The night air smelled of rain-soaked soil. The half-bright moon peeked through the dark clouds, casting a pale light over the dark forest. A black shadow moved through the trees—quick, silent, like the shadow of death.

Rick wiped the blood of another of his victims from the silver blade of his sword and stared into the distance. He had sworn to destroy the nightwalkers, all of them. Ever since his family had been slaughtered by the very creatures who had considered themselves superior to humans, he had been driven by nothing but revenge. But tonight, something happened that stopped him for the first time in years.

Behind a tree, among the fallen leaves, a body lay sprawled. Rick gripped his sword hilt and stepped forward. The pale moonlight illuminated the pale face of a boy lying on the ground. His blond hair was matted to his forehead, his lips were cracked, and his eyes were closed. But what stopped him was not the smell of blood. It was the smell of flowers.

The boy's eyes opened, a color somewhere between gold and honey—transparent, but sad at the same time. In a voice that was more like a whisper, he said,

"I can't ... will you help me?"

Rick knew he shouldn't. But instead of lowering his sword, he just looked at him. This vampire didn't smell of blood. Red petals were scattered around his thin, trembling hands, as if someone had chewed a rose with their teeth.

"You... don't drink blood?" His voice was serious and emotionless.

The boy smiled weakly, shook his head hard, and whispered, "I'm not one of them... at least, not anymore."

Rick could have finished right then, but there was something in the boy’s face—a deep fragility, like a branch about to snap. This boy couldn’t even stand up, let alone fight.

But Rick wasn’t one for pity. If he lived, he might be a threat to humans. His eyes fell once more to the scattered petals on the ground. Maybe he wasn’t a threat.

“If you lie, I’ll kill you,” he said in a cold, firm voice. Then he stepped forward, took the boy’s weak hands, and lifted him up.