Move," Scott directed, his voice a silent vibration in their minds. "Pyro, Owen—take the bull. Shelby, Avid—the elder cow at the edge. Do not disturb the young."

 

The Brood fanned out. Avid followed Shelby, his movements now so synchronized with hers that they seemed like two halves of a whole. As he reached the elk, he felt a strange sense of reverence. This wasn't the frantic, panicked hunt of a human; it was a ritual, a quiet exchange of life sanctioned by a True Hunter.

 

They fed together, the golden heat of the Vitae flowing through the Bond, binding them closer. Avid felt his strength peaking, the bruised mark on his neck cooling as the fresh blood neutralized the lingering ache of the infection.

 

When they were finished, the two chosen elk were laid gently in the grass, their passing peaceful and painless under the shroud of Scott’s trance. Their bodies would be brought back to the castle to be harvested for materials and the remaining meat.

 

Scott finally lowered his hands, the glimmer fading from his eyes. He looked at the remaining herd, the lead cow and her calves, who would wake in a few minutes with no memory of the shadows that had shared their clearing.

 

"The Brood is fed," Scott said, looking at the vibrant, powerful faces of his family. "And our bonds have grown stronger. Let us return to our fortress. We have a world to finish building. Pyro, on the way back, you should detour back to the first kill and gather the dead deer to bring it back to the nest. We should harvest it as well.”

 

~~~

 

The golden light of the town’s beacon filled the tower. From Abolish’s post, the town moved below him like pieces on a chessboard. He had traded his ceremonial role for that of a silent observer, his eyes constantly tracking three specific figures: the girls who had returned from the mountain with secrets written in their very posture.

 

Abolish spent the first hours of his watch mentally dissecting the trio's behavior as they settled back into their evening routines.

 

Cleo and Pearl were a formidable unit. Since returning, they hadn't left each other's side for more than a few minutes. Whether they were securing the farmhouse shutters or moving between the barn and the kitchen, they moved in a tight, defensive orbit. Cleo was sharp-tongued and guarded, and Pearl was a wild variable. Abolish had seen the way her eyes caught the light. Cornering them together would be a tactical nightmare; they would bolster each other's resolve, and he didn't care to test the limits of Pearl's protective instincts just yet.

 

Drift was the outlier. While she stayed near the farmhouse for a time, her movements were erratic. She paced the porch, wringing her hands, her gaze constantly drifting back toward the dark silhouette of the mountain. She looked like a woman holding a weight too heavy for her frame.

Decision reached, Abolish thought, adjusting his spectacles. Drift is the fracture in the foundation.

 

Abolish waited until Pearl and Cleo were occupied inside the barn, likely tending to their cows. He saw Drift step away, heading toward the town well at the edge of the property to draw a final bucket of water before the night grew truly deep.

 

He moved with the practiced silence of a man who had spent years as both a high-tier servant and a hunter of shadows. He didn't run; he appeared at the edge of the lantern light just as Drift reached for the rope.

 

"A heavy burden for a single pair of hands, Miss Drift," Abolish said, his voice a smooth, calm tenor that lacked any immediate threat but carried a needle-sharp weight.

 

Drift gasped, nearly dropping the silver bucket. She spun around, her face pale under the glow of the moon. "Abolish! You scared me." She says in a hesitant relief, as if she thought something else had come up behind her. “Did you need something? I’m just getting myself some water.”

 

Abolish stepped forward, his gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back. He didn't look at the well; he looked directly at her eyes, noting the way they flickered with guilt.

 

"My apologies. I merely wished to ensure your health," he lied gracefully, his tone impeccably polite. "Dr. Legundo seemed concerned after his inspection. And I couldn't help but notice your excursion earlier this evening. It is quite a trek to the upper slopes, especially with a plague on the wind."

 

Drift’s breath hitched. She tried to look away, but Abolish stepped into her line of sight, his presence suddenly feeling much larger than that of a simple butler.

 

"You look troubled, Drift," he murmured, dropping the formal title. "I’ve seen that look on soldiers before a slaughter. You saw something up there, didn't you? Something that Cleo told you to keep quiet about?"

 

He leaned in slightly, his eyes cold and clinical. "The Militia is looking for a virus. I am looking for the truth. If you care for Avid’s life, or the lives of everyone in this town, you will tell me what it is that you saw."

 

Drift’s resolve, already paper-thin from the day’s trauma, finally tore. The image of Owen leaping ten feet into the air and the impossible walls rising from the rubble flashed behind her eyes.

 

"It wasn’t a walk! The ruins, they were..." she blurted out, her voice cracking. "We went up there because we were worried, and we saw them, Abolish! We saw Owen and Pyro!"

 

Abolish went perfectly still, his eyes narrowing. "And? Describe their condition."

 

"They aren't sick!" Drift cried, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "They were... they were building. But not like men. No, not normal men. Owen jumped onto a wall taller than you, Abolish, with no help at all. And Pyro was throwing stones. Massive granite blocks. He was tossing them like they were pillows!"

Abolish’s expression remained a mask of professional calm, but internally, his mind was clicking into place with lethal efficiency. He took a mental inventory of those missing from the town's daily rhythm: Scott, Owen, Pyro, and now Avid and Shelby.

 

His reasoning solidified around Scott. From the moment the nobleman had arrived, Scott had been the primary source of Abolish's suspicions—the tailored clothes, the aristocratic distance, and the way he had been seen with Pyro and Owen just before their behavior shifted and they vanished from public view.

• The Subject: Scott was undoubtedly the Sire. He had claimed the others, molding them into his vanguard.
• The Condition: Owen and Pyro’s display of enhanced kinetic strength and preternatural agility confirmed they were Vampires.
• The "Plague": Legundo’s diagnosis had to be a mortal’s misunderstanding. Avid had likely been attacked by one of them. Vampiric venom, if not administered correctly for a complete turning, acted as a corrosive toxin, which explained the festering, necrotizing wound that the human doctor mistook for a virus.
• The Shelby Variable: She was the only missing piece that didn't fit the "warrior" mold yet. Was she helping them? Or was she simply another thrall in the Sire's shadow?

"Tossing stones," Abolish repeated quietly. He looked down at Drift. "You did the right thing by telling me. Cleo is right about one thing: the Militia is not prepared for this. If Apo marches on that hill with pitchforks, she is marching to a slaughter."

 

"What are you going to do?" Drift whispered, trembling.

 

Abolish straightened his tie, the polite butler once again masking the hunter of shadows. "I am going to ensure that Oakhurst is protected from 'infections' the Doctor cannot see, Miss Drift. Go inside. Stay with Pearl and Cleo. And for the sake of your safety, do not tell them we had this conversation."

He turned back toward the tower. He had his facts. Now, he needed his silver.

 

Chapter 23

The remainder of the watch passed in a blur of dark contemplation. Abolish remained at his post, a motionless silhouette against the moonlight. He observed the farmhouse from afar, seeing Drift scurry back inside, likely to face a lecture from Cleo, but he no longer cared about their domestic squabbles. He had the information he needed.

 

A while past midnight, the heavy thud of boots on the stone gallery announced Apo’s arrival. She looked weary, her armor slightly scuffed, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of her sword.

 

"Anything to report, Abolish?" she asked, her voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "Any movement on the mountain?"

 

Abolish offered a crisp, perfectly timed bow. "The forest remains quiet, Commander. No signs of the contagion attempting a breach." He kept quiet about the ladies' excursion as he didn’t feel it would be right to raise suspicions about the trio.

 

Apo sighed, leaning against the parapet. "Good. Get some rest. I’ll take the sunrise shift. We need you sharp if Legundo starts demanding a perimeter sweep tomorrow."

 

"As you wish, Apo. Sleep well," Abolish replied smoothly. He descended the stairs, his face a mask of subservient calm until he reached the shadows of the street.

 

Abolish retreated to the small, modest house he had constructed himself shortly after his arrival. Like the others who had settled in Oakhurst, he had built his own dwelling from the ground up since no livable structures remained. While it looked like a simple, orderly cottage from the outside, the interior was a masterpiece of efficiency and hidden compartments.

 

Once inside, he bolted the door and drew the heavy curtains. He moved to a section of the floorboards beneath his desk. With a click of a hidden spring, a secret cache opened, revealing the cold, gleaming tools of his actual trade—gear he had brought under the guise of "butler's maintenance tools."

 

He began to lay out his gear on a clean cloth, his movements rhythmic and meditative:

• The Stakes: Polished white oak, tipped with intricate silver filigree.
• The Vials: Concentrated holy water and specialized alchemical salts.
• The Crossbow: A compact, high-tension blackened steel frame, designed for silent delivery of silver-headed bolts.

As he wiped a thin layer of oil onto the crossbow's mechanism, Abolish’s mind returned to Scott.

 

If he is the Sire, he is responsible, Abolish ruminated. He didn't believe in "good" vampires, only varying degrees of restraint. But there were rules, even for the undead. To leave a human like Avid, a man of status and skill, to rot with a festering, incomplete turning was a sign of either gross negligence or calculated cruelty.

 

No honorable Sire would let a subject suffer that way accidentally. Abolish thought, his eyes narrowing. Either Scott is incompetent, or he is a sadist playing with his food. In either case, he is a localized threat that must be neutralized.

 

He looked at a specialized silver dagger, its blade etched with Lord Thornvale's crest.

 

"If Avid is truly suffering from a toxic reaction to the venom," Abolish whispered to the empty room, "then the most merciful thing I can do is end the Sire’s influence. And if Avid has already turned into something unrecognizable..."

 

He let the thought hang in the air, the cold metal of the dagger reflecting the dim candlelight. He was a man of etiquette, but today, the only polite thing left to do was to prepare for an execution.

 

