The village of Elanorth had always been a small, forgotten corner of Thalarion, tucked away at the edge of its vast, mist-shrouded forests. The mist here wasn't just a veil—it clung like old memories, drifting lazily between the ancient trees, curling through the branches like fingers searching for something lost to time. Growing up, I imagined our village as one the world had abandoned, buried under the weight of mountains to the north, as if the earth itself was shielding us from the cruelties that lay beyond.

But no place in Thalarion was truly hidden. Not from the vampires.

Thalarion was a world of whispers and shadowed glances, of lives lived quietly beneath the watchful eyes of those who ruled over us. We were but dust in their kingdom, invisible threads stitched into the grand tapestry that fueled their power. I used to watch the elders—faces lined with years of submission—and wonder how they carried on. How did they endure bending beneath the yoke of vampire dominion without breaking? Their silence was suffocating.

It wasn't in me to stay silent.

The air in Elanorth was always thick with the cold. Not just the kind that came with the biting wind, but a chill that crept into your bones, making a home of your very soul. Even in the height of summer, the ground remained unyielding, hard beneath our feet, as though even the earth had forgotten how to soften. Overhead, the sky was forever cast in a silvery gloom, draining what little warmth we could gather in our hearts. It was a place where dreams withered and hope was an indulgence we could never afford.

We were farmers, carpenters, and traders, each of us bound by the same unspoken fear: never draw attention. To be invisible was to survive. The vampires didn't care for our lives unless we became useful—or worse, troublesome. We toiled in the fields, kept our heads low, and kept our mouths shut, all in the hope that another day would pass without incident.

But I couldn't bear the silence. The quiet was a constant scream in my ears, a weight pressing down until it felt like I would drown beneath it.

Books had always been my escape. Even when I was too young to fully understand the world I was born into, the library offered me a sliver of something else—hope, perhaps. It was small, dusty, and filled with the remnants of a time long past, when Thalarion had not yet fallen under the rule of vampires. The stories I found there told of a different world, one where humans had thrived, where we were more than shadows in the streets. I would lose myself in those pages, imagining what it might be like to live without fear, without the constant presence of death lurking just beyond the village borders.

Those books spoke of Thalarion's beauty, before the moon had claimed the sky as its eternal throne. They told of forests vibrant with life, rivers that sparkled like jewels, and cities filled with laughter. But those days were long gone, lost to the cruelty of the vampire elite. Now, the forests whispered of ghosts, the rivers ran cold, and laughter was nothing more than an echo, fading from the lips of our people long ago.

Even the children here didn't laugh much anymore. They were born into fear, raised with the knowledge that Elanorth survived only because the vampires allowed it. From the black stone fortresses that loomed over the cities, they watched us, waiting for any sign of rebellion. We were taught never to raise our voices, never to lift our heads. To rebel was to die.

I used to lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the stories I read could ever be real again. I wished for that world, wished that I could see it with my own eyes. But deep down, I knew the truth. We were not free. We never had been. The vampires had eyes everywhere, and their enforcers ensured that any spark of defiance was snuffed out before it could catch flame. There were rumors, always whispered, of secret executions and humans disappearing in the dead of night. But no one spoke of such things openly.

We were left with what little the vampires deemed us worthy of. They took everything—our food, our dignity, our lives—and in return, they gave us scraps. Some women had forgotten what it meant to walk with their heads high. They bowed willingly now, offering themselves without hesitation, as though servitude was all they had ever known. They were used, discarded, reduced to nothing more than sustenance for the vampires' endless appetites. Blood, body, soul—nothing was off limits.

I often wondered if there could be more than this—more than surviving, more than submission. I wondered if there was a life out there, somewhere beyond the shadows, where we weren't playthings in the hands of monsters. Even as a child, I had felt the stirrings of something greater, something beyond the fields and the mist, beyond the oppression that clung to us all.

Magic.

