Popu's laughter rang soft and free beside me, like the gentle bells strung across the temple halls of Febelez. She twirled around the shallow edge of the pond, cupping water with her small hands and tossing it playfully toward the sunlit air. Her clothes — the ones I requested earlier — were already halfway soaked, sticking to her limbs as she moved like a sprite newly born from morning dew.
I sat just a few steps away, feet bare, the elven robe I wore far too wide for my frame. I didn't mind. It was light and flowing, soft against the skin. More than anything, it reminded me of how long it had been since I allowed myself to rest — to breathe without the weight of expectation.
The wind brushed past, warm and fragrant, laced with wildflowers and tree sap. The garden stretched on endlessly, columns and statues lost in thick ivy and shadow. This part of the elven residence felt untouched by time.
Behind us, sprawled across the stone like a guardian carved from dusk itself, lay the winged wolf.
Its great wings folded like curtains of night at its sides, and though its eyes were shut, I knew better than to believe it was asleep.
It was still watching.
Still listening.
Popu, in her innocence, wandered closer. She wasn't afraid. She had even tried to braid the tip of its tail earlier, giggling like she'd found a new plush toy.
"Do you think it dreams?" she asked, her voice carrying over the still water.
I leaned back on my palms, eyes flicking toward the beast. "Maybe," I said. "Or maybe it remembers."
"Remembers what?"
I paused, letting the breeze fill the silence. "Skies it once ruled. People it's seen fall beneath them."
Popu tilted her head, clearly not understanding, but she didn't press. Instead, she nestled beside the wolf, her small hand resting on its massive flank. Its breathing slowed — or maybe I imagined it. That beast… it didn't flinch under her touch. It accepted her.
Strange.
I rose slowly, brushing the grass from my hands, gaze lingering on both of them. Popu — the child who suddenly appeared before me — and the winged wolf — a creature born of myth, now laying here like it never vanished from the world.
And me? I was the outsider walking through the ruins of stories long buried.
But the stillness wouldn't last. I could feel it. The air was too quiet. Too heavy.
Peace, in my life, always comes like this — soft, beautiful… and borrowed.
A sharp, echoing sound rang out — deep and metallic — rising from the heart of the sanctuary like a distant bell struck in warning. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. The effect was immediate.
Servants flinched mid-step, their calm shattered. Guardians stationed around the garden moved without hesitation, their spears already drawn as they rushed toward the outer gates. Leaves stirred with a sudden gust, and even the birds nesting high in the canopy burst into flight.
I froze for a moment, tightening my hold on the grass beneath me.
Then I heard it — not the sound itself, but the sudden absence of calm.
I stood quickly, scooping Popu into my arms. She clung to me instinctively, her hands gripping the folds of my robe. I could feel the rise of her heartbeat, pressed against mine.
"What is happening?" I asked aloud, scanning the perimeter.
The winged wolf rose without a sound, its great black form shifting from rest to alertness in a breath. It padded to my side, its gaze already turned toward the mountains beyond the village.
Then came the heavy thuds of hurried footsteps.
A male servant ran past us, his chest heaving from the sprint. He paused only briefly, bowing with one hand on his heart.
"My lady," he panted, "there is a pack—no, a flock—of wyverns sighted from the northern watchtower. They are descending rapidly—toward the village. At full speed."
Wyverns?
I blinked, confused. "Why would they fly this low… this deep into elven lands?"
"We don't know," the servant answered quickly. "But their wings blot out the light already. Please, return to the inner sanctum. The Queen's orders are clear—"
His words faded as he dashed off, joining the other defenders gathering on the outer walls.
I looked to the horizon. There, like a smear against the sunlit sky, came dark shapes slicing through clouds — sleek, winged, and many. Dozens of them, maybe more, angling toward us with terrifying speed.
Popu buried her face against my shoulder.
The winged wolf stepped in front of me now, its fur bristling. A low, thunderous growl rumbled from its throat. No longer a guardian in slumber. A predator awakened.
"Looks like peace wasn't meant to last," I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.
But why would a flock of them be heading here?
Wyverns are notoriously territorial. They don't fly far from their nests unless provoked. And I knew from the maps—no, from memory itself—that the elven village was far beyond the reaches of any known wyvern roosts. Their domain lies further north, past the cliffs and the shattered plains. This land... this land should be safe.
Unless something changed.
Or something pushed them here.
My grip on Popu tightened instinctively as I turned my gaze skyward once more. The dark shapes were clearer now—jagged silhouettes cutting through the sky like rips in silk. Dozens of them. Too many.