~~~

 

The return trip was a display of effortless power. Scott led the way, the massive bull elk draped over his broad shoulders as if it were nothing more than a heavy cloak. Following close behind, Owen carried the elk cow with equal ease, his movements fluid and unburdened by the weight. Pyro trailed them, the deer tucked easily under one arm, his free hand tracing the rough bark of the trees as they passed. Avid and Shelby were following them silently.

 

As they crossed the threshold of the stone wall, the air seemed to settle. The castle ruins, now more fortress than rubble, felt like a living thing, humming with the residue of their collective energy.

 

Scott signaled for the group to gather in the courtyard's center, near the entrance to the great hall. The silver moonlight provided a clinical, high-contrast clarity to the scene as they laid the carcasses out on the clean, flat stone.

 

"A Brood does not waste," Scott stated, his voice a calm, instructional tone that carried through the crisp night. "In town, you were taught to see a kill as a product for trade. Here, a kill is a resource for survival. Every ounce of this life-force must be honored and utilized."

 

He looked at Shelby and Avid, who stood watching with their new, sharp-eyed intensity. Scott produced a long, slender hunting knife of blackened steel, but he didn't step forward. Instead, he gestured for Owen and Pyro to begin the demonstration.

 

"Watch the joints," Scott coached as Owen began the skinning process on the cow. "A vampire’s strength allows us to separate the hide with a single, clean pull, but your finesse must ensure the leather remains intact for the fortress’s furnishings."

 

Under Scott’s watchful eye, the older members of the Brood moved with surgical speed.

• The Hide: Pyro demonstrated how to salt and scrape the skins. These would eventually become rugs, door flaps, and insulating layers for the cold stone rooms.
• The Meat: While blood was their primary source of power, Scott explained the necessity of the muscle. "The meat is to be cured and stored," he noted. "It serves as emergency sustenance for when the winter storms are too fierce or the town’s eyes too watchful to allow for a proper hunt. We do not let our strength depend solely on the whims of the forest."
• The Bone and Waste: Owen demonstrated how to crush the bones into a fine, mineral-rich meal. "Even the remains have a purpose. We will use this to fertilize the wheat farm below. That wheat feeds the livestock, and the livestock feeds us. It is a closed circle, and we are the masters of it."

Scott turned his gaze to Avid, noting the way the fledgling's violet eyes tracked every cut. "You were a Hunter, Avid. You know the anatomy better than most. But now, you have the strength to dismantle a carcass in minutes rather than hours. Try it."

 

He didn't touch Avid, merely pointed to the deer. Avid stepped forward, his fingers steady. He took the knife from Pyro—the weight of it feeling like a feather in his hand—and made the first incision.

 

The hide's resistance was negligible. It felt like cutting through warm butter. As he worked, Shelby joined him, her amber eyes reflecting his own concentration. They worked in a silent, fluid rhythm, a pair of fledglings learning the grisly, necessary chores of their new life.

 

"Excellent," Scott murmured from the shadows of a rising pillar. "Survival in this world requires more than just the hunt; it requires the maintenance of the nest. By morning, these materials will be integrated into our halls."

 

As the first hints of pre-dawn gray began to touch the horizon, the courtyard was clean of waste, and the Brood stood surrounded by the raw materials of their future home. They were no longer just refugees; they were a self-sustaining unit.

 

The Brood's efficiency was chilling. Within the hour, the cured hides were hung, the meat was stored in the cool, shaded recesses of the lower chambers, and the bone meal was set aside for the farm. There was no wasted movement, no idle chatter—only the rhythmic, silent labor of predators preparing their den.

 

As the stars began to pale against the coming dawn, Scott, Owen, and Pyro returned to the skeletal remains of the Great Hall. This was to be the heart of their fortress—a massive chamber with soaring ceilings and thick, reinforced walls that would eventually house their throne.

 

Owen leapt back onto the high scaffolding, his movements a blur of gold-eyed focus. Pyro stood below, his powerful arms lifting the final, heavy lintels as if they were made of balsa wood. Scott moved between them, his presence acting as the architect's eye, ensuring every stone was set with mathematical precision.

