Leo watched Liam with a satisfied smile. The outcome had exceeded his expectations. He hadn't anticipated that anyone bound to him would undergo a transformation similar to his own—becoming a half-vampire. Even more surprising was the small streak of white that now ran through Liam's hair, a clear sign that the second circle—linked to the goddess of nature—had also affected him.
This realization raised concerns for Leo. When he finds a new spell for the third circle, he'd have to be far more cautious. If the effects of the circle were immediate and uncontrollable for his followers, it could lead to unpredictable consequences—or even danger.
After confirming that Liam was stable and safe, Leo exited his domain and rushed back to the deck. The last boat was preparing to leave, its ropes already being untied. Without wasting a second, he jumped aboard.
"Where were you?" one of the crewmen, Wilfred, asked with a raised brow.
"Had to grab something from my cabin," Leo replied casually.
Wilfred shrugged and didn't press further.
The boat began its slow journey toward the island. When they finally landed, Leo stepped ashore to find Arthur waiting for him. A small group stood behind him, including Briva.
"Sorry I'm late—had something important to take care of," Leo said as he joined them.
Arthur simply nodded. "Let's go."
They set off into the jungle that covered most of the island. The canopy above was thick, letting through only slivers of sunlight, and the deeper they went, the darker it became. Leo was about to conjure a light orb when Briva drew her sword. The moment the blade left its sheath, it glowed with a steady golden light.
Leo blinked in surprise. "Is that an enchantment?"
"Yes," Briva replied with a nod.
"Could you show it to me later? I'd like to learn the spell."
"Sure," she said simply, continuing ahead.
His Sword of Light had something like that but it broke a long time ago. They moved through the dense underbrush, pushing past twisting vines and overgrown roots. Strange bird calls echoed in the distance, and the smell of damp earth filled the air. After some time exploring the darker parts of the jungle—without encountering anything too unusual—they decided to return to the beach to regroup.
…
In a village deep in the Kingdom of the North, the night was thick with fog. The mist clung to every roof and fence, a silent shroud that made even familiar paths look strange and wrong.
Marco jolted upright in his straw mattress, sweat beading on his neck despite the chill. A scream had split the darkness—raw, ragged, and filled with such terror it made the hair on his arms stand up. His heart thundered in his chest. For a moment, he hoped he'd only dreamed it. Then, another scream tore through the quiet, this one weaker and gurgling, as if someone was choking on their own blood.
He stumbled to his feet, pulling on his trousers with shaking hands. He snatched up the iron sword leaning against the wall, its hilt cold as ice, and pushed out into the night air. The fog was thicker out here, swirling in slow, unnatural eddies. Every creak of timber and distant footstep sounded magnified. He turned his head frantically, scanning the shadows that stretched between the houses.
Then he heard a low, wet coughing that broke off in a final, rattling gasp. It came from the Lamorik's house. His breath caught in his throat. He knew the Lamoriks—an old couple, kind people. Their son had gone missing a few days ago.
He broke into a run, boots slapping the frost-slicked dirt. The house came into view, its front door hanging on one hinge. A single smear of something dark streaked the doorframe where a hand had tried—and failed—to hold on.
He swallowed, trying to ignore the coppery smell drifting out from the doorway. A heavy dread pressed on his shoulders, thick as the fog. Clutching his sword in both hands, he stepped inside.
Darkness swallowed him. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but it felt like the dark was alive—coiling around him, refusing to let him see. No more screams came. No moans. Just the sound of something dripping, slow and steady, onto the packed earth floor.
Then, with a sudden slam that made his ears ring, the broken door crashed shut behind him—as he spun around, heart stuttering in confusion, the door was no longer splintered and hanging. It was whole again, perfectly intact, as though it had never been forced open at all. The iron latch had locked itself in place, trapping him inside. An echo burst through the silence like a cracking whip. He flinched back, heart hammering, and spun around, trying to see what had moved. The walls felt closer now, like they were leaning in, ready to crush him. His breath came ragged. He could hear it echoing—too loud in the dead air.
He took a cautious step forward—and his boot landed in something wet and slick. He froze, staring down. Even in the dimness he could see the thick smear of red spreading underfoot. Blood—too much blood. But there was something else mixed in, a viscous greenish fluid that clung to the floor in slimy ropes. It smelled sharp and sour, like rot mixed with bile.
His gaze lifted, and the breath left his lungs in a strangled wheeze. A body lay sprawled on the floorboards. The back of the skull was split wide open—like an overripe melon—and the grey-pink mass of the brain had spilled free, mingling with the blood and green slime. One hand was stretched out, fingers curled in a final grasp for help. The mouth hung open in a silent scream, the tongue blackened and swollen.
Marco's vision blurred. He staggered to the corner and vomited onto the floor. The sour stench of his bile mixed with the reek of death. He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and pressed himself back against the wall, fighting the urge to scream himself.
In the darkness, something shifted around him. A wet scrape across the floorboards. He wasn't alone.
But the door was shut now, sealed tight, and he was trapped. He set the tip of his sword on the floorboards, trying to steady his shaking hands, and slapped himself across the cheek—hard. The sting cleared some of the panic fogging his mind.
'Fine,' he thought, sucking in a breath. If he was going to die in this cursed place, he'd die fighting.
With a grim resolve, he gripped his sword properly again and began moving, step by step, through the ground floor. He searched each room carefully. Shadows pooled in corners. Every cupboard, every shelf seemed to breathe, as if watching him. But aside from the puddles of blood and the crushed bits of furniture, nothing moved.
Finally, only one place remained, the single room at the top of the stairs.
