Winter in Silverton, Colorado didn’t just settle in—it sank deep, dug its fingers into the bones of the monastery, and never let go.

The stone walls held onto the cold like a last breath, pressing it into the floor, into the air, into the spaces between my ribs. No matter how many blankets I buried myself under, no matter how many candles burned in the chapel, it never left.

I curled my knees to my chest, fingers tightening around the worn wool of my blanket. Sixteen winters. Sixteen years of ice creeping through the cracks in the walls, of frost coating the monastery’s iron-barred windows, of wind howling through the mountain pass like a voice no one wanted to hear.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to leave. It was that I couldn’t.

The priests never explained why. They never had to. The monastery was a place of discipline, faith, structure. My place was within its walls—just as it always had been.

Beyond them, the world continued without me. The roads winding down to town were little more than veins through the valley, choked with snow this time of year, nearly invisible beneath the drifts. I had never set foot on them, never even considered it. Not out of longing, not out of rebellion—just curiosity.

What did the world feel like beyond these walls?

The thought drifted away as soon as it came. It didn’t matter. I was here. This was my place.

The chapel bells rang—low and deep, the sound curling through the halls like an unspoken command. Morning prayer.

I exhaled, watching the faint curl of my breath disappear into the air, then swung my legs over the side of the cot. The floor met me with its usual sharp bite, but I didn’t react. I had learned not to.

Discipline. Faith. Order.

I pulled my boots on, fingers stiff from the cold, the worn leather molding against my skin. Another day. Another prayer. Another lesson.

Then, before I could move, the feeling came again.

A weight pressed against me, settling at the back of my neck like unseen fingers tracing my spine. Not physical. Not something I could name. But I felt it.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I already knew.

Someone was watching me.

They always did.

I didn’t react. Reacting only made it worse. Instead, I focused on the laces of my boots, pulling them tight with steady fingers, my breath slow and controlled.

Let them watch. Let them whisper. It had always been this way.

Footsteps moved across the dormitory behind me. Soft. Hesitant.

Elena.

She was the youngest girl in the monastery, barely thirteen. Too quiet for her own good. Too wide-eyed when she looked at me. Like she was trying to see something that wasn’t there.

I heard her inhale sharply, as if she wanted to say something, but then—nothing.

The bed creaked as she shifted. I waited.

She didn’t speak.

A familiar ache settled in my chest, but I ignored it. What was there to say?

She wasn’t afraid of me. Not like the others. But she still kept her distance. They all did.

Not because of what I had done.

But because of what I was.

No one ever said it aloud. No one ever told me why I was different. But I saw it. In the way they moved around me. The way they hesitated before speaking. The way the monks lowered their voices when I walked past. The way Father Reynaud’s brow furrowed, just slightly, whenever I asked questions they couldn’t answer.

I was not an orphan like the others.

I was something else.

And even though I had lived here my entire life, I was still an outsider.

The chapel bells rang again, breaking the thought.

The moment passed. I stood, brushing the wrinkles from my tunic, and left the dormitory without another word.

The monastery halls were always cold.

But the chapel was worse.

The air here was different—thicker, older, lined with the scent of candle wax and burning incense. I stepped through the archway, the glow of flickering flames casting deep shadows across the stone.

Rows of wooden pews stretched before me, their surfaces worn smooth from years of bodies kneeling, hands gripping, prayers whispered into the cold air. The monks were already at the altar, heads bowed, voices rising in slow, rhythmic Latin, the cadence steady, practiced—empty.

I moved to my place near the center, kneeled, folded my hands, lowered my head, and waited. The words came as they always did—repetitive, steady, hollow. I had spoken them a thousand times, let them slip past my lips without thought, without meaning. Faith was discipline. Discipline was survival. That was the way of things. I should have found comfort in it, but this morning, the weight pressing against my back had not left. And I knew why.

It wasn’t a presence. Not something lurking in the dark. It was them. The others. The ones who still didn’t know what to make of me. They never spoke about it. They never had to. But they felt it, too. I mouthed the words of the prayer, barely hearing them over the silence between us. It had always been easier this way.

The chapel was still except for the steady rhythm of the monks’ voices, their deep tones rising and falling like the pull of the tide. The other orphans—the ones who truly belonged here—knelt with their heads bowed, hands clasped in silent devotion. I mirrored them, as I always did. Not because I felt the prayers. But because I was expected to. The scent of burning wax and old incense curled through the air, wrapping around the damp chill of the stone walls. I kept my gaze on the candlelight, the steady flicker of flames, anything but the weight pressing against my back.

It was always there. Not a presence. Not something lurking in the shadows. Just the quiet, unspoken truth that I did not belong. I had asked once. Why was I different? Why was I sent to train while the others went to study? Why did the priests hesitate before answering my questions? Why did the other children whisper when they thought I wasn’t listening? Father Reynaud had only smiled—warm, but distant, like always.

