The plague smelled of iron, stagnant earth, and mourning.
And yet, Anastacia did not stop; her boots brushed over the dry mud that covered the streets of that small village, cracked by the heat of days without shade and the cold of nights without fire. On either side, the houses stood shut, some ransacked, others draped with cloths as if the dead had tried to cover the wind. There were no voices, no chickens, no barking dogs... Only the wind, carrying the scent of extinguished lives.
Anastacia's cape fluttered behind her, deep blue, torn by the breeze. She did not seem affected by exhaustion, and yet, her shoulders betrayed a slight tremor. She had been walking for days without rest, searching, helping, burying bodies with her own hands.
Even her extraordinary endurance was beginning to falter.
—My lady… —murmured a male voice behind her, courteous and cautious.
One of her own, a young man from the Rizz family, watched her with a mixture of respect and fear. His eyes were sunken from exhaustion. Different squads in Anastacia's service had faithfully accompanied her, but even by taking turns, they could not rest enough to keep up with her.
—There's no one left, —added another—. The last group was evacuated by our people three nights ago. All the others... are dead. There's nothing left here.
Anastacia did not respond immediately. Her eyes, as dark as absolute blackness, scanned the surroundings attentively. Around her neck hung a silver chain with an oval-shaped pendant. At its center, a black stone comparable to onyx, yet slightly translucent and with an eerily enchanting glow. Her breath was almost imperceptible, more from concentration than fatigue.
There was something.
She didn't know what, but something unsettled her.
Something moved in the twilight beyond sight.
She took another step. Her foot sank slightly into the dying earth. Her silhouette stretched long between the rays of the setting sun.
And then she felt it.
A pulse.
A subtle scent.
It was not disease. It was not spilled blood. It was life.
Her senses sharpened in an instant. Her pupils dilated.
Her steps turned firm as she moved at superhuman speed into one of the narrow alleys that wound between the houses.
—Here… —she whispered.
The others could not hear her. She was already too far.
Behind an overturned cart, in the space between two crumbling sheds, the scent intensified.
It didn't smell of death, but of fear, of old sweat, of earth over living skin.
She crouched carefully, without a sound, without revealing her fangs. And there, in a dark corner covered by tattered blankets, she saw him.
A child.
He must have been about seven years old.
His small body was curled up like a wounded animal. Dirty, dark hair clung to his sweat-drenched face. He trembled, barely breathing. He had not yet noticed her.
Anastacia extended a hand, delicately, as if trying to soothe a fawn. She said nothing. She simply waited.
He moved.
He did not open his eyes.
He didn't even have the strength to do so.
He murmured something, inaudible.
It was clear he had gone days without food, without water… perhaps without even speaking.
There were no signs of plague on his skin. No sores, no fever. Only hunger. Only loneliness.
Anastacia knelt before him. A glimmer appeared in her gaze. It wasn't joy.
It was that bittersweet mix of sadness and hope one feels when finding something precious amidst the wreckage.
—Over here! —she shouted to her followers, still several meters away.
—You are not here by chance… —she murmured to herself.
Her fingers tenderly brushed the boy's forehead.
He barely reacted.
—It's just a child, my lady, —said one of the Rizz who had managed to catch up with her.
—No, —she replied softly—. He is much more than that. He is a spark that refused to be extinguished.
She lifted him in her arms with great ease. He was as light as a bundle of hay.
His heart still beat, though faintly.
—Prepare a place for him, —she ordered—. And bring water. No infusions or medicine. Just clean water.
She turned away, wrapped in the dusk. As she walked, her voice rang clear:
—There's something about this child. I don't know what it is... but fate did not let him die. That is enough for now.
The child, at the edge of consciousness, nestled deeper into Anastacia's warm embrace. Her nature as an Ancestral vampire gave her a human warmth indistinguishable from any mortal's.
A warmth the boy mistook, for a moment, as his mother's arms.
Centuries later…
The carriage was modest, made of well-kept wood without ornamentation. Drawn by two serene gray horses, it moved slowly over the cobblestone road leading to the gardens of the Áurea Stella Institute, one of the most prestigious academies in the continent. The school's golden emblem gleamed on the wrought iron gates, reflecting the descending sunlight as if the very heavens had awaited this moment all day.
Inside the carriage, sitting with her hands clasped on her lap, was a young girl with intense red hair tied in a slightly messy braid, stray curls escaping freely. Her large, curious green eyes peered timidly out the window, absorbing every detail of the landscape as if afraid to forget it.
Her name was Gretta Rizz.
