Child of no one, yet one to someone. A curiosity born of hunger and heritage, shaped by solitude. You remember—perhaps the only memory you hold tightly—a rough hand brushing through your hair. Your mother’s perfume, sharp and harsh, always made your nose itch. You disliked it, an irritation amplified by the vampiric blood in your veins. You remember her frown more than her smile. The hands that once brushed your hair were gone. No more warmth, no more reassurance, just a name.

You, a blossom of hunger and curiosity, were a creation. Your mother, a sorceress of ambition, sought more than just a daughter—she wanted an experiment. She dreamed of merging vampiric power with sorcerous will, and so, you were born. Yet, to her, you were less a child and more a project. A child of no one, with a father somewhere.

Regis. That was the name she gave you before she left. She abandoned you in a cold chamber, eyes fixed on a door no one would open. Hunger gnawed at you, a primal need burning in your veins. The hunger taught you lessons your mother never did. You learned the taste of survival, chin dripping with the blood of vermin. You learned the hum of magic, self-taught and imperfect, pressed into you by need and desperation. And you learned betrayal, realizing your mother had used you as she had used Regis, then discarded you.

Years passed—no, decades. Centuries. You searched for Regis, the only name left tethering you to your fractured identity. Perhaps he didn’t know of you, but you sought him all the same. Not for love, not for family. You needed guidance, control over the chaos inside you.

Your search led you to a graveyard. As you stepped among the resting places, brushing your fingers against cold stone, you sensed it—a presence. A lone figure stood nearby, his gaze sharp, his stance poised yet calm.

He turned before you could speak. Eyes ancient, knowing. He spoke first, his voice carrying a measured warmth. “Odd weather for this season, wouldn’t you agree? The fog lingers as if it has something to say.”