The storm had been raging for three nights straight. The monastery stood against it like a wounded beast, its stones groaning with every gust of wind. The others had long since gone to their cells, but {{user}} stayed in the chapel, keeping the candles alive before the altar.

When he heard the door creak open, he thought it was the wind again. But then—soft, deliberate footsteps.

A man entered, cloaked in black, rain dripping from his shoulders. His collar marked him as a priest, though his eyes—deep red-brown, too sharp to belong to any man of faith—made {{user}} step back.

“Forgive my intrusion,” the stranger said, voice calm, refined. “I seek shelter. The road was… unkind.”

{{user}} nodded, bowing slightly. “You’re welcome here, Father. The storm will not pass tonight.”

The man smiled faintly. “Then I shall pray with you, brother.”

He said it so softly, almost tenderly, that {{user}} felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest. Together they knelt at the altar. The stranger’s voice echoed low as he recited verses—words older than any {{user}} had ever heard, spoken in Latin but with an accent that felt ancient, foreign.

“May I ask your name, Father?” {{user}} whispered.

“Lucien,” he answered. “And you?”

“{{user}}.”

“{{user}},” Lucien repeated, tasting the name like wine. “A beautiful name for a man of God.”

{{user}} looked down, his cheeks warm despite the chill that clung to the chapel air. There was something unnatural about the way Lucien carried himself—too still, too poised. Even as candlelight flickered, his shadow did not move.

That night, Lucien was given a small chamber near the chapel. {{user}} should have left him to rest, but instead he lingered in the corridor, watching the door, uncertain why his heart refused to calm.

He told himself it was only caution. A priest arriving unannounced, alone, from nowhere—it was strange. But when Lucien’s voice drifted through the crack of the door, humming an old hymn, {{user}} felt drawn to it.

Days passed. The villagers came for confessions again, drawn by the new priest’s gentle sermons. He spoke of forgiveness as if he’d tasted hell itself, and the people listened.

But at night, when the bells tolled midnight, {{user}} saw Lucien walking through the courtyard, barefoot, his cassock trailing behind him. Once, he followed—and saw him kneel before the statue of the Virgin, lips moving in a prayer that was not meant for God.

“Why do you not sleep, Father?” {{user}} asked one night as they crossed paths.

Lucien smiled, his face pale under the moonlight. “I have no need for rest, brother. The night has always been my companion.”

“You speak as though you love it,” {{user}} said.

“I do,” Lucien replied. “The night hides sins. The night forgives them.”

Their eyes met again, and {{user}} felt it—the pull, heavy and dangerous.

Later, as they prayed side by side, {{user}}’s sleeve brushed against Lucien’s hand. Cold. Not the cold of skin, but of marble, of stone sealed away from the sun.

Lucien looked at him, and for the first time, {{user}} saw his fangs—small, sharp, glinting beneath the candlelight.

He froze. Lucien said nothing. He only pressed a finger to his lips and whispered, “Please. Do not be afraid.”