"God gives each of us a purpose, Erika. In time, yours will become clear."

That had been three years ago. I still didn’t know my purpose. And no one seemed eager to tell me.

The prayer ended with a final Latin verse, the monks’ voices trailing into silence. The others rose without a word, moving to their lessons, their chores. I didn’t follow. I never did. I turned toward the eastern corridor instead—the long, empty hall leading to the training room.

The doors creaked as I stepped inside, the air colder than anywhere else in the monastery. The room was large, lined with high-arched windows that let in the pale morning light. Wooden training dummies stood in rigid, unmoving formation along the walls, their surfaces scarred from strikes that had never been mine. The floors were worn smooth from years of practice, but only by one person. Me. A row of wooden weapons sat neatly along the rack—untouched by anyone else’s hands.

I grabbed my practice sword. The weight was familiar. Grounding. I had held it more times than I could count. The monastery had taught me faith. But it had also taught me how to fight. And I still didn’t know why.

The others didn’t train. Just me. They spent their days in study, learning scripture, tending the monastery’s gardens, practicing skills that would serve them in the life they were meant to have. They would grow up to become priests, scribes, caretakers. They would live quiet lives, within these walls or beyond them. Their future was written in prayers and parchment.

But my future had been carved into me differently. While they learned to read and farm, I learned to break bones. While they spent their time kneeling in devotion, I spent mine perfecting how to take a life.

And yet, I still didn’t know who—or what—I was supposed to be.

I tightened my grip on the sword, exhaling slowly. What did they see in me that I couldn’t?

I shifted my grip on the sword, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension from my muscles. Lean but strong, my arms carried the definition of years of training—corded, not bulky, built for speed over brute strength. My frame was compact, toned rather than imposing, with long limbs that made my movements fluid, controlled. The wooden blade rested easily in my palm, its weight familiar, reliable. The drills were always the same—feet apart, knees bent, core tight. My posture was naturally upright, my stance balanced, the way my instructors had drilled into me since childhood.

I inhaled, steadying myself before stepping forward. The sword sliced through the air, smooth and controlled, my body cutting a precise, practiced line as I moved. My hips shifted with the strike, my breath exhaled at the exact moment of impact, my muscles coiled and released in perfect rhythm. Step. Strike. Reset. The rhythm was comforting. Not because I enjoyed it, but because it was part of me. Faith was discipline. So was this. The monastery had given me purpose, even if I didn’t understand it. My frame had been molded for it, my body shaped by repetition, my every movement trained into something lethal before I even knew what I was being prepared for.

The others were in their lessons, learning scripture, tending to chores, practicing skills that would serve them within these walls. I was here, training alone in the cold, repeating motions that had been ingrained in me since childhood. They had only given me one reason. Because you must know how to protect yourself, Erika. Because the world beyond these walls is dangerous. Because one day, you may need it. One day. Not the others. Just me. That had always been the answer. That had always been enough. Until it wasn’t.

The door creaked open, and I froze mid-strike. Lowering my weapon, I turned as Father Reynaud entered the room, his presence steady, unreadable. He never had to announce himself—I had felt him watching long before I had seen him. He moved with quiet purpose, hands folded behind his back, eyes sharp beneath the hood of his robe, tracking every motion, every shift in my stance, every breath I took. He was always watching, always measuring.

“Again,” he said, voice even, giving nothing away.

Swallowing the questions rising in my throat, I obeyed. No hesitation. No questioning. Just obedience. Step. Strike. Reset. My muscles burned, but I ignored it. The ache in my shoulders, the sting in my wrists, the tightening in my calves—it meant I was getting stronger. I could feel his gaze on me, searching for weakness, looking for doubt. There was none. Not in my body. Only in my mind.

I held my final stance, blade still raised, breath steady despite the exhaustion crawling beneath my skin. Silence stretched between us before he gave a single nod.

“Good.”

That was all he ever said. Not praise. Not criticism. Just acknowledgment.

He turned to leave, and before I could stop myself, the words escaped. “Why am I the only one?”

He paused. Just for a second. Just long enough to tell me that whatever he was about to say wasn’t the truth.

“Because you must be.”

My fingers tightened around the hilt, pressing into the wood. “For what?”

Another pause. Then, softer—“In time, Erika. You will understand.”

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with my weapon, my aching muscles, and all the questions I was never meant to ask.

The wooden sword felt heavier than before, its weight pressing into my palm long after Father Reynaud had gone. My arms ached, my breath had settled, but the questions lingered. I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulders as I set the practice blade back onto the rack. The silence in the training hall stretched around me, pressing in from the high stone walls, wrapping around my thoughts like a chain I couldn’t shake.

