Only a handful—no more than ten—remained when the village men arrived, armed with pitchforks and raw determination. Hissing, the vampires circled the surviving sorceresses, a tight, predatory ring, savoring the thrill of the hunt. They seemed to have reserved the strongest witches—the cream of the coven—as a final indulgence, preparing to claim the sweetest prize.
Bold but foolish, the men charged blindly into the fray, shouting without discernment. They grappled with the vampires, who laughed, cruel and playful, dragging out the terror for their own amusement. The bloodthirsty creatures, drunk on their perceived superiority, did not notice the witches, united and resolute, joining hands. Vasilisa's voice rang out, chanting a curse that shimmered with raw power. Deprived of her own magic, the firstborn became a conduit, letting the foreign force surge through her. The other sorceresses echoed her incantation. Slowly, a pale blue light began to glow from beneath their skin, growing with each syllable.
The witches raised their faces to the sky and screamed in unison. The earth shuddered beneath them. Male voices, drawn by the spell, joined the chorus—a symphony of anguish and unyielding power. The full moon broke through the clouds, its silver gaze cold and impartial, illuminating the chaos below.
Where its light touched the village men, transformation began. Their bodies twisted and reshaped, shedding humanity. Thick fur burst forth from their skin, arms and legs thinning and bending, forcing them onto all fours. Huge fangs stretched from their mouths, jaws elongating like a wolf's.
When the metamorphosis concluded, the witches unclasped their hands. Their weakened bodies crumbled into shimmering silver dust, carried away by a sudden gust of wind, disappearing as if they had never existed.
Thus, legend tells, the first vampires and werewolves were born.
"You mean… witches really exist?" I stopped chewing long ago, captivated by Kostya's story.
"If there were no witches," he said, voice low, "there would be no us. No vampires either. And it's precisely because of vampires that witches are so few. Now, in Xerton, there are barely three left. Sorceresses avoid the mistakes of the bloodline. The coven that gave birth to the magic of transformation, that broke nature's balance, is gone. No one knows the exact spell they cast. No one can undo it. When you were born, Maria and I searched for someone who could save you from my fate. But… what's done cannot be undone."
His shoulders slumped. Guilt was etched into every line of his face.
I returned to that conversation in my mind over and over during his last days in the hospital, wondering how many firstborn still lived among humans, hiding in plain sight. How many led double lives, pretending to be ordinary mortals—entrepreneurs, lawyers, anyone—while secretly harboring otherness beneath the surface. How does one recognize a mythical creature? And if you are one of them… does it even matter?
"Still counting the flaws on the ceiling?" my father's voice cut through my reverie from the kitchen, and I realized it was time to leave the room.
I walked into the living room and sank onto the couch, opposite the turned-off TV. Kostya bustled in the kitchen, making sandwiches. The aroma was sharp—salami, mozzarella, and Provencal herbs.
"Want me to make you a couple?" he asked.
"No, thanks," I muttered, wrinkling my nose. "The salami smells… different. Too strong. A little… off."
"Yeah," he said lightly, "your friendship with meat is about to end. Soon, everything will smell like slightly spoiled carrion—especially smoked."
"I've noticed."
Kostya came and sat beside me. Three sandwiches sat on a plate, right under my nose. Inhaling the acrid scent, I grimaced. Pulling the sleeve of my sweater over my hand, I tried to cover both nostrils and mouth, as if hiding from the aroma could make it vanish.
Dad, as if nothing had happened, reached for the remote and turned on the TV. I shot Kostya a reproachful glance, but he didn't even look up. Instead, he grabbed the nearest sandwich and bit into it with obvious pleasure.
"Dad," I said, wincing, "move over. And take the sandwiches with you."