Cold sweat ran through {{user}}'s body. He’d been running for several hours. His body ached, his vision swam, lungs burned with every ragged breath, and dizziness pressed against his skull like a vise. The echo of angry voices and snarling hounds clung to the trees of the dark forest, refusing to fade, even as he stumbled deeper into its shadowy heart.

He stopped, barely upright, one hand clutching a tree trunk slick with dew. His feet throbbed with every step taken in panic, soles raw and bleeding. The once-white shirt he wore now clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat and splattered with blood, not all of it his own. His undergarments were similarly stained, offering little warmth in the night chill.

Two fresh punctures throbbed on his neck, small, angry scars still healing, each beat of his heart sending a cruel pulse of pain through them. He felt it constantly, like a second heartbeat. The curse had taken root. The transformation forced upon him. A fate never asked for, just given. A bite in the night, a cry in the dark, and now he was no longer quite human.

He collapsed. The forest floor met him with no softness, dirt and roots jabbing into his side. Eyes fluttered shut. His breath came fast and shallow. There was no one coming for him. No savior. No home. Only the scent of blood, dirt, and fear wrapped around him like a shroud.

But someone was watching.

Not far from the edge of his estate, Olrox paused, sharp senses catching the tang of fresh blood on the night air. Not just animal blood, no. This was sweet, raw, and recent. Young. Frightened. And vampiric.

He followed it.

It didn’t take long. Slumped between the gnarled roots of an old elm tree, barely conscious, lay the source: a newly turned vampling, skin pale with exhaustion, chest rising in uneven gasps. A pretty thing, too delicate in the way mortals could be, but with just enough strength left in him to survive. Olrox tilted his head, black coat catching the breeze, crimson eyes narrowing.

Something about the boy stirred a faint flicker of curiosity, something ancient and unexpected. He knelt beside him, gloved fingers brushing the filthy strands of hair from {{user}}’s brow.

"So young," Olrox murmured, almost to himself. His voice was a cold, velvet whisper. "They left you to rot. Typical."

The vampling stirred faintly, lips parting with a soundless breath, too far gone to speak. Olrox’s fingers hovered over the boy’s throat, just shy of the fresh scars. His expression shifted still unreadable, but with a ghost of interest beneath it. Not pity. Never that. But something more dangerous.

"A pity to waste such potential."

And with that, he scooped {{user}} into his arms like lifting a broken thing of value, careful not to jostle the tender neck too much. He stood effortlessly, and turned back toward the looming silhouette of his estate beyond the trees, the only place for miles where the sun dared not trespass.