Chapter Nine: The Pale Corpses 

The last town I reached was different.

It wasn't the buildings, the streets, or the people. It was the air—heavy, still, as if something unseen was pressing down on the town, whispering through the cracks.

The villagers spoke in hushed voices. They glanced over their shoulders, quick and nervous. They feared something.

I listened.

Stories drifted through the tavern, carried by trembling lips. People were dying. Not by blade or sickness, but something far worse. Bodies were found in their beds, untouched by wounds, yet drained of blood, their skin pale as the clouds.

I knew the signs.

I had read about them in my family's books, long before they had burned to ash.

Vampires.

But I needed proof.

I wandered the town, asking quiet questions. The people were reluctant to speak, but fear makes tongues loose.

One man, a miller, told me he had seen shadows moving between the houses at night, slipping through doors without opening them.

A woman, clutching a silver pendant, swore she heard voices whispering outside her window—low, seductive murmurs that beckoned her into the dark.

Then there were the graves.

Half-dug earth. Coffins split from the inside out.

Something wasn't just killing people. It was making more of its kind.

I needed to prepare.

That night, I sat in my stolen corner of the tavern, hidden between barrels.