The shadow combed through Isaiah's undulating hair as he moved through that humid and suffocating night until he reached the boundaries of the White Castle. The darkness did not merely follow him; it crawled over his shoulders like a living, weary cloak. There, where the night did not belong to vampires, where not even Belzblehem's eyes could penetrate, and only demons authorized by the King of Darkness dared to exist. The air became solid as he crossed the invisible threshold, resisting his steps.
It was forbidden terrain, sown with perverse creatures that recognized neither loyalty nor obedience. The air twisted amidst the undergrowth, permeated by a sulfurous stench that mingled with the decadent scent of dead flowers. The vegetation seemed to have rotted where it stood; the black stalks crunched beneath his steps without fully breaking.
The altars improvised by human hands—black with dried blood and ash—reminded him of how desperate the mortals who once prayed in this place had been. The dark stains glistened with recent moisture under the hidden moon. No sane being could survive here without losing their mind. The silence was not an absence of sound; it was an active pressure against the eardrums.
Then, the voice arrived.
There was no warning, only the sudden impact. —The blood shall be poured like water upon the earth, for this is the best of your descendants.
The sound tore through the air. He perceived it as rusting metal shattering, an atrocious noise that pierced the vampire's ears.
Isaiah covered his head with both hands, but the pain would not yield. His nails clawed at his own scalp, seeking relief. His entire body arched; when he withdrew his palms, they were stained with black blood.
The liquid was thick, cold, and did not clot. —Vampire, you have invoked my name, and behold the voice that shall answer the pact.
There was no figure, no concrete shadow; only a void that weighed more than gravity, a suffocating silence that filled even the lungs. Isaiah felt his fangs deploy involuntarily, biting his lips as he tried to speak. The ferric taste flooded his mouth.
—I have made a mistake... —he managed to utter, his voice cracked—. I wish to know if there is another way to pay my debt.
The words cost physical effort; he had to push them against an invisible wall. The response was a deep, prolonged laugh that stripped the forest of all trace of life. Isaiah fell to his knees; the damp earth clung to his skin, absorbing him.
The mud had the texture of flesh beneath his knees. Demons do not make alliances. They do not offer mercy. They are destruction itself: entities that know no death, that resurface every time humanity rots in its own malice. Not even the gods can bend them.
—Go forth and deal him death, and I shall follow you, and I shall have for myself the soul in sacrifice.
The word soul embedded itself like a knife in the vampire's mind. He knew what it meant: total annihilation. Souls devoured by demons do not enter judgment, they are not reborn, they do not burn nor rest. They simply cease to be, as if they had never existed. The void of that promise was more terrifying than hell.
—The fourth day... of the eleventh month... —he whispered with difficulty—. I will deliver what you desire. The hour, I cannot specify.
Each syllable was a sacrifice. The air thawed suddenly. The insects began to sound again, the branches to creak, but the demon's oppression still floated. Breath returned to his lungs like a sharp blow.
—Your words shall serve as memory for the pacted day. Vampire.
For entities that control spaces and forces beyond human comprehension, time was but a breath. The demon knew no haste. The voice moved away, but the sensation of being watched remained intact.
—Wait.
The word came out before he could calculate the risk. The twisted trees swayed their branches, a sign that the demon was listening.
The wind stopped dead, waiting. Isaiah's fingers trembled. He knew that if he dared to ask more—no matter how insignificant the doubt—the price would be his own soul. Something unpayable for one who still harbored desires and purposes. Cold sweat ran down his back.
—Go before the city, and when you find this man, you shall be free of this earth. You shall make him your sacrifice: he who now dwells in the land of Zheir, Dan.
The information was not spoken; it was implanted. The vampire snapped his head up.
Pain throbbed behind his eyes. —Zheir is immense. It is of no use to know only that.
His voice sounded desperate, breaking his own composure. The forest fell silent. And then, an image was imposed upon his mind: a blue building rising in the middle of a great unknown city. The mirage sealed the pact.
The vision burned his internal retina, branded by fire. Isaiah remained gasping, his body shaken, his forehead against the damp earth. Mud stained his face, mixing with the dried blood. When he looked up, the White Castle stood in the distance, proud and terrible, reminding him that his story was but an accident in the condemnation of the vampires.
The white towers shimmered under the moonlight. Dying by Belzblehem's designs would never be for him a fair payment for the immortality granted. He stood up slowly, cleaning the dirt from his hands without success, knowing that the stain was internal.
♱⏾⋆.