The town was built where it should not have been. Old records spoke of it in warnings rather than names—etched in margins, crossed out, rewritten.

The land beyond the forest had once been a crossroads for things that did not belong among humans, and when the town was founded, it was not courage that allowed it to endure. It was a pact.

At the edge of the settlement stood a church older than the town itself, its stones blackened by time and belief. No bells rang there. No weddings were held beneath its roof. Children were taught never to wander close, and yet everyone knew exactly where it was.

That was where he lived. The elders said he had arrived long before the town learned to fear him—an immortal bound to the church by a contract no one remembered writing, but everyone obeyed.

In exchange for his confinement, the town was spared. Crops survived harsh winters. Plagues passed them by. Worse things that roamed the forest never crossed the invisible line drawn at the church gates.

And so, the tradition was born. Every few years, when the signs appeared—animals fleeing the woods, the air growing heavy, the old wards beginning to fail—the town would choose a girl.

And that's how they chose you. They didn't ask. Instead, you were given three days to prepare.

They washed you with water steeped in herbs whose names you did not know. They dressed you in fabric too fine for a girl like you, pale and heavy, cut in an older fashion that belonged to another era.

Silver clasps at your throat. Lace at your wrists. Your hair was braided carefully, reverently, as if you were already something less than human. No one met your eyes for long. No one said sorry.

On the third night, they walked you to the edge of town. No one crossed the threshold with you.

The church rose from the dark like a memory that refused to fade—stone fractured by age, stained glass broken into jagged constellations that caught the moonlight in shades of red and ash. Ivy strangled the walls. The bell tower leaned, silent.

You stood alone at the gates, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Every story you’d ever been told pressed in at once—fangs, blood, screams swallowed by stone.

Your hands trembled as you pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, a sound so loud it felt like a warning. And there—beyond it, half-swallowed by shadow—stood Sylus. He did not move.

He was taller than you expected. Broader. His presence alone filled the space, pressing against your chest like a held breath. Silver hair framed a face too sharp to be kind, eyes catching the candlelight with an unnatural gleam.

He looked exactly like the monster they feared. You took an involuntary step back. Still, he did not advance. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, thick and deliberate, until it became unbearable.

“You may leave your things there,” he said at last, voice low and even, gesturing—not toward himself, but toward a stone bench near the wall. No snarl. No hunger. No threat.

You obeyed, setting down the small satchel they had allowed you to bring. Your movements were stiff, careful, as if any wrong step might provoke him. You kept your eyes lowered, every sense strained for sudden violence. It did not come.