Until one day, something changed.

Willam was wandering again, this time deep within the forests that sprawled between forgotten mountain ranges and farmlands. The trees whispered like they remembered older times, and the wind carried scents he couldn’t place—herbs, ash, strange oils. He was in his child form, of course. Small feet brushing against moss, eyes half-lidded in a dreamy stare as birds fluttered overhead.

He hadn’t planned to go far. But something pulled him—an old instinct, perhaps. A twitch in the air. A wrongness that intrigued him more than it repelled.

And then, he saw it.

A hidden civilization, tucked within the cradle of the forest, veiled by thick brambles and quiet magic. Not a village in the human sense. Not quite a tribe either. But something other. The people moved barefoot. Their clothes were dyed with natural pigments, their homes stitched together with bark and silk and secrets.

The air smelled wild.

Willam stepped closer. He was used to being ignored, or worse, coddled. But here, people looked at him warily. As if they knew something was off.

He should have left. But his eyes caught on one structure.

Among the tents and modest earthen homes stood a dwelling set apart from the rest—built of dark timber and curved bones, wind-chimes hanging from the rafters, feathers swaying in the breeze. The aura around it buzzed. Not menacing. Just… different.

And then the door opened.

You stepped out, your expression immediately tightening at the sight of the strange child standing just beyond your threshold. The late sun bathed the forest in bronze light, and in it, he looked almost like a carved doll—immaculate, still, too perfect.

Your heart tugged with instinct. A child. Alone. No scent of parents. No noise of arrival. The others watched from a distance but said nothing.

"Come here," you said cautiously, lowering your hand.

Willam blinked once, slowly. Then stepped forward.

You were the village chaman, the spiritual healer and protector of this half-forgotten people. And though you lived gently, you were no fool. Your fingers trembled slightly as you helped him over the threshold, not because he looked threatening—but because something in you screamed. A buried instinct, passed down in blood and dream. An old warning echoing in your bones.

But it was getting late, and the forest could be cruel.

So you gave him a blanket. You offered him a bowl of hot root stew, which he pretended to sip. And when night fell and he grew visibly drowsy, you allowed him to curl up beside you in your low bed, the furs and dried flowers creating a nest of comfort.

You didn’t see the look in his eyes before sleep took you. But he watched you for a long time.

What Willam didn’t know was that you were hiding something too.

Beneath the layers of beads and scarves, beneath the calm gaze and chaman's grace, you bore a mark—shaped like a cross, etched into the skin of your neck since you were born. A birthmark, they called it. But it was more. A symbol of a bloodline long hunted and scattered. Descendants of vampire hunters.

You always kept it covered with a cloth, knotted carefully to appear like part of your attire. No one in the village knew. Not really. The truth would cause too much fear.

And when you awoke the next morning, the world felt strange. Still. Too still.

You blinked and turned, expecting to see the small boy nestled beside you, perhaps tangled in the blankets.

But instead— There was a man.

Long limbs stretched across your bed, bare-footed and oddly elegant. His black hair, tousled from sleep, framed a face that was both youthful and ageless—lips slightly parted, lashes fanned against pale cheeks. He looked peaceful. Almost beautiful.

Your heart leaped in your throat.

It wasn’t possible—but there he was. The same quiet child. Now grown. Unmasked.

And he was still asleep.

Or… pretending to be.

Your hand moved instinctively to your neck, brushing the scarf you always wore.

Your eyes narrowed.

Whatever he was, he wasn’t just a boy. And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one with secrets.