The candlelight trembled as though the room itself breathed.
Outside the rain whispered against the glass, a low, constant murmur that filled the silence between her thoughts. Becca's fingers traced the edge of the brittle page, the ink so faded it seemed almost swallowed by time.
The words were not arranged like a story but like a confession, old, deliberate, and meant for no gentle reader. Each letter seemed pressed into the page by a trembling hand that had known too much.
In the beginning, before men built kingdoms and priests named their gods, the Night was sovereign. It did not belong to mortals, nor to angels, but to those who were born of its breath.
Becca's eyes narrowed slightly. Her pulse quickened,not from fear, but fascination. There was something ancient in those words, a rhythm that pulled her in.
She leaned closer, reading on.
The creatures of the Night were not made. They were awakened. Born from the breath of the first eclipse, when the world ceased its turning and the heavens held their breath. From that stillness came three kinds of beings: the Witches, who spoke with the wind and wove the unseen; the Wolves, who bound their souls to the moon; and the Vampyres, who carried the hunger of the dark itself.
Becca paused. Vampyres. The spelling was strange,old, like something torn from a monastery's forbidden text. She turned another page, the parchment sighing as if reluctant to reveal more.
The next section bore no title, only a symbol,an inked circle with a drop of black descending from its center. Beneath it, the handwriting shifted, sharp and elegant, as though written by another hand altogether.
The witches were the first to walk among men. They hid beneath mortal skin, their craft born of words and whispers. Their hearts, though still warm, learned deceit early; for knowledge, they soon learned, demanded sacrifice. Each spell called for a piece of the soul, and thus they aged slower, their beauty growing colder as their hearts grew faint.
Becca exhaled softly, her breath fogging the mirror beside her. The candle's flame danced in reflection, flickering like a heartbeat.
She read on.
The wolves, children of the pale moon, were once men. Hunters, protectors, and fools who loved too fiercely. They were cursed for their loyalty,to the moon they adored, and to the women who betrayed them. Their gift was strength; their punishment, fury. On nights when the sky weeps silver, their blood remembers the curse, and they walk as beasts again.
A faint shiver ran down her spine. She had heard tales of werewolves in childhood, stories whispered to frighten the littke children at night. But this… this was no child's fable. The tone was reverent, sorrowful, almost mournful, as though written by one who had seen these creatures, not merely imagined them.
Then came another symbol,a single black rose,and beneath it, the script turned darker, almost predatory in shape.
V
And last came the Vampyres,the crown of the Night, the unrepentant sovereigns of shadow.
Becca's gaze lingered on that line. Her hand trembled faintly as she turned the page.
Their birth was not of womb or blood, but of desire and death entwined. When the moon turned crimson and the wind carried the scent of ash, one man walked beyond mortal bounds and did not return as himself. His name was Draco,the first of his kind.
The ink deepened here, darker, almost wet-looking.
Becca could almost imagine the quill that had written it,dipped not in ink, but in blood.
He was a lord among men, fair as the fallen star and cruel as the silence after prayer. It is said that no heart beat stronger, no voice sang sweeter. The world loved him, and he, in return, loved nothing.
Her eyes moved slowly, line by line.
But when he sought eternity, the heavens denied him. The angels turned their faces away, and the earth swallowed his plea. Yet the Night,ever patient, ever watching,heard him. It came to him as a woman veiled in shadows, her eyes like broken mirrors. She offered him what the heavens would not: life without end.
He drank from her wrist, and from that moment, his heart forgot its rhythm. His blood turned cold, and his beauty became eternal. Thus was born the first Vampyre, the son of desire and the heir of death.
Becca's breath caught softly. There was a beauty to it,terrible and magnificent. The kind that invited pity and fear in equal measure.
She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and continued.
Draco wandered through centuries, unbound by time, untouched by decay. The world worshipped him as it once feared him. Kingdoms fell to their knees for his favor; queens wept to be remembered by his gaze. Yet he loved none of them. For love demands a pulse,and he had long forgotten his.
The words seemed to hum beneath her fingers.
She turned the page, heart drumming quietly. The chapter deepened into something darker, tracing the legacy of Draco's curse.
Those he chose to drink from did not die; they changed. Their souls were bled of light and filled with hunger. They, too, became as he was,children of the eclipse. Thus began the bloodline of the Vampyres, each carrying the mark of their maker: beauty beyond reason, hearts colder than stone, and thirst that no prayer could quench.
They built no temples, for they worshipped nothing but eternity. Their laws were older than crowns, older than men. They could not walk in daylight, for the sun's touch burned their deceit to ash. They spoke in whispers, ruled from shadows, and fed in silence.
Becca's fingers lingered over the next line.
To be bitten by one was not to die,but to forget how to live.
She shivered. The rain outside had grown heavier, a steady rhythm against the glass like fingers tapping at the window.
Men called them demons. Priests called them abominations. Yet the truth was far crueler, they were neither damned nor blessed, only lost.
The script changed again, thinner, weaker, as though the writer's strength had waned.
The Vampyres loved power above all, but even power is a lonely crown. For though they could take what they desired, though they could command the hearts of men and women alike, they themselves were forever starved for what they could never hold, love that did not fade.
Becca swallowed. The candle had burned low, the wax pooling over the holder like a slow tear. The air smelled of smoke and old paper.
It was said that when a Vampyre loves, his love is unlike any mortal's. It is fierce, consuming, endless,but it is also unkind. For they cannot unlove what they have once claimed. The heart that no longer beats cannot change its devotion. It remembers forever, even when it wishes to forget.
The sentence lingered on the page, stark and final.
Becca sat back slowly, the echo of those words settling deep into her chest.
Vampyres have no heart for love,and could never unlove the one they have loved.
The rain softened again, a whisper of mist over the glass.
For a moment, Becca thought she could hear her own heartbeat louder than before, steady and fragile against the quiet.
She closed the book gently. The leather was cold beneath her palms, the engraved crescent almost pulsing faintly beneath her touch.
Her eyes lifted to the window. The world beyond was drowned in night,no stars, no moon, only the faint silhouette of the trees swaying in the storm.
The room smelled of rain and wax and something else,something faintly metallic, like a memory she could not place.
She blew out the candle. Darkness folded over her like a cloak.
For a long while, she sat in silence, the echo of that last line whispering in her thoughts, haunting her as surely as the voice that had once spoken her name.