She was sixteen years old, and despite her humble background, she had achieved what very few in the kingdom could: a full scholarship to study at that elite institution, thanks to her outstanding academic achievements.
The school had sent the carriage itself to retrieve her from her village —a gesture reserved only for very special cases, she had been told. Her belongings had already been sent a week earlier via a Listurial Crane, a bird the size of a small horse used for messenger and light cargo duties.
Gretta struggled to decide whether she should feel proud… or anxious.
She clutched the pendant hanging from her neck: a delicate, aged silver chain holding a small oval medallion. At its center rested a green stone, the same color as her eyes. It was a keepsake from her late father.
"Remember, daughter," he would say in his deep voice, "never forget that your worth isn't defined by where you arrive, but by what you carry within you."
As the carriage entered the academy gardens, Gretta looked up and was left in awe.
The building resembled a castle from ancient legends: stone towers covered in ivy, stained glass windows sparkling with the morning light, and statues of ancient founders watching over the path.
Bushes were trimmed into the shapes of fantastic beasts, and among them, girls in impeccable uniforms moved gracefully. Some laughed, others read as they walked, all radiating a confidence that felt foreign to Gretta.
The carriage stopped.
The coachman, an elderly man with a kind gaze, opened the door for her.
Gretta carefully stepped down, holding a simple but lovingly made satchel —embroidered by her mother's hand in navy blue thread and tiny cream flowers, symbolizing protection and tenderness.
She took a few hesitant steps, feeling terribly out of place amid so much marble and grandeur—
until something—or someone—caught her attention.
By a blooming rose bush, a tall young man bent down elegantly to prune a crooked branch.
He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, the cuffs stained with earth, and his brown hair was tousled slightly by the breeze. His posture was serene, almost feline, and there was a calmness about him that made her stop.
When he looked up, their gazes met.
It was a brief moment, a blink... but to Gretta, time seemed to waver ever so slightly.
—Maybe he's the gardener… —she murmured, feeling her cheeks flush pink.
Embarrassed at having stared, she quickly lowered her gaze and hurried toward the main entrance.
The inside of the academy was no less impressive:
High ceilings like those of cathedrals, white marble floors that reflected the light, and chandeliers like frozen constellations hanging in the air.
Gretta followed a small map sent with her acceptance letter, trying to find the Headmistress's office. Her footsteps echoed softly, as if the very building listened.
Upon reaching a hallway decorated with tall stained glass windows and marble columns, Gretta stopped when she saw two young women speaking in hushed tones. Their uniforms bore small golden pins she hadn't seen on the students from her homeland; the ornaments seemed to indicate some sort of rank or lineage. When they noticed her presence, the girls fell silent. They didn't look at her directly, but their eyes slid over her as if measuring her worth… and finding nothing worth noting.
—Did you see her? —one whispered—. She's this year's scholarship girl.
—Listuria, right? —the other replied, barely hiding her tone—. They really do have a habit of mixing noble surnames with... everything else.
Gretta didn't understand it entirely, but she caught the meaning. She lowered her gaze, trying to hide the trembling of her hands. She passed by them in silence, and though neither of them pushed her or spoke to her directly, the feeling was worse than any insult.
Indifference can be the sharpest weapon when wielded with precision.
At the next hallway, she stopped for a moment to breathe. Her fingers brushed the pendant at her collar. For a brief instant, the echo of her father's voice filled the silence: "Never forget to be good, even when the world tells you not to."
—Then I'll be good —she whispered to herself, though the word tasted like stone in her mouth.
She was so focused on deciphering the wrinkled map in her hands that she didn't notice the figure waiting at the end of the corridor, calmly leaning against a stone column, arms crossed, a half-smile on his face.
—Hey there, sprinter. Where are you headed so determinedly?
Gretta stopped in her tracks. She looked up, and her chest tightened slightly as she recognized the young man from the garden. He had the same amber eyes, serene and warm like sunlight filtering through glass on a still afternoon.
—Ah… hello. —She gave a small, somewhat clumsy bow—. I'm Gretta Rizz. I just arrived… on academic grace. —Her voice trembled slightly, though she masked it with a brief smile.
—Freyr —he replied, with a bow as natural as it was graceful—. Gardener of the Institute. Though I sometimes do other things… when I'm allowed.
Gretta looked at him, surprised by his appearance. He wasn't what she expected of a gardener: his bearing, his tone, even the way he remained still seemed to have more in common with the stained glass windows than with soil beneath his nails.
—Have you worked here long?
Freyr tilted his head, as if the answer amused him.
—Too long. Over sixty years, if I'm honest.
