Chapter III

It's hot.

That was the first thing I noticed the moment I cracked my eyes open—the sharp sting of sunlight pouring through the window, blinding me in a blaze of white. I squinted, the light stabbing at my vision until it finally began to settle.

A dull ache pulsed at the side of my neck. I winced. And then it hit me—

I was bitten. By a royal vampire.

The memories from last night flooded in like a nightmare I couldn't shake off. His cold touch. His mouth on mine. The burn of his blood in my throat. The way he sank his fangs into me like I was nothing more than a warm meal.

So why the hell am I still alive?

I should be dead. I felt it—the life draining out of me, the heaviness in my limbs, the creeping black that nearly swallowed me whole. And yet… here I am. Breathing. Blinking. Alive.

My fingers twitched at my sides as I tried to move, every muscle sore like I'd been dragged through gravel. My mouth was dry. My head, pounding. There was a faint metallic aftertaste lingering on my tongue—blood. His blood. I gagged.

Where even am I?

The bedsheet beneath me was coarse and thin, the kind you'd find in an old, barely-used guest room. It smelled faintly of dust and sun-dried fabric—clean enough to sleep on, but far from comfortable. No silks. No luxuries. Just something decent. Something plain.

But I'm alive. I should be thankful for that... right?

I slowly roamed my eyes around the room.

It was small—humble—but wide enough to move around. The walls were made of uneven wooden planks, darkened by age and weather, some parts already splintering or rotting at the edges. Above me, the roof looked like it was thatched from dried grass or straw, slanted and brittle, sunlight leaking through the thin gaps.

The room was nearly empty. Bare. Just a single crooked wooden table in the corner and a matching old chair with one leg shorter than the others. Near the far wall, a little chimney crackled with faint heat, a dented pot perched above the flame, letting out a soft, comforting hiss. I caught the faint scent of something herbal—roots, maybe leaves.

And then there was the bed. The one I was lying on.

It creaked when I shifted. The mattress was thin and the sheets were coarse, stiff with age, but someone had at least tried to make it livable. Beside me, a narrow window stood slightly ajar, letting in the golden light and the sound of birds chirping in the distance.

The peace didn't last long.

"Oh—you're awake."

The door creaked open, and in stepped a pale, wrinkled woman carrying a small wicker basket filled with leafy greens and roots. Her eyes were sharp but kind, her silver hair tied back loosely with a fraying ribbon. She wore layers of faded linen, simple and practical.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping inside. "Any pain?"

"A-ah—" My throat burned as I tried to speak. I coughed, the sound dry and raspy. I instinctively reached up to touch my neck. "N-no… just… a little sore."

The old woman nodded and walked to the table, setting the basket gently on the edge.

"Come, come," she said with a small smile. "You've been asleep for two days. You must be hungry."

That made me pause. Two days?

Slowly, I peeled off the thin blanket covering my legs and let my feet touch the floor. The wood was cool beneath my skin. My knees wobbled, weak from sleep, but I managed to steady myself and take a few careful steps toward the table.

The old woman shuffled over to the corner near the chimney. From a small shelf, she picked up a slightly uneven clay bowl and a worn clay spoon. Then, with practiced hands, she leaned over the pot above the fire and ladled out something warm and fragrant.

"Here. It's a herbal brew to help your wound heal faster," the old woman said as she handed me the bowl. "It may taste bitter, but it works."

I accepted it with both hands and placed it gently in front of me. A soft fragrance rose with the steam—mint and something faintly floral, like lavender.

I scooped a small spoonful and blew on it, then took a careful sip.

Bitter.

"T-thank you," I managed to say, my voice still hoarse.

She smiled kindly, then reached for the basket she had brought in earlier. "Eat. I'll go clean these outside."

I nodded. She stepped outside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

Silence settled over the room again. But not the kind that threatened danger—it was a quiet that soothed.

It was the silence of trees swaying softly in the wind. The occasional chirp of birds in the distance. The scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and something else I hadn't felt in a long time.

Peace.

But then a memory clawed its way back into my mind.

The peace I felt shattered like thin glass, replaced by the sickening echo of that night. Her painful moan. The tearing of flesh. The sound of it—still fresh, still real—ripped through the gentle hush of the wind outside.

It was like the world was mocking me.

Reminding me that peace was never mine to begin with.

That peace was a lie. A cruel joke whispered in between moments of survival.

Will they come for the old woman too, if they find me? Will they dig their claws into her chest and crush her heart like they did to the others?Will her bones snap the same way? Will she scream? Or the sound won't even be heard?

I looked through the cracked door. She was crouched beside the stream, her hands soaked in water as she gently washed the greens. Humming something faint—soft, like a lullaby to herself.

So unaware. So kind. So fragile.

And I—I was the danger she didn't know she'd welcomed.

No—I won't let them touch her.

Not her. Not again.

Swallowing down the ache in my throat, I picked up the spoon again. With guilt heavy in my chest and dread curling in my gut, I forced myself to eat.

After finishing the food, I stepped outside barefoot. The cool grass tickled the soles of my feet—uncomfortable, but familiar. I've walked through worse.

"U-uhm... T-thank you for the food," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

The old woman was crouched by a patch of soil, planting herbs in a small garden. She didn't answer, just kept humming, the tune as calm and steady as the wind.

Then she paused. Her hands stilled. She looked up at me—and for a second, sunlight caught her eyes. Warm brown, vibrant, glowing.

And just for a moment, it was like I saw someone else entirely. It has the same feature of the old woman but younger.

I blinked—and she was the same old woman again, back to tending the dirt like nothing happened.

"Uhm..." I tried again. "I-I need to go now. Thank you... again. I feel much better."

Still, she didn't say a word. Only hummed.

I hesitated. Waited. Then turned around, ready to leave.

"You're sister."

I froze.

Slowly, I turned back. The old woman wasn't humming anymore. Her head hung low, her fingers resting on the soil.

"She's alive," she said.

My heart stopped—then pounded like it wanted to escape my chest. Hope flared in my lungs like air after drowning.

"But she's dead... at least, her body is. But her heart—" she lifted her head. "It's still beating."

Her eyes—once brown—had turned a stark, eerie white.

"She's waiting for you, Syraeth. She has been... even after you abandoned her. She's still waiting for you to return."

My breath hitched.

Abandoned?

No.

No—I didn't. I would never.

"N-no... I... I didn't—what are you talking about?" I rushed toward her, dropped to my knees, and grabbed her shoulders. "Where is she? Tell me."

A strange smirk curled her lips.

"You know where she is, Syraeth."

My brows furrowed. "What?"

"The root of your kind," she whispered. "The place where the seed was planted. A house of a withered flower, grown in the cold, winter region where the shadows live. A poison... just like you."

I stared at her, confused. A flower? The shadow region—vampire region?

What is she talking about?

I opened my mouth to ask more—but her eyes blinked back to brown. The vibrant warmth returned, and she looked at me like she had no idea what she'd just said.

My throat tightened. I bit my lip, frustrated, and stood. Then I marched away, leaving the house behind.

The root of my kind...

A withered flower...

The vampire region...

But more than anything—

My sister. My twin.

My other half.

She's alive.