The books had spoken of it—an ancient power, once wielded by humans. But that power was long forbidden. The vampires had ensured that we would never rise against them by outlawing magic for anyone except themselves. Humans who dared to practice it were met with swift and violent death.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that magic lived inside me, a quiet whisper beneath my skin. I had learned early on to hide it, to bury the temptation deep where no one could see. But it was always there, waiting.

My father's illness only made that temptation stronger.

Each day, I watched him grow weaker. His once-strong hands, calloused from years of work, now trembled as he struggled to lift even the lightest load. His voice, once filled with warmth and life, was now a hollow whisper, growing fainter with each breath. He refused to admit how bad it was—too proud, too stubborn—but I could see the truth in the way his body betrayed him.

The village healer, Mr. Jacob, had done what he could, but his potions were a bandage over a wound too deep to heal. The herbs my father needed didn't grow in Elanorth. They bloomed far away, in the eastern mountains, beyond reach. Even if Mr. Jacob could fetch them, the cost of the medicine was more than we could afford. The price of life itself had become a luxury.

That was why I did what I did. Why I had turned to darker, more dangerous means. I needed to buy my father time—time that was slipping away faster than I could hold it. And for that, I needed money. More than I could ever make selling wheat, more than I could make in a lifetime. The only thing that could give me what I needed was magic.

It was forbidden. It was dangerous. And it was the only chance I had.

I had always been careful, always kept my distance from the darker paths. But my father was dying, and I couldn't just stand by and watch. The vampires had their magic, their endless lives, while we were left with nothing but struggle and suffering. It wasn't fair.

It would never be fair.

***

The sun's first light kissed the edges of Thalarion, spilling over the distant mountains like molten gold, but it did nothing to chase away the cold that had settled in my bones. It was a pale kind of warmth, more a suggestion than a promise, and the market streets of Elanorth had already begun to stir.
Stalls lined the square, their vibrant canopies flapping gently in the breeze. The merchants' voices echoed off the cobblestones, a chorus of haggling and laughter that, to anyone else, might have sounded like a village full of life. But I knew better. Beneath the cheerful banter lay an undercurrent of something darker—a quiet desperation masked by forced smiles. Eyes shifted nervously to the castle looming in the distance, a silent reminder that we were always being watched.

I moved through the crowd like a shadow, invisible despite the swell of bodies around me. The cloak I wore, simple and dark, was a perfect disguise in the throng of villagers who preened like peacocks. The women's bright fabrics gleamed in the early morning light, their laughter carrying through the air as they paraded between stalls, hoping to catch the eye of anyone who might be watching. The men were no better, their voices loud as they bartered for goods, puffing their chests like roosters in a fight.

But I wasn't there for the show. My steps were purposeful, each movement calculated as I weaved through the crowd, slipping past the colorful dresses and gleaming trinkets that sparkled like promises.

The note in my pocket felt heavy, though it was nothing more than a small piece of parchment. Folded carefully, its crinkled edge pressed into my palm as a reminder of what was waiting for me beyond the market's illusions. I had received it late last night, delivered by a boy too young to understand the weight of the message he carried. His hands had trembled as he thrust it toward me, his dark eyes wide with a fear he couldn't yet name.

"I don't know who sent it," he'd whispered, his voice barely louder than a breath. "They just told me to give it to you."
I hadn't asked any questions, not because I wasn't curious, but because I knew better. In Thalarion, knowing too much was a dangerous game. The less I knew, the safer I was. And besides, the note had only confirmed what I already suspected—danger was always waiting just out of sight, lingering like the mist in the forest.

The offer written on the note, in that sharp, elegant hand, had been impossible to refuse: enough gold to buy my father time. More time. Precious time.

My heart twisted at the thought of him—his frail body hunched over the table, his hands trembling as they struggled to grip even a spoon. Each day he grew weaker, the lines on his face deeper, his voice softer, like life was slowly draining from him with every breath.