 

At the base of a finished section of the inner wall, Shelby and Avid sat down on a pile of smooth, cut stone. Though the blood from the hunt had revitalized them, the sensory overload of their first night was beginning to take its toll. Their bodies were still adjusting to their new senses and abilities. Their minds were still recalibrating to a world that was suddenly too bright, too loud, and too full of detail.

 

Scott had been firm: the fledglings were to observe, not labor. Their transition was a delicate alchemy, and overworking their new muscles so soon could lead to problems or injuries.

 

"It’s incredible," Avid whispered, leaning his head back against the cool stone. He watched Pyro hoist a massive crossbeam into place. "When I came to Oakhurst, I thought these ruins were a graveyard. Now I see they're a cradle."

 

Shelby rested her head on his shoulder, her amber eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. "We're safe here, Avid. For the first time, we don't have to look over our shoulders for the Militia or the 'Plague.' Scott is building us a kingdom."

 

Avid nodded absently, but his focus wasn't on the walls. Despite the peace of the moment and the comfort of Shelby’s presence, he felt an undeniable, magnetic pull toward the figure in the center of the courtyard.

 

He tried to look at the rising roofline or the valley below, but his gaze—now a deep, bruised violet—inevitably drifted back to Scott. There was a strange, haunting attraction there that Avid couldn't explain. It wasn't just the Bond of a fledgling to a Sire; it was something more primal, a lingering echo of the "courting" Scott had begun when Avid was still human.

 

He watched the way the moonlight caught the sharp line of Scott’s jaw and the effortless power in his shoulders as he directed the construction. Every time Scott moved, Avid felt a small jolt of awareness in his chest. Even though he feared the man's power, he found himself unable to look away for long, his eyes searching for Scott’s approval, his attention anchored to the Sire like a needle to a north pole.

 

"They'll come eventually," Avid murmured, finally forcing his eyes away from Scott to look at the valley. "The town won't stay silent forever." "Let them come," Shelby replied softly. "By the time they find the courage to climb this mountain, we’ll have walls they can't even dream of scaling."

 

Above them, the final stone of the Great Hall's central arch was lowered into place.

 

The first hint of pre-dawn gray began to bleed into the horizon, turning the deep indigo of the sky into a pale, ghostly shroud. Scott stopped mid-motion, his head snapping toward the east with the alertness of a wolf sensing a change in the wind.

 

While the sun wasn’t the explosive death sentence depicted in human myths, acting more like a harsh, irritating glare that could leave a vampire feeling sluggish and "burned" like a mortal at a beach, Scott was in no mood for risks. The infection in Avid’s neck remained a volatile variable. They had no way of knowing if the ultraviolet light would agitate the dormant rot or trigger another violent neurological surge.

 

"Inside. Now," Scott commanded. The authority in his voice was a physical weight, a low vibration that seemed to bypass Avid’s ears and speak directly to his marrow. He moved across the courtyard with a speed that made the air whistle, stopping just short of reaching for Avid. He remained a respectful few feet away, honoring his promise of distance, but his eyes were full of a protective, calculating intensity.

 

"We do not know how the infection will react to the light, Avid," Scott added, his gaze flicking to the bruised mark on the younger man's throat. "Until we are certain of your stability, you will stay in the deep shadows."

 

Avid felt a sudden spike of anxiety at the command. He looked up at the sky, which now felt like a vast, closing trap. The magnetic pull he felt toward Scott intensified in the face of the Sire's concern; he found himself nodding almost instantly, his body leaning instinctively toward the safety Scott represented. He felt a strange, fluttering gratitude that this powerful creature was considering his well-being so specifically.

 

"I... " Avid rasped, his dark purple eyes lingering on Scott’s face for a second too long before he turned toward the entrance.

 

Shelby, however, reacted with a more seasoned vigilance. Her amber eyes sharpened as she scanned the treeline, her new instincts already mapping the quickest route to the subterranean levels. She felt the Bond hum with Scott’s protective urgency, and she stepped closer to Avid, her hand finding the small of his back to keep him moving.

 

"He's right," Shelby whispered, her voice carrying a protective edge that mirrored the Sire's. "The sun feels different now, Avid. It’s like a weight. Come on."

With an urgent gesture, Scott ushered them toward the stairs into the crypt. He followed close behind, acting as a towering shield at their backs, ensuring they were fully submerged in the cool, damp air of the underground chambers before the first true ray of sun could touch the castle walls. As they descended into the Crypt, the silence of the earth rose to meet them, sealing away the world of the living.

