The night air crackled with quiet tension, thick with pine and moonlight.
His home stood still—an old structure of wood and whispered wards, tucked into the hillside like a secret meant to be forgotten.
Inside, he sat by the hearth, reading a worn page of faded script, its ink bleeding age.
Then—
A pulse.
A sudden shift in the air, like a ripple running through time.
He didn't lift his eyes. Not at first.
But he felt her.
Not as the spirit she once was—wild, ravenous, fierce.
No, this presence was frayed. Flickering.
Starving.
The door creaked open on its own.
A wind pushed in… and with it, Tilda.
Her form was half-flesh, half-smoke, draped in the outline of who she used to be.
Eyes sunken but burning. Shoulders trembling beneath a cloak of fury and desperation.
He spoke without rising.
"You should not have come here."
"I don't care," she snarled.
Her voice cracked like something dry and breaking. "You did something to me. Since I met you—I can't possess. I can't feed. You cursed me."
His eyes drifted up, cold and unreadable.
"I unhooked your claws from an innocent soul. That isn't a curse. It's mercy."
She staggered forward, rage shaking her body. "I don't want your mercy," she snarled, but something behind her eyes flickered—panic dressed as rage. "I want my power back."
The vampire stood now—slow, tall, graceful.
His gaze narrowed. "Is that why you crawled back to me? Power?"
Tilda's lip curled. "I came to end this. You think I'm weak? You think I'm afraid?"
She lunged.
Fast. Sloppy. A blur of smoke and fury.
He didn't even flinch.
With one swift movement, he stepped aside, and her form slammed into the wall, shuddering like a candle flame in a storm.
She let out a scream, half-spirit, half-human, her form struggling to keep shape.
He was at her side in seconds, one hand raised, shimmering with blue-white magic. It didn't burn her—but it held her.
Held her still.
She writhed under the light. "Let me GO—"
"No," he said simply.
She hissed, eyes glassy with frustration.
"I'll never stop. You can't fix me. You can't cleanse me."
"I'm not here to cleanse you," he said quietly. "Only to stop you from falling further."
A long silence.
Tilda's chest heaved.
She slumped.
The floor creaked beneath her weightless knees.
Then, almost in a whisper: "I'm fading."
He didn't answer. But his gaze softened—barely.
"I can't possess. I can't exist. I don't know what's wrong. I feel... like I'm rotting from the inside."
He knelt down.
Close now.
His voice was no longer sharp. It was something else. Tired. Grounded.
"You were never meant to linger this long, Tilda."
Her eyes met his.
"What do I do?"
He didn't lie.
"I don't know."
She blinked. And for the first time, he saw it—the fear behind the rage. The girl behind the ghost.
"I went looking for something else," she whispered. "Something deeper. Older. It spoke to me."
That caught him.
He rose slowly. "What did it say?"
"It asked me to bleed truth into its seal."
"And did you?"
She looked away.
His voice sharpened again. "Tilda. Did you?"
"I told it who I am," she said quietly. "Or what I've become."
"And it let you live?"
"It told me I wasn't ready."
The vampire's jaw tightened.
"I need you to stay away from that thing," he said.
She laughed—dry and bitter.
"I'm dying, and you're giving me orders? You think I want your pity? Or do you just want to control what you don't understand?"
He turned away. "I understand more than you think."
"Then help me!" she shouted, rising again. "Do something. Or kill me now."
He froze.
The room stood still.
She was breathing hard—though her lungs were long gone.
"I didn't come here to beg," she whispered, voice almost lost to the crackle of the fire. "But I don't know what else to do."
He stood still, shadows dancing across his face.
Then, quieter than before: "You'll stay."
She looked up, startled.
"You'll stay," he said, but his voice, usually ironclad, softened—just enough to betray unease. "Rest. Until I find out what's binding you."
Or what's consuming you. I won't promise more."
She didn't nod. Didn't speak.
But she didn't run either.
Tilda sat still in the far corner of the room, wrapped in borrowed silence.
To anyone watching, she looked like a shadow humbled by defeat—her ghostly form solidifying faintly as she sat by the stone wall, eyes closed, breath quiet.
But her mind… never stopped turning.
The vampire's home pulsed with ancient energy, woven with quiet protection and symbols she half-recognized.
There was power here. Not just the kind that healed—but the kind that watched.
She could feel his presence even when he wasn't in the room—he was in the walls, the wood, the dark corners of the air.
But he wasn't invincible.
He trusted too much in control.
He let her stay.
And that was his first mistake.
Later that night, when his footsteps drifted far beyond the chamber walls, she stirred.
Not fully formed, not ghost, not flesh—but something in between. Tilda rose, her eyes gleaming in the dark like glass catching moonlight.
She pressed a hand to the floor.
It thrummed faintly.
Not the vampire's power—but something older. Deeper.
She whispered, barely audible, "I know you're still here…"
No answer.
But the stone under her hand felt cold. And somewhere in the depth of the house, a whisper answered—not in words, but in vibration.
Tilda…
A shiver passed through her bones.
She stood and moved with the silence of dust. Through the halls. Past shelves filled with books and locked tomes. Until she found the door—half-hidden, sealed with lines of chalk and thorn symbols.
Protection.
Of course he'd hide it.
Of course he'd protect it.
But protection could be unwoven. Even if she didn't break it completely… she could listen.
She leaned her head close to the door and exhaled softly.
And it came again.
The same presence that once whispered to her beneath the veil of death. Older than the vampire. Hungrier than any soul she'd ever fed on.
You returned.
Tilda's lips parted. "I'm still weak."
Then become strong.
"How?"
Breach the seal.
"I can't. Not yet."
Wait. Watch. Know his marrow.
Tilda froze.
Learn him?
The whisper turned slick, amused. He's not what he seems. Not only a vampire. Not only protector. He's bound to something too. Something darker than you realize.
Tilda's brow furrowed.
"…What is he hiding?"
The whisper replied, soft and electric: His fear.
She stepped back as the hum of power behind the door faded. Just in time—
A creak behind her.
She turned, heart hammering.
But no one was there.
Still, she felt his eyes.
She knew she'd been too long away from where he left her.
She slid back into the shadows, quick and quiet, whispering to herself, "You bury secrets, vampire. But they don't stay dead forever."