Meanwhile, Yuvaan returned home long after the mansion had gone quiet. The hallways were dim, touched only by the mellow night-lamp glow. His steps were tired, but there was a softness in his eyes that only came when he thought of his little boy.
He pushed open Kiaan's bedroom door gently, careful not to make a sound. The child slept curled up like a small treasure in the middle of the bed, blanket half-kicked away in his tiny restlessness. A faint smile played on his lips, as if he were dreaming of something sweet and innocent — things far away from the dark world his parents lived in.
Yuvaan walked to the bedside with that look fathers get when love hurts a little, when pride and fear sit in the same heart. He bent down and pulled the blanket over Kiaan, tucking the edges near his shoulders so he wouldn't feel the cold night breeze. The boy barely stirred, only a soft sigh escaping him.
Yuvaan brushed his fingers through Kiaan's hair, slow and tender. He pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering for a heartbeat longer than usual. His voice was only a whisper, fragile like a prayer.
"I love you, champ."
Kiaan slept on, unaware of the battles his father fought, unaware of the shadows that followed their bloodline.
Yuvaan straightened himself, took one last look at his son, and quietly walked out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him as he made his way to his own room, unaware of how close danger truly was.
The music of the masquerade pulsed through the red-lit hall, muffled now by distance. Varun stuck close to the shadows, keeping his breathing steady, eyes darting as he followed the silent pull of the compass. The needle trembled — not yet pointing directly, but searching, like a heartbeat trying to find rhythm.
He swallowed hard.
Just one more gate. Just one more clue. I have to keep moving.
A soft laugh drifted behind him — honeyed, slow, almost affectionate. Varun froze.
Three women glided out of the darkness, gowns sweeping the marble floor like spilled ink. Their beauty was wrong — perfect in a way that unsettled the bones, like portraits that stared back.
One of them leaned close enough for him to smell her — roses over rusted iron.
"You look tired, traveler," she whispered, voice wrapping around him like silk. "Stay. Rest. We can help you forget everything you're running from."
Her fingers nearly brushed his cheek.
Varun stepped back, jaw clenched. "I'm not here for pleasure."
Another woman circled him, slow as a serpent tasting the air. Her nails trailed along his shoulder lightly — too lightly. Testing. Teasing. He held his breath, reminding himself he wore Kiara's aura-concealing locket. As long as it held, they couldn't scent the hunter in him… but curiosity was its own danger.
Their eyes glazed, hunger sharp beneath charm.
"Why leave so soon?" the third one murmured, lips stained red — not lipstick red. Fresher. "You smell… warm."
And just like that, the illusion cracked.
Glimmers of their true form flickered under the candlelight — a flash of elongated teeth, pupils thinning to slits, veins crawling dark beneath pale skin. They moved closer, too close. Every instinct in Varun's body screamed run.
But running openly would betray him.
Slow. Think.
His hand edged toward his backpack. The magical explosive sphere pressed cold against his fingertips.
His thumb found the carved sigil.
He inhaled, silent.
The first vampiric woman blinked — and the glamour dropped entirely. Her jaw split wide, far beyond human limit, revealing rows of wet, glistening fangs. The hall filled with the smell of blood, iron-thick.
The other two hissed, bones cracking as claws extended. No more charm. No more pretense.
Predators.
Varun didn't wait for the bite.
He slammed the rune sphere into the floor.
Silver light erupted — slow at first, like a sunrise blooming under water… then violently, expanding outward with a sound like a hundred bells shattering. His vision went white. The vampires shrieked, not like women but like dying beasts — skin blistering, wings unfurling in a frantic, burning panic.
Varun shielded his face with his arm, forcing himself not to look back, not to hesitate.
Move. Move now.
While the explosion's radiance swallowed the hall, he slipped into the smoke, heart pounding against ribs like a drum of war. The compass needle spun wildly — then steadied, glowing faintly gold.
There, behind a crumbling angel statue, a narrow archway flickered — ancient runes igniting like fireflies waking from sleep. The air around it hummed with power, the doorway breathing like a living thing.
He paused only once, glancing back through the fading haze — silhouettes of the vampiric women twitching, crawling, regenerating.
They'll be up soon.
Varun stepped into the portal.
The world sighed—then swallowed him whole.
---
To be continued…