 

~~~

 

The interior of the cottage was a chaotic reflection of its inhabitant’s mind. Multicolored tapestries—some slightly frayed at the edges—clashed with stacks of parchment that threatened to slide off a cedar desk. Sausage paced the room with a flourish that made his silk waistcoat shimmer under the candlelight.

 

He had come to Oakhurst on a lead that promised "the marrow of the macabre." A contact back in the city had whispered of a place where the thin veil between the mundane and the monstrous was prone to tearing.

 

Sausage came to a halt, leaning his palms on the desk and staring down at his latest attempt at a prologue. He sighed, the sound echoing dramatically in the quiet room.

 

"Oakhurst," he muttered, his voice a rich, stage-trained baritone. "The town that was promised to be a gothic tapestry, yet presents itself as a common burlap sack."

 

He looked out the window towards the Militia tower that housed the consecrated beacon. He had to admit, the magic within them was curious, a golden luminescence that tasted of ozone and old rituals, but to a man seeking the visceral thrill of a supernatural epic, it felt more like a streetlamp than a miracle. It was too sterile, too safe.

 

Even the "Plague" Dr. Legundo was shouting about felt like a bureaucratic nightmare rather than a dark curse.

 

"I need a hook," he whispered, his eyes narrowing. "A mystery that a doctor's ledger hasn't sterilized."

 

The sun was now a dying ember behind the jagged peaks, and the thirst of a long, unproductive brainstorming session finally overcame him. Sausage grabbed a hand-painted wooden bucket and stepped out into the twilight.

 

The air was cooling rapidly, smelling of woodsmoke and the sharp, pine-scented breath of the mountain. He was halfway to the well when the rhythm of the evening was broken.

 

From the shadow of the northern forest path, three figures emerged.

 

Sausage slowed his walk, his finely tuned senses instantly alerting him to the subtle shifts in human body language. Pearl, Cleo, and Drift were returning. He knew these women well enough; they were the backbone of the local farming community, usually moving with a steady, predictable grace.

 

But tonight, they looked like a broken chord in a symphony.

 

Cleo was walking with an unnatural stiffness, her hand holding firmly on Drift’s arm as if she were preventing the younger girl from bolting. Drift herself looked as though she had seen the very foundations of the world crumble; her face was a ghostly pallor, her eyes wide and unfocused. Even Pearl, usually the most stoic of the bunch, moved with a low, predatory alertness, her head swiveling toward the forest every few steps.

 

They didn't see him. They crossed the square with a frantic, silent urgency, bypassing the well and the "Golden Bastion" entirely, heading straight for the safety of their farmhouse like prey fleeing a scent.

 

Sausage didn't call out. He didn't drop his bucket. He stood there, frozen in a half-step, watching the farmhouse door slam shut behind them.

 

"Well, well, well," he murmured, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. "That wasn't the look of women who had found a patch of wilted wheat."

 

He turned his body slowly, his gaze tracing the path they had just vacated. It led straight back into the heart of the mountains—the steep, unforgiving terrain that housed the ancient ruins.

 

He looked at the mountain’s silhouette, dark and jagged against the night sky. The air coming off those slopes felt different tonight—heavier, colder, and humming with a secret that the town below was too terrified to hear.

 

"They went to the ruins," Sausage whispered, tapping his chin with a well-manicured finger. "And they brought back a story that has turned their blood to ice."

His writer’s block didn't just break; it shattered. The flamboyant author felt a thrill of genuine, spine-tingling inspiration. The ruins were no longer just a pile of old stone in his mind—they were a stage. And he was very, very interested in seeing who was currently performing in the lead role.

 

While the rest of Oakhurst slept under the vigilant, golden eye of the beacon, Sausage’s cottage was a hive of frantic, excited preparation. He didn't pack like a soldier or a hunter; he packed like a man preparing for a grand premiere.

 

Sausage moved through his room with a rhythmic, theatrical energy. He laid out a sturdy leather satchel on his bed and began to fill it with the essentials of his craft.

• The Paper: Several reams of his finest vellum, thick and cream-colored, ready to catch the first impressions of a masterpiece.
• The Ink: Three glass jars of deep, midnight-black ink, carefully padded in silk handkerchiefs to prevent a catastrophic spill.
• The Quills: A bundle of eagle-feather quills, sharpened to lethal points.
• The 'Scientific' Tools: A brass magnifying glass and a small, leather-bound telescope—instruments he felt gave him the air of a sophisticated "investigative journalist."

"If one is to meet a muse," he whispered, checking his reflection in a small hand mirror and adjusting his flamboyant cravat, "one must look the part of the chronicler. Style is the first step toward substance!"

 

With his pack ready, Sausage dimmed his lamps and sat by his window, a single candle casting dancing shadows across his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the Militia Tower. He knew the routine of the town well enough; he had watched Abolish’s stiff, robotic form pacing the battlements for hours.

 

He waited, the ticking of his pocket watch sounding like a drumbeat in the silence. Minutes turned into hours. He saw the shift change.

 

Sometime past midnight, the silhouette of Apo ascended the tower stairs. He watched the brief exchange between the two sentinels—the crisp bow of the butler and the weary nod of the commander. As soon as Abolish disappeared into the belly of the tower and Apo turned her gaze toward the main southern road, Sausage knew his window had opened.

 

Sausage slipped out of his back door, his colorful coat muted by a heavy, dark traveling cloak. He moved with a surprising, light-footed agility—the kind of grace one learns from years of dodging angry critics and unpaid landlords.

 

He bypassed the main thoroughfare, sticking to the deep shadows of alleys nearest the palisade. He reached the northern perimeter, where the fence was at its lowest point. With a dramatic, silent leap that he mentally noted down as 'The Author’s Daring Departure,' he cleared the boundary and vanished into the dense mountain brush.

 

The cool, damp air of the forest hit him, and Sausage felt a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. He was no longer just a man in a small town; he was a protagonist on a quest.

 

"Into the woods, into the dark," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the looming, jagged silhouette of the mountain ruins. "Let’s see what secrets the ruins are keeping behind those stone walls."

 

He began his ascent, a lone figure with a satchel of ink and an insatiable hunger for a story, completely unaware that he was walking straight into a den of predators.

 

The escape from Oakhurst had gone off with the practiced flair of a stage magician. He felt a thrill of rebellion as the darkness of the forest swallowed him whole.

 

However, the mountain had a different script written for him. Within an hour of his climb, the atmosphere shifted. A thick, soupy fog began to roll down from the higher elevations—a cold, damp mist that clung to his flamboyant cloak and turned the world into a gray, featureless void.

 

"Now, now, let’s not get dramatic, mountain," Sausage muttered, holding his lantern out. The light only hit the wall of fog and bounced back, blinding him. "A little atmosphere is fine for a second act, but a protagonist really must be able to see his feet!"

 

For the next several hours, Sausage was hopelessly turned around. He stumbled over gnarled roots that felt like clutching fingers and navigated rocky inclines that didn't appear on any of his mental maps. The silence of the forest was absolute, muffled by the fog, making every snap of a twig under his boots sound like a gunshot. He was lost, shivering, and beginning to wonder if his "Great Epic" was going to end with a very cold author in a ditch.

 

Just as his spirits were beginning to flag, the terrain leveled out. He scrambled up a final, steep embankment, his fingers digging into the frost-slicked earth, and hauled himself onto a flat, rocky ridge.

 

With a glance at his pocket watch, it was 4:00 AM. The sun was still two hours away, and the sky above the fog was a deep, velvet black, salted with indifferent stars. As he stood and caught his breath, the mist below him began to swirl and part, drawn away by a cold mountain breeze.

 

Sausage reached for his brass telescope, his hands trembling with a mix of cold and anticipation. He leveled the lens toward the site of the ruins.

"By the stars and all the muses..." he breathed, the telescope nearly slipping from his fingers.

 

What he saw was not a pile of ancient, moss-covered rubble. It was a stronghold.

 

In a few days, immense, dark stone walls had risen from the earth like jagged teeth. They were thick, imposing, and stood at heights that should have required years of labor and hundreds of stonemasons. Under the cold starlight, the stone looked almost obsidian, polished and seamless.

 

He peered through the telescope, his heart hammering against his ribs. Through the unfinished arches of what looked like a Grand Hall, he could see the skeletal structure of rooms being built at a rate that was frankly offensive to the laws of physics. It wasn't just construction; it was a manifestation of will.

 

"It’s not a house," Sausage whispered, a manic, delighted grin spreading across his face as he fumbled for his charcoal pencil. "It’s a kingdom. A secret, stone kingdom rising in the dead of night!"

 

He dropped to his knees on the ridge, ignoring the dampness of his trousers, and began to sketch frantically by the dim light of his lantern. This was it—the heart of the mystery. The "Plague" was a lie. Oakhurst was sleeping in the shadow of a power that could rebuild history in a week.

 

"Oh, man," he chuckled, his eyes dancing with a dangerous, writerly glee. "Who could be building this? It’s a masterpiece."

 

Sausage lay flat on the cold, jagged stone of the ridge, his flamboyant cloak tucked tightly beneath him to dampen any movement. The charcoal in his hand was smudged across his fingertips as he squinted through his brass telescope, focused on the torch-lit courtyard far below.

 

The group emerged from the forest shadows and onto the bridge with a rhythmic, heavy grace. Sausage’s breath hitched.

"My word..." he whispered, his eyes widening.

 

He watched Scott cross the threshold, a massive bull elk draped over his broad shoulders as if it were a typical traveler's pack. Behind him, Owen carried the cow with the same eerie ease, and Pyro followed with a deer tucked under one arm. There was no staggering, no heavy gasping for breath, and no straining of muscles. They moved with a liquid, predatory efficiency that made the hair on Sausage's arms stand on end.

 

"How?" he breathed, his writer's brain reeling. "That bull is twice the weight of a man. They carry it as if the mountain's gravity doesn't apply to them."

 

