Her mouth hung open in complete and utter shock, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat as she processed what she had just heard. The words rang in her ears, hauntingly clear—he had ordered them to burn the villagers… along with the village. And he hadn't even raised his voice.
She hadn't even noticed there were others nearby until that moment, and now the weight of unseen presences bore down on her shoulders like invisible chains. Her mouth remained hanging open from the sheer force of her disbelief, her eyes wide and glassy.
Then, without warning, her brother's voice erupted through the silence like a thunderclap, vibrating with sheer fury.
"HOW DARE YOU!" he screamed, his voice cracking with rage and pain.
"WHO DO YOU THINK—"
But his shout was abruptly cut off, not by force, but by the sudden, commanding voice of Tharen—his voice rising from the ground, from where he knelt, his knees buried in the dirt and a guard's hand still pressed firmly against the back of his neck, pinning him so he couldn't raise his head.
"SON! SHUT UP! Do you know who you're speaking to?" Tharen's voice was loud and deep, carrying a weight of age and submission, his tone laced with urgency and fear.
"We are commoners! They are Vampires!" he emphasized, his words biting through the tension like blades, even as he gasped slightly from the pressure on his windpipe.
But it was clear that Eiren wasn't listening. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, the veins on his forearms bulging, and his jaw locked so hard it looked like it might shatter under the tension. The glare in his eyes darkened further, stormy and defiant.
"So? There are rules! He has no right to—"
"I have sheltered you from reality!" Tharen snapped louder now, his voice breaking with a mixture of frustration and heartbreak. The disappointment was thick in his tone, bitter and undeniable.
Aria stood frozen beside them, unable to move a muscle, her eyes wide and trembling. The black blade hovering at her neck was still there—unmoving, deadly. One step, one word, and it would slice through her throat. That much she was certain of.
In the distance, the screams were faint but still audible—different pitches, different voices, all soaked in agony. They pierced through the air like mournful notes of a dying song, and though she couldn't see what was happening, the sound alone painted a vivid picture in her mind. Fire. Death. Suffering. All because of a single command.
But as much as her heart ached for those voices, her attention, her terror—her entire being—was consumed by her family in that moment. Her mother was gone. Her father was on his knees. Her brother stood defiant. And she—she stood inches from death.
And then the man beside her—the vampire with the blade still resting against her throat—spoke again. He hadn't yet harmed her, not outrightly, and that small flicker of mercy, imagined or not, gave her something to cling to. Maybe… just maybe he can be reasoned with! she thought desperately.
Her lips parted, her voice trembling.
"Please… we'll do whatever you—"
But her plea was stopped dead in her throat as his crimson gaze turned to her face, cold and piercing, stripping her bare. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted his free hand and pulled his hood back, revealing sharp features framed by black hair—and eyes that glowed like coals in the night.
"I'm looking for the house of Duskbane," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable. "They are a family of hunters and it has been confirmed that they are in this village."
His tone was flat—no anger, no passion, just a cold, detached certainty that chilled her to the bone.
'Du-duskbane? tha-thats us!' her heart pounding in her chest as she stilled herself from reacting.
"If you point them out, there's no reason why I can't spare your lives."
The cruelty in his eyes didn't match the calmness of his words. It wasn't just a threat—it was a promise. One that made her breath hitch and her hands tremble violently. Her grip around the cloth bag in her hands tightened, her fingers digging in as if to ground herself.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her forehead dampened with sweat, beads trickling down the sides of her face as her breathing grew shallow. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
"No response?" he asked, voice unchanging, as Aria's heart slammed violently against her chest. She could barely see through the tears welling in her eyes. But before she could gather her words, Eiren spoke up—his voice startlingly clear, his posture unwavering.
"I know them," he said, locking eyes with the vampire. "But clearly, they're dead. You just sent your men to kill them!"
He stood tall, shoulders squared, speaking with a confidence that belied the tremble in the air. There was no hesitation, no fear in his tone—he was betting everything on a lie.
And perhaps it would've worked—if not for the look on Tharen's face.
From his place on the ground, their father turned his gaze downward, shaking his head ever so slightly, his eyes full of grief and resignation. A man who had given up.
"I guess you didn't educate him all that well," the vampire said suddenly, his voice cutting the air once more. It wasn't directed at Eiren this time—it was for Tharen.
Everyone turned to look, startled.
"What? I'm telling the truth!" Eiren insisted. But the vampire didn't even look at him.
Instead, the blade shifted—just enough to graze Aria's neck.
A sharp sting followed, and a warm trickle of blood slid down her skin, thin and slow but terrifying. Her entire body trembled, and Eiren froze, completely silent now.
The man's crimson gaze never left them.
"Do you think I came all the way here for nothing?" he asked. "Moreover, I can smell it."
He inhaled, slowly.
"The subtle scent of your blood."
He turned toward Tharen, who was still kneeling—though now, slowly, painfully, he forced himself to raise his head. The guard's grip remained firm, but Tharen managed to look up at the monster before him.
"Spare my children. They know nothing about—"
But his words never had the chance to finish.
"Kill him," the vampire said, his command delivered with terrifying casualness.
Aria barely managed to gasp. Her lips had only just parted, her body leaning forward with instinctual protest, when the guard behind Tharen drew his blade.
There was no ceremony. No hesitation. Just one swift, practiced motion—and her father's throat was cut wide open.
The blood poured out in a heavy rush, splashing onto the dirt in thick, dark streams. It drenched his tunic, his knees, the guard's hands. And then, he slumped forward without a sound.
Aria's world froze.
"Father!" she screamed, the cry tearing through her like lightning as her knees buckled. She dropped to the ground.
But the vampire didn't pause.
"Kill the other one too—make it—"
"PLEASE!!!" Aria screamed again, falling to her knees at his feet.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, her hands clutched together in desperate supplication. "I'll do anything! Anything at all! Please, I beg you!"
She looked up at him, sobbing, but his face didn't change. His eyes—those merciless, ancient eyes—looked at her, but through her. As though she wasn't even there.
"Kill him too," he said again. "Make it quick."