Just then, a gust swept through the courtyard, warm with power. A blur of silver-gilded black armor landed upon the stone steps with such force that the ground groaned beneath her boots.
The Queen.
No longer in robes of velvet and grace, but now clad in her battleplate—the one said to be woven from starlit iron and elderbark, forged in the furnace of a slumbering golem. Her presence sent shivers across the garden, even to the winged wolf, who lowered its head in reverence.
"Vanessa," she called out, voice steady but shadowed by tension. Then her tone softened ever so slightly. "Oh, Popu... make sure to stay low. We don't know why wyverns would appear out of nowhere in these lands."
Before I could even respond, she was gone—rushing forward in a streak of obsidian and moonlight. Her shadow barely kissed the cobblestones beneath her feet.
"Popu," I said, turning gently, "let's get you inside, shall we?"
She nodded, though fear clouded her usually bright expression.
I jogged toward the inner quarters, the winged wolf pacing beside me, silent and ever-watchful. At the arched entrance of the inner sanctum, I knelt and handed Popu to one of the female servants.
"Stay with her. Do not leave her side unless the Queen herself commands it."
The elf bowed deeply, already moving to shield Popu with her own body.
I lingered for only a second—just long enough to see Popu clutch the servant's sleeve—and then turned back toward the chaos.
I need to know what is happening.
What, in the gods' presence, would drive a flock of wyverns to abandon their sacred peaks?
And more importantly...
Who, or what, stirred the sky to wrath?
I picked up my pace, the stone under my bare feet warm from the sun, though the air itself now buzzed with tension. Within moments, I burst past the last row of arched trees and into the heart of the elven village.
And there it was.
One of the wyverns had already descended—its shadow stretching long over the ivory roofs and glassvine-covered terraces. It thrashed and roared, wings tearing at the wind as it lunged toward a cluster of elf guardians, their spears drawn and formation tight.
They were holding it back—barely—but I could see the strain in their footwork and the way their mana pulses flickered, ragged from the initial clash.
I moved. Not recklessly, but deliberately.
Just enough.
A flick of my wrist summoned the familiar warmth of blood from within me—twelve red-tinted lances forming midair in a spiral, each one sharp, heavy, and humming with pressure.
"Miss vampire! Why are you here?" one of the guardians shouted, his voice caught between surprise and concern.
"I came to help," I replied, my tone calm and level. "Don't worry, I can fight."
And with that, I let the spears fly.
The air cracked as they shot forward in perfect sequence, burying themselves into the wyvern's flank and underbelly with a wet, thunderous impact. The creature reeled, its cry shrill, guttural, and furious. Blood spurted like geysers where the weapons struck.
Wyverns.
Weaker than dragons. Far less graceful. Less intelligent too—animalistic in nature, driven by instinct and fear more than thought. But that didn't mean they weren't dangerous. Especially in a pack.
The elves were already moving again, regaining ground. Their blades, glimmering with embedded runes, found purchase where mundane steel would have failed.
Magic.
That's why they could cut so deep into those thickened scales. Their weapons had been bonded with enchantments—likely grown and tempered through centuries of rituals.
Good.
Because wyverns, thankfully, couldn't use magic themselves. Too dumb. Their minds were closer to beasts than kin.
Still, they could destroy entire villages if left unchecked.
I watched as the wyvern staggered back, half its face torn open where one of my spears had pierced the eye socket. Its blood hissed as it hit the cobblestones—burning, acidic, like venom.
A vampire's weapon isn't ordinary.
We don't forge them in fire or shape them with hands. We summon them from ourselves. Blood, when refined through pain and will, becomes something more. In my case, I've spent years thickening my blood—denser than the strongest dwarven metal, sharper than any mortal blade.
That's what makes them deadly.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the battle cries and shrieks. All I needed was silence—just for a breath.
My vision shifted.
Color drained away, and in its place came black and white, lines and pulses—like veins drawn across parchment. A mental map formed. I could feel the pressure where the wyverns had landed—impact zones etched like bruises on the land.
My ears twitched—catching the faintest ripple of wingbeats, not above, but to the east. My nose flared. Sulfur. Blood. Burned wood.
There.
Two wyverns.
I surged forward, my steps light, speed amplified by the blood within me. Wind tore past my cheeks as I reached the eastern edge of the village.
One wyvern had already slammed into a crystal-spired tower, shards raining like frozen stars. The second was tearing through the archways, its tail whipping aside carts and canopies.
Then I saw them—a male elf, cradling a child in his arms, frozen as the wyvern descended.
Its claws were coming down—too fast.
The elf looked up, eyes wide. Not in defiance. Not in prayer.
In surrender.
Not on my watch.