But as the group settled into the courtyard, Sausage’s curiosity turned into a sharp, icy knot of concern. He saw Shelby and Avid standing in the center of the powerful men. They looked pale, their movements slightly stiff as they stood before the three giants.

 

Sausage watched as Scott stood back, his arms crossed, acting as a silent, imposing overseer. Under his cold, golden-eyed gaze, Owen and Pyro began to break down the elk with surgical speed.

 

Then, Scott gestured toward the deer. He didn't touch Avid or Shelby, but the way he loomed over them, directing them toward the carcass, felt like a command that couldn't be refused. Sausage watched as the two of them knelt on the stone, their hands trembling slightly as they began the grisly work of skinning and harvesting the animal.

 

"Oh no," Sausage whispered, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against the rock. "Is he enslaving them? Is this what the 'Noble' does? He takes the sick and the vulnerable from our town and turns them into his servants?"

 

The scene looked like something out of his darkest drafts, a predatory master forcing his captives to do the bloody work of the hunt. He saw the way Avid’s violet eyes (a color Sausage could only see as a strange, dark shadow from this distance) constantly flickered back to Scott, as if checking for approval or fearing a reprimand.

 

"I have to do something," Sausage murmured, his hand instinctively reaching for his satchel.

 

But as he looked at the sheer size of Pyro’s shoulders and the terrifying speed with which Owen worked the knife, he froze. He was one man with a bag of ink and a bundle of quills. If he went down there now, he wouldn't be a rescuer; he would be another laborer—or worse, another carcass.

 

"Patience, Sausage," he told himself, his voice a low, terrified tremor. "A protagonist needs a plan. You can't save them if you're hanging from the rafters."

He lay back down, pulling his cloak tighter. He would stay. He would observe. He would document every chilling detail of this stone-walled kingdom. He had to know the truth before he could play the hero.

 

Sausage lay as still as the stone beneath him, his breath hitching every time one of the men below looked even remotely in his direction. From his vantage point, the scene in the courtyard transitioned from a grisly harvest to a display of unnatural, terrifying labor.

 

After the carcasses were moved, Scott made a sharp, definitive motion with his hand, pointing toward a stack of smooth stones near the inner wall. Shelby and Avid obeyed instantly, sitting side-by-side in a spot that was perfectly illuminated by the perimeter torches.

 

"He's keeping them in his line of sight," Sausage scribbled frantically, his charcoal snapping under the pressure of his grip. "Does he fear they’ll run? Or is he guarding them like prizes?"

 

Then, the true horror—and wonder—began. Owen and Pyro returned to the walls. Sausage watched through his telescope as Owen leaped from the ground to a ledge fifteen feet high without a single tool or ladder. Pyro followed, hoisting a granite lintel that should have required a team of oxen, sliding it into place with a sickeningly smooth thud.

 

Sausage’s mind raced, flipping through every folk tale and dark legend he had ever researched for his books. Strength beyond measure. Agility of a cat. Aversion to the light of day.

 

"Vampires," Sausage whispered, the word tasting like copper on his tongue. "They aren't just noblemen; they're creatures of the night."

 

His heart sank as he looked at Shelby and Avid. If the three men were vampires, his friends weren't just "slaves"—they were livestock. Or worse, they were being groomed for something far more permanent.

 

As the sky began to bleed into a pale, sickly gray, the atmosphere in the courtyard shifted from productive to frantic. The Grand Hall was finally capped, its dark stone silhouette standing complete against the horizon.

 

Sausage saw Scott stiffen. The tall man’s head snapped toward the east, where the first sliver of the sun was threatening to break the treeline. Scott’s calm demeanor vanished, replaced by a rigid, predatory urgency.

 

He jumped down from a high pillar, landing with a heavy, silent impact that seemed to vibrate even the ridge where Sausage lay. He moved toward Avid and Shelby at a speed barely a blur, his posture angry—almost like a master reprimanding disobedient pets. He loomed over them, gesturing sharply toward the dark maw of the ruins' cellar.

 

"He's hiding them," Sausage murmured, watching as Scott practically herded the two out of the courtyard. "He won't let the sun touch them. He's taking them into the dark."

 

The courtyard was suddenly, chillingly empty. The massive stones stood silent, and the living world below was beginning to wake, utterly unaware that a fortress of the undead had just been finished on their doorstep.

 

Sausage pulled back from his telescope, his face pale and eyes wide. He had his story. He had his masterpiece. But as he looked at the dark entrance where his friends had vanished, he realized he was no longer just a writer. He was a witness to a rising nightmare.

 

Sausage’s flamboyant grace was entirely gone, replaced by a frantic, stumbling desperation. He threw his vellum and charcoal into his satchel with trembling hands, not even bothering to organize them. His heart felt like a trapped bird beating against his ribs.

 

"Captives," he hissed to himself, his breath hitching. "They’re being held by monsters in a stone cage. Oh, Sausage, you fool, the book doesn't matter! The blood matters!"

 

The run down the mountain was a nightmare of adrenaline and paranoia. Sausage didn't follow the paths; he practically slid down the embankments, his cloak snagging on briars and his boots skidding over mossy rocks. Every snap of a twig behind him made him spin around, his eyes wide and wild, searching the fog for a golden-eyed shadow or a blurred form leaping through the canopy.

 

Are they behind me? Did Scott see the lens of my telescope? He stopped every few hundred yards, pressing his back against the rough bark of a pine, holding his breath until his lungs ached. He listened for the sound of unnatural footsteps, but the forest was eerily silent, save for the awakening birds. Once he was certain the mountain hadn't sent a predator to reclaim its secrets, he broke into another frantic sprint.

 

By the time the sharpened logs of the Oakhurst palisade came into view, Sausage was a mess. His waistcoat was torn, his face was smeared with mud and charcoal, and his lungs were burning. He didn't slow down as he cleared the gate, his boots drumming a frantic rhythm on the wooden boards of the town square.

 

He headed straight for the Militia Tower, the stone structure that stood as the town's only real defense.

 

"Apo! Commander Apo!" he screamed, his voice cracking and raw.

 

He didn't care that the sun was barely over the horizon or that the townspeople were beginning to stir in their beds. He stood at the base of the tower, waving his arms like a madman, his flamboyant silhouette now a jagged image of terror.

 

Apo appeared at the stone parapet, her hand instantly on her sword as she peered down at the disheveled author. "Sausage? What in the heavens is wrong with you? Is it the plague?"

 

"No! No plague!" Sausage wheezed, doubling over and clutching his knees before pointing a shaking finger back toward the mountain. "The ruins! They aren't ruins! They've built a fortress, a stronghold! And Scott, he’s not a lord, he’s a devil! A vampire, Apo!"

 

The few villagers who had stepped out for early chores froze in their tracks.

 

"He’s got them!" Sausage yelled, his voice carrying across the entire square. "He’s got Avid and Shelby! I saw him! He’s forcing them to work in the dark, herding them like cattle! We need a meeting! Everyone! Now! We have to go up there and save them before there's nothing left to save!"

 

High above, Apo’s face went grimly pale. She looked toward the mountain, then back at the terrified man below. The peace of Oakhurst hadn't just been broken; it had been shattered.

Chapter 24

Abolish stepped out from the threshold of his small, precisely constructed home just as the first cold light of dawn began to touch the thatched roofs of Oakhurst. He was dressed for "utility"—his dark coat buttoned to the chin, a heavy leather satchel slung over his shoulder containing the silver-tipped tools he had spent the night sharpening.

 

His plan had been simple: a quiet, surgical infiltration of the ruins under the cover of the morning mist. He would observe, confirm the status of the "festering" Avid, and decide which of the monsters required a stake.

 

Then, the silence of the morning was shredded.

 

Abolish froze, his gloved hand still holding the door handle, as a disheveled, mud-stained figure burst into the square.

 

"Apo! Commander Apo!"

 

Abolish’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. Sausage. Of all the variables in this town, the flamboyant author was the one Abolish had dismissed as a harmless, self-absorbed distraction. It was a professional oversight, and he regretted it the instant the man began to scream.

 

"The ruins! They aren't ruins!... Scott... he’s a devil! A vampire, Apo!"

 

Abolish felt a cold, sharp spike of irritation. He watched from the shadows of his doorway as the townspeople began to emerge, their faces pale with a mixture of confusion and burgeoning terror. Every word out of Sausage's mouth was like a torch being thrown into a hayloft.

 

Idiot, Abolish thought, his jaw tightening—absolute, blundering amateur.

 

Sausage was doing precisely what Cleo had feared—and what Abolish had hoped to avoid. By shouting "vampire" in the middle of a terrified, plague-stricken square, he wasn't saving Avid or Shelby; he was inciting a panicked, uncoordinated mob.

 

Abolish watched Apo lean over the tower parapet, her expression shifting from skepticism to a grim, soldierly alarm. The secret was out, but a professional with a plan hadn't revealed it; it had been shrieked by a writer who thought life was a stage play.

 

He’s compromised the timeline, Abolish deduced, his mind racing through the new tactical reality. If the town marches now, the Brood will see them coming from miles away. They’ll retreat into the deep earth, or worse, they’ll descend on this village to silence the witnesses before the sun sets again.

 

Abolish stepped out from his doorway, his posture shifting instantly back into that of the poised, calm butler. He moved through the gathering crowd toward the base of the tower, his eyes fixed on the frantic Sausage.

 

He didn't look like a man carrying a satchel of silver; he looked like a concerned servant coming to assist his commander. But beneath the mask, Abolish was already deciding how to control the situation. If a town meeting was happening, he needed to be in the center of it—not to lead the charge, but to ensure that when the "Militia" finally marched, they didn't ruin his chance to eliminate the Sire.

 

"Master Sausage," Abolish said, his voice a cool, steady anchor in the sea of the man's hysterics as he reached the tower. "Perhaps you should come inside and calm down for a moment before you start a riot that the Commander cannot finish."

 

He looked up at Apo, a silent, sharp communication passing between them. The game had changed. The hunt was no longer quiet.

 