He climbed slowly, boots slick from whatever he'd stepped in. The stairs complained under his weight, the wood creaking and popping loud enough to make his heart slam against his ribs. As he got near the landing, a wet, rhythmic noise reached his ears—like meat being torn apart by hand.
A sour taste flooded his mouth. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt until his knuckles turned white.
The door at the top stood ajar, cracked just enough to see movement beyond. He swallowed, raised the blade, and nudged it open the rest of the way with the steel tip.
His breath caught in his throat. The Lamorik boy—the one who'd disappeared days ago—was crouched over the body of his own mother. What was left of her. Ragged strips of flesh dangled from his hands, slick with gore. His jaw worked mechanically, tearing bites from her ribs as if he were starving.
Marco's mind blanked. He didn't know whether to be sick, to weep, or to rage. He felt all of it, a storm of horror and sorrow and disgust tearing through his chest. His pulse drummed in his ears. Slowly, he took a step forward. Then another. On the third step, a floorboard let out a long, splintering groan under his boot. The boy froze.
Marco looked down, then back up and nearly dropped his sword when the boy's head twisted toward him, rotating far past what a human neck should allow.
The face staring back was a ruined mask. Skin was shredded in strips, blood clotted in the torn flesh. His mouth hung open, streaked dark red. The eyes were wide, round, and utterly wrong—empty, yet ravenous.
The boy let out a ragged growl that started as a human sound and twisted into something feral. Then he launched himself across the room.
Marco lost his footing and slammed onto his back, the air driven from his lungs. A moment later the thing crashed onto him, claws scrabbling at his shoulders. He barely managed to wedge the sword crosswise across his chest. The boy—no, the creature—threw its weight down, forcing the blade closer and closer to Marco's throat.
The edge split the creature's palms. Black-red blood spilled, but it didn't seem to feel any pain at all. Its head lunged forward, teeth gnashing inches from Marco's face.
Panic flared white-hot. He braced his boots against the floor and, with all his strength, kicked the creature backward. It flew across the room, smashed into the wall with a crunch of plaster, and fell motionless.
Marco staggered up, chest heaving. He didn't wait to see if it would rise again. He spun and bolted down the stairs, clutching the railing.
But at the mid way, he skidded to a halt. The corpse he'd found earlier—the one lying with half its skull missing—was standing. Its eye sockets were empty. Rotting lips twitched and parted, as though trying to form words it had forgotten.
Marco's vision darkened with horror. He took one step back just as the boy upstairs screeched, a sound like a pig being slaughtered, and came barreling after him, so fast it slammed into the walls, rebounding with a wet thud and still moving.
As the creature lunged down the stairs, Marco swung his sword in a wide arc. The blade hissed through the dark and struck clean. There was a wet snap as steel sliced straight across the boy's skull, carving the upper half clean off.
For an instant, everything stopped. The severed dome of the head struck the wall behind the creature and slid down, leaving a smear of gore. What remained standing was worse—an almost headless neck and, a gaping jaw still intact, twitching open and shut. Ragged strands of sinew dangled where the rest of the face should have been.
The thing shuddered as if confused. Then it released a rattling growl—just a wet, bubbling noise from it's mouth—and threw itself at him again. This time, the impact was brutal.
Marco's balance vanished. His boots slipped on the bloody stairs. He tried to grab the banister, but the creature's weight bowled him over, and he tumbled backward. Each step cracked against his spine and shoulders. The sword almost flew from his grasp.
He hit the landing with a heavy thud, half-blind from pain—and looked up in time to see the reanimated corpse at the bottom reaching for him, its split skull leaking gray matter onto the floorboards.
Marco twisted on the ground, gasping, and managed to wrench himself free of the grasping hands. He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the filth, and sprinted into the nearest doorway. Without thinking, he threw himself inside and slammed the door shut behind him so hard the hinges groaned.
It was a narrow room, more a storage closet than anything else. A single warped table leaned against one wall. A squat wooden drawer sat in the corner, streaked with old water stains. No windows. No way out.
His breath tore ragged in his throat. He shoved the drawer across the floor until it jammed under the handle, bracing it. Then he pressed his shoulder and both hands against the door, every muscle straining to keep it closed as the things outside began to pound against it.
Boom.
The door shuddered.
Boom.
Splinters cracked away from the frame.
Marco squeezed his eyes shut and began to pray, voice shaking. He chanted every invocation he could remember—names of the gods, the words the village priest had taught him. But nothing happened. The shadows stayed dark. The creatures outside kept hammering, harder and harder, each strike driving the door inward another inch.
His shoulder ached from the force. A cold, crawling despair started to spread through his chest.
Boom.
A jagged crack split the door from top to bottom. He felt the impact slam against his spine.
And then—like a spark in his mind—he remembered a different prayer. One he'd seen written in a paper in the book of the gods.
He'd never read through it. But instinct—or desperation—made him fumble at his pocket. His fingers brushed a paper, damp with sweat and blood. He pulled it out and stared in shock.
It was the same prayer. The exact page he'd found days ago, and he was sure he left it in the book back then.
"What…what is this doing here?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
Another blow smashed against the door. The drawer scraped back a few inches. The creatures hissed on the other side, low and hungry.
He didn't have time to wonder.
Marco braced his shoulder harder against the groaning wood, unfolded the paper with shaking hands, and began to read.
"The Creator — an eternal presence, neither good nor evil, bearer of both light and shadow, who forged balance from chaos and gave form to the formless."
From nothing, You spoke.
From chaos, You sculpted stars.
In shadow, You placed the seed of light;
In light, the promise of shadow.
The Creator, who sees without eyes,
Whose voice echoes in silence—
Guide me as You Guide all."