Chapter II: The Shadows of Gravenholt
The city was quiet that morning, too quiet for London.
The rain had finally ceased, leaving the cobblestones slick and gleaming beneath the pale winter sun. Fog slithered across the streets like some restless ghost, wrapping the lampposts and alleyways in a veil of uncertainty.
Nathaniel Cross tightened the collar of his coat as he made his way through the winding alleys toward King's College. His body felt heavy, as though each step he took was weighed down by something more than fatigue—something gnawing at him from the inside. His scar throbbed again, faint but persistent, as though mocking his attempt at a normal life.
Normal. What a laughable word.
He had once thought of life as a series of blueprints, carefully drawn, cleanly calculated. School. A degree. A career. Perhaps marriage and children, a tidy house somewhere beyond the bustle of London. Stability. That was what he thought he was building.
But now, the blueprint was torn. Blood had spilled across the page.
The shadows did not care for equations or architectural dreams. They only cared for hunger.
At the lecture hall, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly above the students. The scent of chalk and old wood mixed with the musty dampness carried in from the rain-soaked coats. Nathaniel took his usual seat near the back, away from the bright-eyed enthusiasm of younger students and the sharp banter of friends clustered in groups.
He could almost pretend he belonged here—almost.
The professor's voice droned on, expounding on the importance of statics in structural design. Numbers and vectors sprawled across the chalkboard, white lines against dark slate. Nathaniel tried to follow, his pencil scratching at the paper, but the symbols blurred together, shifting, twisting into shapes that did not belong in this world.
For a heartbeat, the lines on the board curved into something else—a circle inscribed with runes, glowing faintly. His pulse spiked. He blinked, and the illusion was gone.
But his scar burned hotter.
"Nathaniel."
The whisper slithered into his ear, soft and intimate. His heart lurched as he turned his head sharply.
There was no one there.
Only Jacob, seated two rows away, scribbling notes, oblivious to Nathaniel's panic.
But Nathaniel knew.
She was here.
By the time class ended, his hands trembled so violently he could barely gather his books. He shoved them into his satchel, muttering something to Jacob about feeling unwell, and bolted from the hall. The corridors pressed around him, the chatter of students muffled, warped, as if underwater.
Outside, the fog had thickened. The courtyard stretched wide, but its familiar paths now felt alien, smothered in pale mist. He moved quickly, footsteps echoing, eyes darting to every shifting shadow.
Then—
"Nathaniel."
This time, the voice was not in his head.
She stood at the far end of the courtyard, a vision half-hidden by fog. Silver hair cascaded down her back like a veil of moonlight, her crimson eyes gleaming with unnatural intensity. She wore the same faint smile he remembered from that night—the smile of a predator who knew her prey would never escape.
Eris Gravenholt.
His chest constricted. Every instinct screamed at him to run, yet his body froze as if the very sight of her had shackled him.
"You look pale," she said softly, her voice carrying effortlessly through the mist. "Have your nights been lonely without me?"
Her tone was playful, almost tender, but her eyes betrayed the hunger lurking beneath.
"Stay away," Nathaniel forced out, his voice raw.
She tilted her head, amused. "Oh, Nathaniel. You still believe distance matters?"
She took a step forward, and the fog seemed to coil around her feet, obeying her presence.
"You carry me in your veins. Every beat of your heart, every breath you draw, it is mine. Did you truly think breaking up with me would sever what binds us?"
Nathaniel's knees nearly buckled. His scar seared, pulsing in rhythm with her words. He clutched at his shoulder, gasping.
"I'm not... yours."
Eris's smile widened, baring the faint glint of fangs.
"Not yet."
The mist swirled, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone.
That night, Nathaniel sat in his room, trembling.
The lamplight flickered, casting long shadows across the stacks of engineering texts on his desk. His parents had long since gone to bed, but he could not close his eyes.
He replayed the encounter again and again. The way her voice wrapped around him. The way his body betrayed him, paralyzed by her presence.
She had not fed that day. She had not touched him. And yet it felt as though she had drained something from him regardless—hope, perhaps, or strength.
His father's words echoed in his mind. "We'll face this as a family."
But how could they? They were human. She was not.
He was not.
The mirror caught his eye. Slowly, almost fearfully, he rose and stepped toward it.
His reflection looked back—tired eyes, disheveled hair, pallid skin. He lifted his collar, exposing the scar. For a moment, it seemed darker, sharper, as though it had been freshly made.
He pressed his fingers against it. A sharp pain shot through him, and he staggered back, clutching his chest.
In that moment, he swore he saw his reflection smile at him—mocking, cruel.
His breath hitched.
"No... no, that's not real..."
But when he blinked, the reflection was normal again.
Weeks passed.
Nathaniel tried to bury himself in his studies, but his concentration was shattered. Eris appeared to him in fragments—reflections in windows, whispers in lecture halls, fleeting glimpses in crowded streets. Always there. Always watching.
And each time, his scar burned hotter.
Finally, one evening, his father confronted him.
They sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Daniel Cross leaned forward, his gaze unwavering.
"She's returned, hasn't she?"
Nathaniel froze. His father's words struck like a blade.
"How did you—"
Daniel's jaw tightened. "We're not as blind as you think. Your mother and I... we've seen signs before. We prayed you would never have to."
Nathaniel's blood ran cold. "You... knew?"
Daniel's eyes darkened, shadows of old memories flickering behind them. "The Gravenholt clan has haunted London for generations. They are not myths. They are not stories. They are hunger wearing human skin."
The name—the clan—slid into Nathaniel's mind like ice.
Gravenholt.
Eris's family.
His father's voice lowered, grave. "If she has marked you, Nathaniel, then you are already entangled in their web. And they do not release what they claim."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Nathaniel whispered, "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Daniel's hand gripped his son's shoulder, firm, unyielding. "You fight. You finish what you started. You do not let her dictate your life. Engineering, your future—you cling to it, no matter what. Because if you don't... she will win."
Nathaniel swallowed hard, nodding faintly. But deep inside, fear coiled tight.
For how long could he fight something that was already inside him?
The fog deepened in the days that followed. The city seemed restless, unsettled. Reports of strange disappearances whispered through the university—students vanishing after dark, their rooms left in disarray, the faint scent of iron lingering in the air.
Nathaniel did not need to guess who was behind it.
And one night, as he walked home through the mist-shrouded streets, he saw her again.
But this time, she was not alone.
Three figures stood with her, their silhouettes tall and elegant, their presence suffocating. Their eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness, all fixed on him.
Eris stepped forward, her smile radiant, terrible.
"Come, Nathaniel. It is time you met my family."
The shadows of the Gravenholt clan unfurled like wings behind her.
And Nathaniel knew—his nightmare had only just begun.