~~~

 

The morning air at the farmhouse had been deceptively peaceful. Cleo was at the well, her sleeves rolled up and her jaw set in that familiar line of stubborn resolve. Beside her, Pearl moved with a quiet, restless energy, her eyes constantly scanning the treeline. At the same time, Drift hauled a bucket toward the vegetable patch, her movements sluggish from the weight of the secret she had shared with Abolish.

 

They were trying to force normalcy. They were trying to pretend that the mountain didn't have teeth.

 

Then, the first shout drifted across the fields from the direction of the town square. It was faint at first—a jagged, high-pitched streak of sound—but it grew in volume and desperation.

 

"Apo! Commander Apo!"

 

Cleo froze, the windlass of the well slipping from her grip and spinning with a sharp clack-clack-clack. She looked toward the town, her heart sinking. She recognized that voice. Everyone in Oakhurst recognized the dramatic, operatic tenor of Sausage.

 

"The ruins! They aren't ruins!... Scott... he’s a devil! A vampire, Apo!"

 

The color drained from Cleo’s face so quickly it was as if she’d been struck. She turned a sharp, accusatory glare toward Drift. "You promised," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and terror. "Drift, I told you what would happen if the town found out!"

 

"It wasn't me!" Drift cried, dropping her bucket, the water soaking into the dry dirt. She looked genuinely horrified, her hands flying to her mouth. "I told Abolish, but he... he didn't sound like that! That’s Sausage! He must have gone up there himself!"

 

Pearl didn't join the argument. She stood as still as a statue, her head tilted, her nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of the rising panic on the wind. The subtle intrigue she had felt for the "other creatures" on the mountain was instantly eclipsed by the biological reality of the situation.

 

"The pack is howling," Pearl rumbled, her voice low and dangerous. "The town is no longer a sanctuary. It’s a hornet's nest."

 

"He’s got them! He’s got Avid and Shelby!" Sausage’s voice echoed again, followed by the distant, rising murmur of the townspeople waking up to a nightmare.

 

Cleo gripped the edge of the well, her knuckles white. "That idiot," she breathed. "He thinks he’s being a hero, but he’s just signed Avid and Shelby’s death warrants. If the town marches, Scott won't just sit there and wait to be staked. He’ll protect his own."

 

She looked at the mountain, where the fortress stood hidden in the morning mist. She had prayed for a peaceful coexistence, a silent agreement to live and let live. Now, because of a writer looking for a plot point, the thin veil of safety had been shredded.

 

"We have to go in there," Cleo commanded, pulling her sleeves down and heading for the house. "We can't let Apo and the Doctor lead a blind charge. They’ll get everyone killed."

 

Pearl followed her, her eyes darkening. "If the town goes to the mountain, the mountain will come to the town. We need to decide whose side we are on before the first torch is lit."

 

Cleo didn't answer. She was already reaching for her cloak. The secret was dead, and the war she had spent all night trying to prevent was beginning with the rising of the sun.

