Elara's P.O.V
Name: Elara Myles
Age: 21
Gender: Female
Complexion: Deep brown
Height: 5'5" (165 cm)
Major: History and Anthropology
Bio: A reserved, intelligent girl with a sharp wit and a love for books and old archives. Majors in History and anthropology. Orphaned and stays in the school's dormitories. Attends Velmora university on scholarship. Seraphina's introverted nature doesn't make her shy—she knows how to hold her ground. She wears glasses, has long braids, and carries an aura of quiet confidence. Known for her top grades and frequent visits to the university library. Nerdy, observant, and often overlooked—but never clueless.
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The rain battered the windows and rooftops in relentless torrents, a symphony of droplets creating a muted rhythm against the ancient stone of Velmora University. The sky had taken on a leaden hue, casting the entire campus in an eerie, suffocating darkness that felt more like dusk than midday. A sharp crack of thunder tore through the silence, sudden and violent, jolting me awake with a start.
I blinked against the thick shadows, momentarily blinded by the absence of light. My fingers reached instinctively for the rim of my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose as my vision gradually adjusted to the gloom. Sitting upright, I glanced down at my watch—but it was blank. No ticking hands, no numbers, just a cold, empty face.
Strange.
I took in my surroundings, still slightly disoriented. I was curled up in my favorite corner of the university library—my sanctuary. A place carved out of stone and silence, filled with rows of ancient shelves and whispers of forgotten knowledge. It had always been more than a study hall to me. It was my refuge. But now, it was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Too quiet. Not a single soul stirred around me. The absence of the familiar shuffle of pages or hushed voices was unnerving. Where was the librarian? Why hadn't anyone roused me?
I frowned and turned my attention to the anthropology textbook I'd been poring over before sleep claimed me. But what I found sent a chill down my spine. The pages—every single one—were blank. No text, no ink, no footnotes. Just smooth, yellowing paper.
With a growing sense of unease, I flipped through the book again, faster this time, but the result was the same. Confusion knitted my brows together. I shut the book with a soft thud and rose to my feet, determined to return it to its proper place. Though the dimness was near-total, I knew the library's layout like the back of my hand. Countless hours spent among these shelves had turned the labyrinth into familiar territory.
As I moved to leave, an inexplicable sensation crept over me—an insistent tug in my chest, like some primal instinct whispering that I had missed something. I hesitated, then slowly turned.
That's when I saw it.
A golden light, faint and steady, seeped through the narrow gap behind a towering bookshelf—one nestled close to the stone wall near the library's far edge. I froze. There was no record, no mention, no architectural hint of another room back there. The library was famously vast and open, with impossibly high ceilings, marble pillars, and beautifully carved walls etched with mythic creatures and inscriptions in languages long dead. I'd explored every corner—or so I'd believed.
Cautiously, I approached the light. Pressing my face close to the gap, I tried to see what lay beyond, but all I could make out was a dull, golden glow. Driven by a mix of curiosity and unease, I placed my hands against the stone and gave it a tentative pull. To my surprise, the heavy wall shifted—slowly and begrudgingly, as though it hadn't moved in centuries. It took all my strength, but eventually, I opened it just wide enough to slip through.
The air on the other side was musty, thick with the scent of aged wood and long-forgotten dust. The room was cloaked in silence, untouched and cloistered away from time. In the center stood a lone bookshelf, rising from the ground like an altar, stretching impossibly high toward the shadowed ceiling.
My eyes were immediately drawn to a single object on that towering shelf: a book that glowed with a faint golden aura.
Compelled, I approached. Standing on my toes, I stretched as far as I could, fingers grazing the book's spine. With a small jump, I finally grasped it—only to tumble backwards as the weight of the ancient tome pulled me to the ground.
I landed with a quiet thud, dust swirling around me like a phantom cloud. I examined the book. Its cover was unlike anything I'd ever seen—deep, timeworn leather embossed with a mysterious circular symbol etched in silver and gold. The center of the circle bore strange shapes and cryptic script I couldn't decipher.
The title was pressed into the surface in fading but legible lettering: Fildoria's Chronicle.
I opened the book, still seated on the cold stone floor, and began to read.
"At last, I have been initiated into the Order of the Noctaria—after proving not only my strength and powers, but my loyalty and willingness to embrace both my light and darkness. With this honor comes the responsibility of keeping a chronicle of my own, a sacred tradition passed down through generations of our kind, these are my first words. It will serve as both a personal testament and a guide for those who will walk this path after me.
Though the Noctarians are no longer immortal, we have surrendered eternity in exchange for greater power—power that exists not for domination, but for protection. Unlike the typical vampire breed, consumed by hunger and chaos, we have chosen to shield the human race from their predators. Our sacrifice is our strength. To feel pain, to know death, to love and lose—it grounds us, gives purpose to our existence.