She blinked. A short laugh escaped her lips.
—Sixty...? Wow. You're worse than the grandfathers in my village.
—Promise me you won't tell anyone —he said in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone—. Sometimes it's better not to seem what you are.
The way he said it didn't feel like a joke. Gretta held his gaze a moment longer than she intended. Something in her stomach tightened. Not out of distrust, exactly... but because of something older, harder to name.
—Do you know the Institute well? It seems easy to get lost.
—I know every stone. Every corner. I could take you to the head office... or we could stop by my cellar first. It's a quiet place. We could talk more calmly —he added, his tone just slightly lower, like someone testing ground they don't want to invade.
Gretta straightened a bit. She played with the pendant at her collar, as if seeking refuge in that small silver charm.
—I appreciate your kindness —she said with measured formality—. But I think a clear direction will do. We barely know each other… and I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression.
Freyr wasn't offended. He smiled genuinely, as if he already knew what her answer would be.
—You're right. And I'm glad you said it with such firmness.
In a calm voice, he explained how to get to the headmistress's office. When he finished, he reached into his jacket and extended his hand. Resting in his palm was a small whistle carved from dark wood, etched with delicate runes that looked ancient.
—Take this. If you ever need help… if you get lost, or simply don't know who to turn to, use it. I'll hear it, no matter where you are.
Gretta took it carefully. The object had a warm texture, almost alive. Her fingers slowly closed around it, as if holding something more than just a tool.
—Thank you, Freyr. It's… unexpected, but very kind.
—We'll see each other again —he said, with a slight bow.
She nodded and continued on her way. But as she walked away, she felt that peculiar sensation again—like someone was following her without moving. She turned on instinct. The hallway was empty.
Or so it seemed.
She didn't give it much thought and continued on her way, trying to follow the instructions of the handsome gardener.
But after several turns, staircases, and identical corridors, she found herself in a wing of the Institute that wasn't shown on her small map.
She asked a student rushing by, but the girl only made a vague gesture with her hand. Another, with a folder under her arm, apologized hurriedly without stopping.
—This place feels more like a castle than an academy... —she murmured.
The walls, covered in sepia-toned portraits, gave her no clue. "Did he say at the end of the corridor? Or after the tapestry room?"
Finding an open balcony on the upper floor, she stepped outside to catch her breath. From there, she could see the garden.
The wind was gentle, and below, the roses swayed in silence beneath the fading afternoon light.
There it was. The rose garden.
The same one where she had first seen the young gardener.
Thinking of him brought a slight smile to her lips.
Not just because of his odd manner… but because of what he had said. More than sixty years. I'm a vampire.
Gretta pulled out the whistle. It was heavier than she expected. The carved runes seemed to pulse under the light.
—What if it were true...? —she murmured. A soft, mocking laugh escaped her lips as she turned it between her fingers. For a second, the whistle slipped, but she caught it midair, startled and nervous.
She stood in silence for a few seconds. Then, with a sigh and a half-smile, she whispered:
—Well… he said if I had trouble or needed help… And this kind of qualifies, doesn't it?
Then she blew it.
And the world… changed.
The air seemed to crack with a sharp whisper. One instant was enough for everything to shift.
Gretta felt the ground vanish, the light of the hallway dissolve into a flash.
Then, wind. Cold, real, whistling between tall stone walls.
When her eyes managed to focus, she was no longer where she thought she had been.
A tower.
The sky, wide open.
And arms wrapping around her — firm, cold… too steady to be human.
She tensed immediately.
—What… what is this? —she asked, not shouting, but breathing unevenly—. Where are we?
The figure holding her barely moved. There was no urgency in him. Only presence.
Freyr.
—Remember I told you I've been here for over sixty years... —he paused, his eyes locked on hers—. I wasn't joking. I'm a vampire.
Gretta didn't answer immediately. Her mind filled with noise, with automatic denials, with attempts to make sense of what she was seeing. She looked up, then lowered her gaze to her hands, to the whistle still hanging from her neck.
It didn't make sense.
None of it did.
—This… —she murmured—. This can't be happening.
Freyr didn't step closer. His voice fell to a whisper, as soft as the wind's caress.
—It's alright.
I would never hurt you. I'm here for you. I've always been here for you.
She blinked. A part of her wanted to step back. Another… wasn't sure it could.
The wind played with her curls, and amid her confusion, something subtle —like an ancient echo— pulsed deep within her chest.
It wasn't certainty.
It wasn't faith.
But it was something.
And as the clouds drifted slowly across the sky, something forgotten in her blood began to awaken.