The sickness had hollowed him out.
By the seventh night, Ochar could no longer lift his leg from the p
ground.
His breath rasped against the silence, shallow and uneven, while the candle at his bedside melted into a pool of wax that looked almost like tears.
Outside, the snow fell in slow, merciless drifts. The world was white — cold, perfect, and indifferent.
He had been ready once, or so he thought.
But as the darkness gathered at the corners of the room, as the ticking of the old clock slowed, something in him rebelled.
He did not want to die. Not yet.
And when he whispered into the quiet — "Is there no way?" —
someone from a room answered.
At first, it was only a voice. Low, careful, almost kind.
Then, from the edge of the room, a figure stepped forward — robed in black, the folds of his garment trailing like ink across the floor.
His eyes burned faintly red beneath the hood.
"You called for life," the stranger said. "And life has answered."
Ochar struggled to speak."I just don't want to die now I just want to see many more days"
" then you came to the right place" the man said. " my name is Arexawa Others call me thief cause I steal from death — and gift what I take."
He set down a small glass vial filled with dark liquid that shimmered faintly even in the dim light.
Ochar stared. " can you save me?"
" yes I can return your breath," the sorcerer said softly. "But not your soul."
He leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper.
"You will live — yes. You will heal faster than any man. You will not grow old. But the balance must hold. For one cannot cheat death without feeding it in return."
Ochar's eyes flickered. "Feeding?"
The sorcerer smiled faintly. "Blood."
He explained: once each week, the man's body would yield to the beast within — for five hours only, under the shadow of the moon.
And twice in every seven days, he must drink the blood of the living, or his heart would slow, and rot would take what little humanity remained.
"Refuse this law," the sorcerer said, "and you will die as all men do — but slower, screaming."
The candle guttered.
Ochar could feel the room tightening, the air pressing down on him.
"why must it be that way is there not another" he whispered.
"NO," the sorcerer replied simply.
"or do you not want to live ."
He placed the vial in Ochar's trembling hand. "Drink, and remember — the beast does not sleep forever."
And Ochar, driven by fear, by the blind need to live, lifted the vial to his lips.
The taste was bitter, metallic, alive.
The sorcerer watched in silence.
When it was done, the candle went out.
In the darkness, Ochar's breath steadied — then deepened into something that was not quite human till the room broke.
Before the day broke , he rose from his bed — pale, flawless, no trace of fever ready to escape without anyone recognizing that he had transformed.
he looked into the mirror, his eyes reflected not light, but hunger.
He was alive.
And death had merely stepped aside to watch.
seer
let me tell you a story