Page 9 of Vampire Solstice
The silence stretches as we continue deeper into the woods. The storm has eased, but the air is heavy with an unnatural stillness. Every broken branch or crunch of ice is deafening.
“Are you sure we’re not being led in circles?” Fen mutters.
“I’m sure,” Myra snaps, her voice defensive.
But I can feel it too—that faint sense of disorientation, as if the forest is shifting around us. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the village far closer than it should be, but there’s only the endless expanse of trees and snow.
“We’re nearly there,” Myra says in a tight voice, fingers fidgeting with her red ribbon.
We crest a small hill, and I see it: a clearing, its edges marked by clawed-up snow and the dark, jagged remains of shattered branches. The air feels colder here, sharper, the stillness even more oppressive.
“This is the last place it attacked,” Myra says, stopping at the edge of the clearing. Fen steps forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over the scene. “How long ago?,” he says, crouching to inspect the ground.
“Two months.” Myra tightens her cloak around her shoulders as she shifts her gaze to the side.
“A long time,” he mutters, his frown deepening. “We won’t find any tracks.”
“Are the attacks always so infrequent?” I ask, scanning the area for signs of an animal den.
Myra pauses, biting her lip, then shakes her head. “No. They used to come more often.”
“Perhaps something injured the beast,” I say.
Fen scowls. “Or it's hibernating.” He looks at Myra. “Do the attacks slow in winter?”
“I… I don’t know. Maybe.”
Fen stands, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe? Think your village would notice something like that–”
“It’s always winter here,” Myra says defiantly. “So I would have no way of knowing the beast’s behavior in other seasons. This is our weather year round.”
I can’t imagine living like this all year long. How do they even sustain themselves, I wonder. “What else can you tell us? Did anyone see what direction it went from here?”
She hesitates, her lips parting as if to speak, but then she shakes her head. “No,” she says, too slowly. “It always vanishes into the woods.”
I glance at Fen, his jaw tight with suspicion. Something about her answers doesn’t sit right, but I can’t bring myself to press her further. Not yet.
“We keep moving,” I say. “Its den can’t be too far from the village, if its curse is to hunt the people and keep them contained. And if the beast is watching us, staying here won’t help.”
Fen nods, though his gaze lingers on Myra for a moment longer before we continue.
The forest grows darkeras we press on, the trees thickening around us as Myra leads the way The lantern’s light is dim, barely cutting through the gloom, and the cold seems to seep deeper into my bones with every step.
I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. It’s subtle at first—a prickling at the back of my neck, the faint sound of branches shifting in the distance. But as we move deeper, it grows stronger, more insistent.
“Did you hear that?” Fen asks, his hand tightening on his blade.
I freeze, my breath catching as I strain to listen. And then I hear it: a faint, low growl, so soft I almost think I imagined it.
Myra’s grip on the lantern falters, her knuckles white. “It’s close,” she whispers.
Fen moves to my side, his presence solid and grounding.
The growl comes again, louder this time, reverberating through the trees. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong, something too deep, too primal to be natural.
“Run!” Myra shouts, her voice breaking with panic.
Before I can react, she bolts, the lantern swinging wildly in her grasp as she disappears into the trees.