The darkness of Gwaine's unconsciousness was not a void; it was a theater of ghosts. The scent of the cold stone floor in Oakhaven vanished, replaced by the copper tang of a dying empire and the smoke of Shinar.
He was crawling. The mud was thick, churned into a red paste by thousands of marching feet. Gwaine's armor was shattered, and his body was a roadmap of agony. He had been stabbed and slashed multiple times by the steel of the rival kingdom—blade marks that crossed his chest and back like a cruel tally.
Through the haze of his failing vision, he saw his kingdom burning on the horizon. Worse, he saw the enemy's vanguard retreating toward the smoke, dragging a screaming captive in iron chains.
"Taulik..." Gwaine wheezed, his fingers clawing into the dirt.
His little brother was in their hands. The boy who looked up to him, the last of his blood, was being taken to a fate worse than death. Gwaine tried to stand, but his legs were useless. The light was leaving the world. As his vision flickered, a figure materialized from the settling dust.
It was tall, draped in a robe so black it seemed to swallow the ambient light. In its right hand, it held a massive, curved scythe that hummed with the vibration of a final bell. The face beneath the hood was a polished, ivory skeleton. Death.
Gwaine felt a strange peace. He had fought well. He reached out a trembling, blood-slicked hand to touch the cold phalanges of the Reaper, ready to cross the veil.
But before their fingers met, a second hand intervened.
This hand was different—burning with a hidden heat, the skin like dark brass. It gripped Gwaine's wrist with the strength of a collapsing mountain. Death paused, its hollow sockets staring at the intruder.
From the shadows stepped a beautiful, terrible presence. This was the one who had escaped his cage the moment Cain, Gwaine's great-grandfather, had spilled the first drop of brotherly blood. Lucifer.
"Not this one," the Devil whispered, his voice like silk over a razor. "Death can wait. I offer you a deal you cannot refuse: the power to save your brother, forever."
In his desperation to save Taulik, Gwaine gripped the Devil's hand. Death slowly faded into the mist, looking almost disappointed. As the pact was sealed, Gwaine felt his humanity burn away. He was reborn as something the world had never seen—the First Abomination.
Gwaine's eyes snapped open. He was no longer in the mud of Shinar; he was lying on a clean cot in a room that smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke. His chest was tightly bandaged, the white linen stained with a fading pink.
"Easy now," a gentle voice said.
An old man named Andate sat by the hearth, stirring a pot of broth. In the shadows of the corner stood another man—middle-aged, with shoulders like an ox and a gaze that felt like it was measuring Gwaine for a coffin. This was Kignar.
"How are you feeling?" Andate asked.
"I'm fine," Gwaine rasped, sitting up. The "alive" feeling was still there, heavy and painful.
"I have to thank you for saving this small kingdom," Kignar said from the corner, his voice like grinding stones. "I can take those werewolves alone, but my father and I were away on a hunt. We came late. Without you, Oakhaven would be a graveyard."
Gwaine looked at him. "I didn't do it for thanks."
"Regardless," Kignar stepped forward, his leather armor creaking. "Your service will not go unnoticed. I will reward you with gold. I don't want to be in debt to someone—especially a traveler I don't even know."
"I am Gwaine," the vampire said simply. "Just a traveler."
Kignar narrowed his eyes. "A traveler with a sword from a museum and the eyes of a man who has seen the end of the world. Hmmm."
Over the following week, Gwaine's strength returned. Despite his ancient cynicism, he found himself falling into a rhythm with Kignar. They were both warriors, and there was a silent respect between them. One afternoon, as the sun hung low, Kignar suggested a spar to "test his recovery."
They met in the courtyard. Kignar used a heavy practice mace; Gwaine used a wooden staff. They moved in a blur. Kignar was fast, but Gwaine was a master of a thousand battles.
During a particularly heated exchange, Kignar's mace grazed Gwaine's forearm, tearing the skin. A drop of dark, thick blood fell.
Then, the world stopped.
Before Kignar's very eyes, the jagged tear on Gwaine's arm knitted together. The skin closed, the bruising vanished, and within three seconds, it was as if the wound had never existed.
Kignar's face went pale. He dropped the mace and drew a silver-coated shortsword from his belt, falling into a lethal killing stance. "Abomination!" he roared.
"Kignar, wait!" Gwaine held up his hands.
"I've hunted your kind across three borders!" Kignar lunged, swinging with intent to kill. "You feasted on our gratitude while planning to feast on our throats!"
Gwaine didn't draw his steel. He dodged, parried with his bare hands, and used Kignar's momentum against him. He moved with a grace that was no longer human. Finally, he swept Kignar's legs and pinned him to the ground, his hand hovering over the hunter's throat.
"Listen to me!" Gwaine hissed. "I am not here to hurt you. I am hunting the same darkness you are. I was... changed, long ago. But I am not your enemy."
He didn't mention Lucifer. He didn't mention the Seraphim blood. He gave just enough to see the fire in Kignar's eyes dim from rage to confusion.
Gwaine slowly released him and stepped back, offering a hand. "I am a monster, Kignar. But I am a monster that kills other monsters."
Kignar stared at the hand, then suddenly lunged forward. But instead of a blade, he drove a heavy, iron-shod elbow into Gwaine's temple. The world exploded in white light.
"Wake up."
Gwaine opened his eyes to the smell of cold metal. He tried to move, but his wrists were bound in heavy shackles. He was in a small, damp cell. The bars weren't iron—they were polished, shimmering pure silver.
Standing outside was Kignar and a third man. This newcomer was dressed in reinforced leather, with a heavy silver cross hanging from a chain around his neck. He looked at Gwaine with a calm, terrifying intensity.
"Good, you're awake," the man said. "Now tell me... what are you?"
"What?" Gwaine groaned, his head throbbing.
"What kind of creature are you?" the man repeated. "I've tested your blood while you slept. You didn't turn in the moonlight, so you're not a werewolf. Your skin doesn't rot, so you're not a ghoul. You have no familiar, so you're not a witch. And clearly, you're not a common vampire, because Kignar tells me you walked in the midday sun without so much as a tan."
The man leaned closer to the silver bars. "So what are you? A new hybrid? A mistake of nature?"
"Hybrid? Gwaine asked.
The man turned to Kignar. "Are you sure he's not just a human with a very fast metabolism?"
Kignar shook his head. "I saw it with my own eyes. It wasn't healing. It was re-writing."
The man turned back to Gwaine, pulling a small pneumatic brass tube from his vest. "Well then. Back to finding out what makes you tick."
"Wait—" Gwaine started.
Phut.
A small dart buried itself in Gwaine's neck. The dose was enough to drop a bull elephant. Gwaine's vision began to swirl, the silver bars melting into the darkness of his past once more. As he slumped to the floor of the cage, the last thing he heard was the click of the hunter's boots.