Chapter 1: The Blood Oath and the Whispers
The night suffocated, reeking of ash and terror.
Five cloaked figures stood in a tight circle, their hoods swallowing the faint light shed by a pair of trembling torches. Shadows writhed against the dirt floor as their low, guttural chants rose—sharp and unnatural, like a curse given a physical form, bending the very fabric of the darkness.
At the center of their circle, a woman struggled violently against the grip of the tallest figure. Her wrists were bound, her nails clawing uselessly at the air, her desperate screams slicing through the rhythmic chanting. A blade pressed against her throat, its steel catching a cruel, faint gleam of firelight.
"Please!" she begged, her voice ragged and broken. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Let me go! I have a son—he needs me!"
Her frantic eyes darted toward where a small boy was held captive by another hooded figure. The child's tiny hands reached out, his choking sobs tearing through the night.
The chanting only grew louder, drowning out her pleas. Each word rolled like merciless thunder.
The woman's gaze found the boy's, and for a fleeting moment, her trembling lips steadied.
"I love you, Elvas."
The knife moved in one swift, unforgiving stroke.
Hot, dark blood spilled across the floor, pooling beneath her body as it collapsed into lifeless stillness. The boy's screams broke into guttural cries of absolute grief, but the cloaked figures did not falter. Her death was nothing more than a necessary step in their cold, brutal ritual.
…
Fifteen Years Later:
Avalon's only school buzzed with the noise of footsteps, locker doors slamming, and endless chatter, but Elvas barely registered it. His headphones blared, loud enough to ache in his ears. Yet, the whispers still found him, slithering through the cracks in the music.
Demon. Curse. Freak.
Students moved aside as he walked, not out of deference, but out of sheer disgust. Their eyes tracked him like silent knives—some laughing openly, others muttering behind cupped hands. He kept his head down, dark hair shielding his eyes, his hands clenched deep inside the pockets of his worn jacket.
This was his life. Cruel stares and even crueler words. He'd learned to endure it, to swallow the poison and walk forward as if it meant nothing.
Then, he saw her. Liora.
At the far end of the hall, she stood surrounded by her circle of friends, her laughter ringing sharp and bright. The fluorescent lights turned her silver hair into a virtual halo, her green eyes sparkling as she spoke. Everyone admired her. Everyone craved her attention. She was the werewolves' pride, the girl rumored to be their fiercest warrior one day.
Elvas froze, his chest suddenly tight. She was everything he was not—strong, celebrated, alive with purpose. And she was utterly unaware of his existence.
"Get out of the way, jerk!"
A hard shove sent him sprawling. His headphones skidded across the tiled floor. Instant laughter erupted, echoing down the lockers.
Elvas did not need to look up to know who it was. Marcus.
The vampire's smirk was sharp, predatory. He stood over Elvas, flanked by his cronies—Mark and Luke. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, and their fangs glinted at the edges of their sneers. Marcus, with his broad shoulders, slicked-back hair, and an arrogance that clung to him like a second skin, never missed an opportunity to flaunt his authority.
Elvas pushed himself to his knees without uttering a single word. He'd lived this pathetic dance too many times. What was the use in fighting a lost cause?
But Marcus was not finished. He blocked Elvas's path, towering over him.
"No apology?" he sneered, his voice loud enough to draw the entire hallway's attention. "Think you can just walk around here like you matter?"
The whispers grew into a hum of eager excitement. More eyes, more mocking laughs.
Elvas finally raised his gaze, his dark eyes steady and unblinking. His voice was quiet, yet it carried an unexpected weight.
"I didn't touch you."
A flicker crossed Marcus's face—annoyance at being challenged.
"Maybe," Elvas said, his voice slow and deliberate, "you should apologize."
The air cracked with a sudden silence.
Then Marcus's laugh tore through it. In a blink, he seized Elvas by the collar and slammed him against the steel lockers. The loud clang echoed down the corridor as the crowd surged closer, hungry for a spectacle.
"You are nothing," Marcus hissed, his breath cold. "A demon freak. You should be groveling before me. I'll be the next Vampire King—don't forget that."
Mocking laughter swelled again, a cruel, familiar tide.
But a new voice cut through the noise, deep and distinctly taunting.
"Vampire King? More like a king of cowards."
The crowd shifted, parting like waves before a storm. Auran stepped forward, his massive, broad frame dominating the hall. The werewolf alpha carried himself with a dangerous, casual ease, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Marcus. Behind him, three scarred packmates leaned against the lockers, grinning like wolves scenting blood.
Marcus dropped Elvas and spun to face the new threat, his fangs fully bared.
"What's your business here, mutt?" he snarled, his fists curling.
Auran's laugh was low, a rumbling sound of pure menace.
"Didn't know vampires enjoyed picking on the weak. Makes sense, though. You're too busy hiding behind your little pets to take on someone stronger."
The tension crackled. The crowd was suddenly vibrant with anticipation.
Marcus took a menacing step forward, his eyes blazing. "You want to test me, dog? I'll rip your throat out here and now."
"Try it," Auran shot back, his grin widening. "I could use a new rug."
"STOP!"
The single word rang out like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Every head turned.
Elira, the school's safekeeper, strode into the scene. Though small in stature, her presence was immense. The dark robes around her seemed to absorb the light with each step, her piercing blue eyes sweeping over the crowd like a final judgment.
"Enough," she snapped. "Get to class. Now."
Her voice held an authority that snapped the tension.
The crowd scattered instantly, muttering as they went. Marcus gave Auran a final, venomous glare before storming off, his cronies close behind. Auran smirked, utterly unconcerned, and melted into the hall with his pack.
Silence lingered.
Elvas bent down, picking up his scattered headphones with hands that still felt a slight tremor. His chest was tight, but not from fear—from something deeper, something heavier, a familiar sense of powerlessness.
"Elvas."
Elira's voice pulled his gaze upward. Her tone was softer now, but no less firm.
"Stay. You're coming with me."
He hesitated, jaw tightening, then gave a small nod. With the phantom weight of a hundred scrutinizing stares still pressing on his back, he followed her toward her office—unsure of what kind of punishment awaited him, but certain of one thing:
The life he knew was about to end.