And now, that purpose is clear: we must stop Vladamor Shivora.
He stole my mother from me. I will not rest until he is brought to justice. I take solace in knowing that I will not stand alone. The members of the Noctaria will unite—our bond forged in blood and loss—to bring him down. Though we are still missing two members, the circle will be complete soon. Only then can the real war begin."
I turned a few pages ahead, scanning the dense script until my eyes landed on another entry:
"…As the five of us journey to the farthest reaches of the world, seeking answers to Vladamor's unnatural reincarnations—an abomination that should never have been possible—we prepare for the inevitable. Seven of us will lay down our lives to trap him, to seal him away for as long as our souls will allow. It may be millennials. If fate is kind, centuries. But it will not be forever.
He has grown too strong. Each rebirth feeds his power, while we weaken. We are no longer enough. The Noctaria alone cannot contain him forever.
Thus, the universe must intervene. It will choose five vessels—humans bearing traces of vampire blood. Human enough to feel compassion. Vampire enough to endure pain and survive death. These chosen ones will inherit the essence of our souls when the time comes, our memories, our power, and our duty.
Until then, we wait in silence and shadow. When the time is right, we will reunite. We will perform the binding ritual, return our chronicles to this place, and prepare the way for the next generation.
This is our final vow. Until our stories are needed again… we wait."
My breath caught in my throat.
Suddenly, the book jerked to life. Pages flipped violently on their own, a blur of parchment and power, until it stopped—still and silent. I stumbled back, breath quick and uneven, eyes fixed on the now-open page.
There, etched in eerie, ink-like shadow, was a drawing.
A hooded figure.
Faceless.
An involuntary shiver raked down my spine. My instinct screamed at me to leave. I rose swiftly, heart pounding, and made for the hidden exit—only for the wall to slam shut in my face.
I gasped and fell backwards, hands trembling as my back hit the cold ground. Panic clawed at my throat.
What is happening?
I shuffled away from the wall, each breath jagged. Then, without warning, I felt it—a hand. Cold. Frail. Resting on my shoulder.
I froze.
Someone was here. Someone who hadn't been here before.
Slowly—agonizingly—I turned my head, terror rising like bile.
From the corner of my eye, I saw it.
"AHHHHHHH!"
A scream tore from my throat, echoing through the darkness—
—and I snapped awake, gasping and disoriented. My head slammed against the glass window beside me. Wincing, I held my temple in pain. The library around me had transformed. It was daylight—bright, ordinary, alive with students and casual noise.
I had screamed. Loudly.
And everyone was staring.
Cassy, the student librarian and the only real friend I had, was already approaching with that familiar look of weary amusement. Her auburn hair bounced as she moved, graceful even in exasperation.
"Elara," she began with a sigh, her voice caught between sympathy and embarrassment, "I'm sorry, but… you'll have to leave."
I nodded, still dazed. I understood. Library rules were strict. No disruptions.
"I get it," I said, voice quiet. "Just give me a second."
After a few moments to compose myself, I stood, gathered my books, and returned them to their shelves. As I replaced the anthropology text, I found myself glancing toward the wall behind it—almost involuntarily.
There was no opening. No light. Just stone.
It was a dream.
It had to be a dream.
I checked the time—3:32 PM. Classes had ended over an hour ago. With a long sigh, I headed for the exit, stopping briefly at Cassy's desk.
"I'm heading to the dorm. I need a shower."
"I'll be there in a bit. My shift ends at five—as usual," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"You know I've known that for over a year, right?"
She pursed her lips. "I ask the most stupid questions, don't I?"
I chuckled faintly. "Still love you, though. See you later."
I stepped out into the open air, letting the fresh breeze wash over me. As I turned to head right across the grass, my eyes caught a familiar group—Luca Vance and his entourage: Caspian, Luther, and Jaden. Each one infamous in their sport—basketball, soccer, tennis, hockey.
The popular quad.
Too arrogant, too smug, too… everything.
I looked away and carried on, heading straight for my dorm. As soon as I was inside, I stripped out of my clothes, the air suddenly feeling stifling. The shower water was a balm, washing away the remnants of my dream—or vision? I couldn't tell anymore. My hair, wrapped beneath a cap, remained dry, but the rest of me welcomed the cool cascade.
After drying off, I wrapped myself in a towel and sat at my mirror, ready to begin my skincare routine. As I reached to apply moisturizer across my shoulder, I paused.
Something caught my eye.
A mark.
Faint. Circular.
I squinted, leaned closer. It looked familiar—eerily so.
With a trembling hand, I reached for my glasses and put them on.
It was real.
The same symbol from the Fildoria's Chronicle.
It was there.
Etched into my skin.
How? Why?
My breath caught.
What kind of dream had I just had?
Or was it something else entirely?