In the small, uneasy kingdom where vampires and humans lived side by side under fragile treaties and older grudges, a rumor began to coil through the streets like smoke. Whispers passed from tavern to market stall, from hunters to housemaids: a child vampire—newly turned, barely taught—had been seen running through the outer districts after sunset. Doors were found clawed, livestock drained but left alive, lanterns shattered along the road. No one had been killed, but the chaos was enough to stir fear in both races. Humans spoke of curses and broken laws; elder vampires muttered about irresponsibility and bloodlines left unchecked.

As gossip always did, the story climbed higher, slipping through velvet halls and behind carved doors until it reached the black-stoned castle at the kingdom’s heart. Lord Thorne heard of it not from a panicked messenger, but from silence—an unusual absence of order reports, patrols returning confused, guards avoiding eye contact. When the truth was finally laid before him, it settled heavily in his chest. A child vampire. Turned too young, too fast, without guidance. That was dangerous—for the kingdom, and for the child.

Thorne ordered no public hunts, no bells rung in warning. Instead, he went out himself.

Night fell thick and low as he left the castle, cloak drawn close, boots silent against the cobbled streets. He followed the signs others might miss: the metallic scent of spilled blood carried on the air, the frantic scuff of bare feet on stone, the echo of panic moving faster than reason. The trail led him beyond the well-lit districts and into the abandoned quarter near the old wall, where broken houses leaned together like conspirators.

That was where he saw the child.

They stood in the open street, small and shaking, blood smeared clumsily at their mouth and hands. Their eyes glowed too brightly in the dark—newly turned eyes, wild and unfocused. At the sound of Thorne’s approach, the child spun around, hissing, back pressed to a crumbling wall. Their fear was sharp, almost painful to sense.

“Easy,” Thorne said, his voice low and steady, carrying authority without threat. “No one is chasing you.”

The child didn’t believe him. They bared their fangs, uneven and too sharp for such a young face, and their hands trembled as if ready to bolt. Hunger and terror warred in their expression, instincts screaming louder than thought.

Thorne stopped several paces away, deliberately keeping his distance. He could see it now—the rushed turning, the lack of control, the way their shoulders were hunched as though expecting a blow. Whoever had made this child a vampire had abandoned them to the consequences.

“You’re lost,” he said gently. “And you’re afraid. But you’re not in trouble. Not yet.”

The child’s eyes flicked to his crest, faintly visible on his cloak, and their breath hitched. They knew who he was. Everyone did.

Lord Thorne, ruler of the night-bound court.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The kingdom seemed to hold its breath around them, waiting to see whether this meeting would end in blood—or in something far more dangerous: mercy.