I quickened my pace, pulling the hood of my cloak lower to shield myself from the curious eyes that lingered too long. My father needed me, and I couldn't afford to waste any more time here.

The cottage came into view just beyond the market square, nestled against the tree line where the forest pressed close. Its stone walls, once sturdy and full of life, were now worn with age, moss creeping up the sides like the fingers of time itself. The thatched roof sagged slightly, and the door, though still solid, had begun to creak on its hinges.
I paused at the threshold, my hand resting against the rough wood. For a moment, I listened to the familiar sounds inside—the soft crackle of the fire, the faint clink of a cup against the table. The weight in my chest grew heavier, pressing down with each shallow breath. My father was inside, waiting for me as he always did, pretending he wasn't slowly fading away.

I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The warmth from the hearth wrapped around me as I entered, chasing away the morning chill, but the comfort it offered was fleeting. The small room was bathed in a soft, golden glow, the firelight casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls. My father sat at the wooden table, hunched over a bowl of thin broth, his hands shaking slightly as he lifted the spoon to his lips.

"Good morning, daughter," he rasped, his voice rough and edged with a weariness that made my heart ache. He didn't look up as I entered, his focus entirely on the small task of eating his meal.

"Dad," I breathed, crossing the room in a few quick strides. I knelt beside him, gently taking the spoon from his trembling hand and setting it down on the table. "You shouldn't be doing this alone. Let me help."

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not as helpless as I look, Lyra. I can manage."

I swallowed the knot forming in my throat, forcing a smile as I placed a hand over his. His skin felt paper-thin, the bones beneath too sharp, too fragile. "You don't have to manage on your own," I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. "I'm here now."

He patted my hand, his grip weak but still warm. "You're a good girl," he said softly, his gaze finally meeting mine. His eyes, once so full of life and laughter, were clouded now, dulled by the sickness that was slowly claiming him. "But I've been through worse. This old body has seen many winters. It'll see a few more, don't ya worry."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to cling to the hope that he could somehow pull through, that the sickness would loosen its grip and let him live a little longer. But I had seen the truth in his labored breaths, in the way his hands trembled more each day.

I stood, moving toward the small shelf by the fire where the bottles of medicine were lined up like soldiers preparing for battle. I selected one—the green bottle filled with the healer's latest concoction—and poured a small measure into a cup. The thick, syrupy liquid swirled in the bottom, its bitter scent rising into the air. I carried it back to him, pressing the cup into his hands.

"Drink this," I said, my voice firmer than before. "It'll help."
He stared at the cup for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, then sighed heavily. "You know as well as I do that Jacob's potions aren't going to cure me."

I flinched at the quiet resignation in his voice, at the truth I didn't want to hear. "They're buying you time," I argued, my throat tightening. "And that's all we need. Just a little more time."

He smiled again, but it was a sad, weary smile. "Time won't change what's coming, Lyra. It's not something you can outrun."

I clenched my fists at my sides, the anger bubbling up beneath the surface. "We don't know that," I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. "We don't know what will happen. So please... just drink it. For me."

His gaze softened, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the man he used to be—the man who had carried me on his shoulders through the wheat fields, laughing as the sun set behind us. But that man was fading, slipping away with each passing day.

He raised the cup to his lips and drank, wincing at the taste but finishing it without a word like I didn't expect he would. I expected he'd fight me on that. But he didn't. When he set the cup down, his hands were trembling more than before, and I had to fight back the urge to scream at the unfairness of it all.

"Jacob's a good man," he murmured, his voice fading as the medicine began to pull him toward sleep. "But even he knows when a battle can't be won. That there's a limit to the miracles he can perform."

I sighed heavily but silently before I helped him to the seat by the fire. I sat beside him, on the floor, as he drifted off, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to thaw the cold inside me. I watched him, my heart aching with every shallow breath he took, knowing that time was slipping away from us. And I couldn't let that happen.
I had to find a way to save him.

Even if it meant turning to the kind of magic that could get me killed.