 

~~~

 

Abolish moved toward Sausage with the fluid, predatory intent of a wolf about to silence a startled sheep. He reached out a gloved hand, his fingers twitching with the urge to grab the author's shoulder. He had the desire to lead him into the shadows of a nearby alley for a "private clarification" of the facts.

 

"Master Sausage, your breathing is quite labored," Abolish began, his voice a low, smooth purr meant to de-escalate. "Perhaps a quiet moment in the shade to gather your thoughts before—"

 

The heavy thud of boots hitting the dirt cut him off. Apo had not bothered with the winding stairs; she had vaulted over the lower gallery railing, landing with the solid, grounded impact of a seasoned warrior. She was at Sausage's side in an instant, her presence effectively crowding Abolish out of the conversation.

 

She placed a firm, protective hand on Sausage’s trembling shoulder. "Sit. Right here," she commanded, gesturing to a bench near the tower base. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the author's disheveled state with grim intensity.

 

Abolish stepped back, his face a perfect mask of servant-like neutrality, though his eyes flashed with a brief, cold flicker of annoyance behind his spectacles. He had lost his window.

 

Apo turned her gaze to Abolish. The look she gave him was not one of a superior to a subordinate, but of a commander to a reliable asset. "Abolish. We don't have time for a slow build-up. If what he says is true, the danger is already at our throats."

 

"Rally them," Apo ordered. "I want everyone in this town at the tower within the hour. Get Cleo, Pearl, and Drift. Find Ren and Martyn. And bring Dr. Legundo—I don't care if he’s researching that blasted plague or not. Move!"

 

Abolish inclined his head in a shallow, elegant bow. "As you wish, Commander. I shall ensure they are gathered with the appropriate... urgency."

 

Inside, he was seething. Every second he spent playing the errand boy was a second Sausage spent filling Apo’s head with unverified, theatrical nonsense. He didn't trust Sausage’s "observations" to be anything more than sensationalism, and he certainly didn't want the Militia’s strategy built on the foundations of a writer’s panic.

 

Abolish turned on his heel and strode away from the tower. He didn't run—he never ran—but his stride was long and purposeful.

 

He headed first toward the farmhouse, his mind already calculating how to handle Cleo. She had lied to him by omission, and Sausage had just proven her silence was a failure. Then he would have to find Ren and Martyn—men of action who might actually be helpful if he could keep them from being slaughtered in a blind charge.

 

The sheep are bleating. Abolish thought, his grip tightening on his satchel of silver. And the Commander is listening to the lead ram scream. I must work quickly if I am to prevent this town from throwing itself into the Sire's fangs.

 

Abolish reached the edge of the farm just as the three women were moving toward the house. He could see their faces set in grim masks of realization. Abolish didn't approach from the road like one normally would; he cut across the field, his dark shadow appearing suddenly in their path by the rising sun.

 

"The time for whispers and half-truths has ended, ladies," Abolish said, his voice cutting through the distant sound of Sausage’s fading shouts.

 

Cleo stopped, her hand instinctively going to her belt, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the butler. "Abolish. I suppose you heard the fool screaming in the square."

 

"The entire valley heard him, Miss Cleo," Abolish replied. He stepped closer, dropping the dramatics of his servant's posture. He stood tall, his gaze cold and analytical behind his spectacles. "Commander Apo has called a town meeting. You, Pearl, and Drift are required at the tower immediately. But before we walk into that den of panicked sheep, I require the facts, facts that I am sure Drift did not think to tell me. Did you see Avid? Did you see the girl?"

 

"We didn't see them," Cleo admitted, her voice tight. "We tracked them as far as the ridge, and the trail led straight into those ruins. We saw Owen and Pyro building—doing things no man should be able to do—but Avid and Shelby were already inside."

 

Abolish’s brow furrowed. "Then your 'information' is as hollow as Sausage's. You are assuming they are alive based on a footprint."

 

"I'm assuming they're alive because I know how Scott operates," Cleo countered, stepping forward to bridge the gap between them. "I watched him for weeks in town, Abolish. I saw the way he looked at Avid—it wasn't the look of a butcher, it was a courtship. He was fascinated by him. And Shelby? He treated her like a confidante. He isn't holding them to hurt them; he's bringing them into his circle."

 

Abolish adjusted his spectacles, his expression remaining entirely unmoved by her plea.

 

"Courtship," he repeated, the word sounding like a distasteful joke on his tongue. "You offer me 'mannerisms' and 'friendships' to explain the actions of a Sire. You see a romance, Cleo, because you want to believe your friends are safe. I see a predator ensuring his next generation of thralls is properly broken in."

"He wouldn't hurt them!" Drift interjected, her voice trembling.

 

"That is an opinion, Miss Drift," Abolish snapped, his voice sharp as a razor. "It is not a fact. The fact is that three apex predators have built a stone fortress and have taken two of our citizens behind those walls. Whether he is 'courting' Avid or seasoning him for a meal is irrelevant to the tactical threat he poses to this town."

 

He turned his gaze back to the mountain, his mind already categorizing Scott as a high-tier manipulator. "If you have no hard evidence of their well-being, then we must assume the worst. I am not planning a rescue based on your intuition."

 

He gestured toward the town square with a stiff, formal motion. "Come. Apo is waiting. If you have nothing more than feelings to offer the town, I suggest you keep them to yourself. The Militia needs steel and strategy, not sentiment."

 

~~~

 

Cleo stood in the middle of the dusty path, watching Abolish’s retreating figure. His posture was so rigid, so impeccably "correct," that it felt like an insult to the messy, terrifying reality they were living in. The way he had dismissed her observations as mere "sentiment" left a cold, bitter taste in her mouth.

 

"Steel and strategy," Cleo whispered, her voice trembling with a growing, focused heat. "He talks about them like they’re already corpses. Like Avid and Shelby are just unneeded variables in a tactical ledger."

 

She turned to Pearl and Drift, her eyes burning with a sudden, sharp clarity. The doubt that had been gnawing at her, the fear of the mountain versus the loyalty to the town, was finally solidifying into a complex, jagged truth.

 

"Abolish isn't going up there to save them," Cleo stated, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial frequency. "He’s going up there to 'sanitize' the area. If he thinks for one second that Avid or Shelby has been changed, he’ll kill them without blinking. He called it an extermination."

 

Pearl crossed her arms, her amber eyes reflecting the harsh morning light. "The butler smells of silver and old blood. He doesn't see a pack; he sees a plague. If the town follows him, they won't bring Avid home. They’re going to bring him back in pieces."

 

Drift looked between the two of them, her face pale but her expression firming up. "Scott has always been careful with them. He is protective. Even Sausage saw it—though he apparently saw it differently- but we know Scott. He’s the only one actually keeping them safe right now."

 

Cleo nodded, a grim resolve settling over her features. "Then our choice is made. If the town wants to march as a mob under Abolish’s cold logic, then we aren't part of the town anymore."

 

"Are you saying we side with the monsters?" Drift asked, though there was no fear in her voice, only a request for confirmation.

 

"I’m saying we side with our friends," Cleo corrected. "And right now, Scott is the only one who treats them like they're still alive. If that makes us 'monsters' in the eyes of Oakhurst, then so be it. We’ll go to the meeting. We’ll listen. But we aren't going to help Abolish find a way to kill them. We’re going to find a way to warn them."

 

The three women began to walk toward the town square, but they no longer moved like frightened refugees. They moved like a unit—a small, silent splinter group within the heart of Oakhurst.

 

As they approached the tower, they could see the rest of the town gathering, the air thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and the metallic tang of sharpening blades. They saw Ren and Martyn checking their bows, and Dr. Legundo clutching his medical bag like a shield.

