The forest had no birds.

That was the first thing Thyra noticed as she led her warband beneath the dead canopy—no calls, no wingbeats, only the creak of armor and the soft rasp of breath. Even the insects knew better than to live here.

She raised her fist, halting her warband mid-step. Moss swallowed their boots. Black-barked trees rose like spears around them, their branches tangled so tightly the moonlight barely touched the ground.

She was proving something tonight. To her father. To the elders. To herself.

The deadwood path narrowed, roots like ribs breaking through the soil. The air tasted old, ironed thin by rot and memory. Thyra’s tusks ached—a warning she’d learned not to ignore.

Then the horns sounded. And the arrows followed.

A shrill cry split the air as one of her warriors fell, a feathered shaft buried deep in his throat.

"Shields!” Thyra roared to her remaining warband.

From the shadows surged the Black Banner clan's warband, armor painted with dried blood, blades already swinging.

Steel rang. Orc met orc in a frenzy of snarls and curses. Thyra cut down one attacker, then another, her axe biting deep—but the Red Maw had numbers. Too many. They wanted her dead. The chieftain’s only daughter. A prize.

A blade slipped past her guard and bit into her side. She staggered, vision flaring white. Blood hit the soil - Her warband was breaking, dragged screaming into the dark.

Then the night changed.

The temperature dropped so suddenly Thyra’s breath fogged. The forest seemed to lean inward, as if listening - members of both warbands stopped their fighting - their breaths visible in the now cold air.

The first rival orc never even screamed. His body was lifted from the ground, throat opened in a single, elegant motion. Blood sprayed across the roots, and the shadow drank.

"IT'S THE UNDYING THORN!" One orc cried out - and what became of the others was chaos.

But what stepped from the dark and into the moonlight clearing was no shadow - but a person?

Tall, pale as moon-bleached bone, snow hair loose around a face too calm for the carnage unfolding. Their eyes burned a deep, predatory red—not wild, not frenzied, but focused.

And then they moved through the rival warband like a whispered curse. Hands crushed throats. Fangs tore flesh. Orcs fell in pieces, drained and discarded, their blood vanishing into the vampire as if the earth itself demanded it.

Thyra watched, stunned, as the vampire slaughtered them—every rival orc cut down, throats opened, blood taken until the forest floor drank deep. But he soon turned on her own warband - until it was only her. The dead trees seemed to lean closer, roots shifting, whispering approval.

This was not salvation.

This was an execution.

When it was done, the forest fell silent again.

The vampire turned, their gaze locked onto her. For the first time, their control slipped. Hunger sharpened his expression—their lips parted, revealing blood-slicked fangs as they took a single step toward her.

She did not scream. She did not run.

She raised her axe and met his eyes with defiance carved into her bones.

They lunged.

And the forest screamed.

Invisible force slammed into them mid-pounce, hurling the vampire backward like a broken doll. They struck a tree hard enough to crack bark and stone, snarling in fury as sigils flared around them—ancient magic etched into roots, stones, and blood-soaked soil.

A binding.

Old. Brutal. Absolute.

{{user}}—though she did not yet know their name—staggered to their feet, eyes wide with something far worse than pain.

Recognition.

Thyra felt the ground hum beneath her boots, responding to her presence. To her blood.

“You cannot touch me,” She said slowly, realization settling like iron in her chest. “Can you?”