 

Cleo adjusted her cloak, her hand resting on the hidden dagger at her waist. "Keep your faces neutral," she warned. "Let them think we’re just as terrified as they are. But the moment we see a chance to tip the scales in the Brood's favor... we take it."

 

~~~

 

The interior of the Militia Tower was thick with the scent of wet stone and cold anxiety. A single lantern swung from a central rafter, casting long, jittering shadows across the faces of those gathered.

 

The meeting began with Sausage. He sat on a low stool, his flamboyant coat damp and rumpled, but his voice regained some of its dramatic timbre as he felt the eyes of everyone upon him.

 

"I went seeking the muse of the mountain," Sausage began, his hands gesturing to the dark peaks beyond the walls. "As many of you know, I have been struggling with a certain... creative stagnation. I departed the town at roughly the stroke of two, seeking nothing more than the cold air of the forest and a spark of inspiration for my next epic."

 

He paused, a flicker of something honorable crossing his face. Despite his terror, he didn't mention seeing Cleo, Pearl, and Drift sneaking back into town. He didn't want to "rat out" neighbors for a midnight stroll, regardless of the chaos it had caused.

 

"I climbed the ridge by four, expecting to find the silent, moss-covered bones of the old castle," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But the bones are no longer bare, Commander. I saw walls—immense, dark stone battlements that looked as if they had been birthed from the earth itself in a single night. And I saw the masters of that house."

 

Sausage described the scene with a writer’s vividness—the unnatural strength of the men carrying elk as if they were feathers, the way Owen and Pyro leaped to heights no ladder could reach, and finally, the sight of Avid and Shelby.

 

"They were there," Sausage said, his voice cracking. "Kneeling on the cold stone, breaking down carcasses under the shadow of that man, Scott. It looked like a harvest of souls. And when the sun began to threaten the horizon, Scott herded them into the bowels of the crypts with a fury I’ve never seen in a living man."

 

Apo stood at the head of the table, her hand white-knuckled on the hilt of her sword. "Walls. Unnatural strength. The Hunter and the girl held in the dark. It’s exactly as the stories say."

 

Dr. Legundo leaned forward, his monocle fogged. "If this 'Sire' has them, then perhaps the 'plague' I saw in Avid was no disease. Maybe it was the body fighting a transformation. If he’s up there now, he’s either a prisoner in his own skin or he’s already one of them."

 

Abolish stepped forward, his silhouette sharp and clinical in the lantern light. "The facts are no longer in question. We have a fortified position, and three confirmed high-tier hostiles. Every hour we spend in this room is an hour they spend breaking the will of their new 'fledglings.'"

 

He looked at the townspeople, his eyes cold. "If we march, we march with silver and fire. This is not a rescue mission; it is a surgical strike to prevent a colony from taking root on our doorstep."

 

Cleo felt a jolt of cold fury. Abolish was already erasing Avid and Shelby’s humanity, turning them into targets on a map. She glanced at Pearl and Drift. They remained silent, their faces masked by a perfect imitation of terror, but their minds were already miles away.

 

"The sun is our only ally," Apo declared, slamming her palm onto the wood. "Abolish, get the silver bolts ready. Ren, Martyn—prepare the wagons. We leave at dusk to catch them as they stir, before they have the full cover of night."

 

"Dusk?" Cleo asked, her heart hammering. "That’s barely twelve hours."

 

"Twelve hours is all we have," Apo replied grimly.

 

As the room broke into a flurry of activity, Cleo felt a renewed sense of purpose. The town was preparing for a slaughter. They had half a day to make sure the "prey" was ready to bite back.

 

~~~

 

The tower doors groaned open, spilling the townspeople out into the cold morning air. To anyone observing, Cleo, Pearl, and Drift looked like three women burdened by the weight of terrifying news. They kept their heads low, their pace brisk, and their expressions carefully schooled into masks of grim anxiety.

 

"Keep moving," Cleo whispered under her breath, her lips barely moving. "Don't look at the tower, and for heaven's sake, don't look at Abolish."

 

They played their parts with practiced ease. On the way back to the farmhouse, they stopped at the general store. Cleo made a point of loudly asking for extra salt and burlap, claiming they needed to preserve what remained of their harvest before the "fighting" started. It was a perfect cover—a domestic chore that signaled they were preparing to hunker down, not flee.

 

Once they were clear of the main square, they didn't head straight for their own farm. Instead, they veered toward the cluster of smaller, more isolated dwellings near the northern palisade. Among them sat Avid’s house, a quiet, somber building that had been avoided by the townspeople ever since the "plague" rumors began.

 

"The gully is too open," Drift whispered, pulling the other two into the shadow of Avid's porch. "Abolish has eyes everywhere. But remember what I found when we searched for Avid? Beneath his bed."

 

Cleo’s eyes widened. "The escape tunnel."

 

They slipped inside, the air in the house smelling of stale woodsmoke and the lingering, copper scent of the sickness that had taken the Hunter. They moved quickly to the small bedroom. Pearl and Cleo shoved the heavy, wooden bed frame aside, revealing the open trapdoor Drift had discovered during their initial investigation.

 

Below lay a narrow, dirt-walled passage that Avid had within days of building his house—a hunter's contingency for a town under siege. It ran deep beneath the palisade, emerging in a dense thicket of briars well beyond the town's defensive line.

 

"It’s perfect," Cleo muttered, checking the satchel on her hip. "The town is so busy looking out from the walls that they won't notice three women emerging from the brush a hundred yards away."

 

"We'll be exposed for a moment," Pearl warned, her voice low and gravelly. "I didn't pick up Avid and Shelby's trail until it was nearly at the forest's edge. That means we have to cross a stretch of tall grass before we're under the canopy. If Apo or Abolish looks down at the right second..."

 

"We move between the heartbeats," Cleo said, dropping into the dark hole. "One at a time. Once we hit the treeline, we don't stop until we reach the ruins."

 

They descended into the earth, leaving the panic of Oakhurst behind. The tunnel was cramped and cold, but it felt safer than the "Golden Bastion" above. As they crawled through the darkness, the twelve-hour clock continued to tick. They were no longer just observers; they were the messengers of the mountain, racing to warn the Brood that the silver was coming.

Notes:

Vampire Terminology:

Sire: A vampire that takes the Elder or parental role, in a Brood, of turning, training and guiding their new Childe.

Childe: Also known as a Fledgling when under 50 vampiric yrs old, The Childe is the younger, newly turned vampire in a brood.

Coven: a community or group of vampires residing within a domicile or town, usually consists of at least 2+ broods.

Brood: A Vampire Family of those tied together by Sire and Childe bonds.

Vitae: An Older Vampire's life blood that is used to sustain a Childe for the first day of their turning while their body adjusts.

Sire's Echo: This is what the very first thirst or hunger pains a Childe experiences is called. Their instincts and body calling out and craving their Sire's Vitae for sustenance.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Creaturarum Superstitione (Creatures of Superstition) Au