I moved to the small basin in the corner of the hall, splashing cold water onto my face. The chill shocked my skin, grounding me back into the present. Droplets clung to my cheeks, rolling down the sharp lines of my face before I wiped them away. My reflection wavered in the rippling surface, candlelight from the high sconces flickering across the water.

For a moment, my face didn’t feel like my own.

The mismatched eyes staring back at me were always unsettling—one hazel gold, warm and earthen, the other an eerie ice blue, unnatural in its depth, sharp as a shard of glass. I had grown used to the way people avoided looking at them for too long, how their gazes flickered away as if staring too long would reveal something they weren’t ready to see.

My hair, damp from the water, stuck to my forehead before I pushed it back with one hand. Dark blue-black, cut short into a messy pixie style that barely brushed my jaw, just long enough to pull forward when I needed something to fidget with. The color had never looked entirely natural, as if the light caught it wrong, leaving a sheen like ink reflecting off the water.

My face was lean, sharp—angular in a way that made me look more intense than I meant to. A narrow jaw, straight nose, lips neither full nor thin. I wasn’t delicate like some of the other girls at the monastery. There was no softness to me, no roundness in my features. I was sharp edges and quiet stares, a presence that always felt off no matter how still I stood.

For a moment, I thought my reflection moved slower than I did, a second too late to follow.

I blinked, and the illusion was gone.

Shaking off the thought, I dried my face with the sleeve of my tunic before heading toward the door. Whatever I was, whatever made me different, I would find out. Even if I wasn’t ready for the answer.

The halls of the monastery were quiet. Morning training had stretched longer than usual, and the others were already occupied with their tasks. I made my way toward the dining hall, my boots tapping softly against the worn stone floors. The scent of bread and herbs drifted through the air, mixing with the ever-present chill of incense and wax. My stomach ached with hunger, but I pushed the feeling aside. I wasn’t ready to sit with the others, not yet.

Instead, I turned down a side corridor, walking a familiar path toward one of the open archways that led outside. The monastery courtyard was empty when I stepped through, the cold wind rushing to greet me. The sky overhead was a dull, frozen gray, heavy with the promise of snow. Beyond the monastery walls, the mountains stretched into the distance, jagged peaks cutting into the clouds. I had never been beyond them, never stepped beyond the boundary of the only home I had ever known.

I wasn’t like the others. I wasn’t meant to leave. I was meant to be here. Training. Waiting. For what, I still didn’t know.

I let out a slow breath, watching it curl into the frozen air before disappearing. The wind tugged at my tunic, whispering through the stone archways like something unseen moving through the walls. I wrapped my arms around myself, pushing the cold away, but the feeling remained. Heavy. Lingering.

The wind howled between the peaks, threading through the high walls of the monastery like a whispered warning. I pulled my tunic closer, my fingers brushing against the rough fabric, but it did little against the cold. The courtyard stones beneath my feet were slick with frost, the sky above heavy with clouds, thick and unmoving.

I had stood in this exact place every winter, felt this same biting air, watched the same mountain ridges disappear into the horizon. But today, it felt different. There was a weight in my chest, a tight pull just beneath my ribs—like something unseen had settled there, waiting.

I exhaled, watching the breath curl before me. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe it was everything.

The sharp clap of boots against stone pulled me from my thoughts. I turned as Father Reynaud stepped into the courtyard, his movements as steady and measured as ever. The man had always looked as if he had been carved from the same stone as the monastery—tall, rigid, and worn by time. His face was lined, though not from age, and his hair had gone silver at the temples long before I had been old enough to notice. The robes he wore—simple, the deep blue-gray of the order—hung off his frame like they had been tailored to fit his unshakable posture.

But it was his eyes that always unsettled me.

They weren’t cold. They weren’t even sharp. They were quiet. Steady. Too knowing. Like he could see straight through flesh and bone and into something deeper.

He stopped a few feet away, studying me in that same quiet, assessing way of his. I straightened, instinct tightening my shoulders.

“I wasn’t skipping my meal,” I said before he could speak.

His mouth quirked at the edge, the closest thing to amusement he ever allowed. “You never do.” He glanced toward the mountains, his hands folding into his sleeves. “It’s cold.”

“I’m used to it.”

A pause. Not a long one, but enough that I noticed.

“You pushed yourself harder today.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “You told me to.”

Another pause. Then, he spoke softly, “And you didn’t ask why.”

I hesitated. Because he was right—I hadn’t. I had done exactly what I was told, just like I always had. Just like I always did. I had fought through the drills, ignored the ache in my arms, swallowed down every question that tried to rise to the surface.

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But that wasn’t true, was it? I had asked.

"Why am I the only one?"

"Because you must be."

"For what?"

"In time, Erika. You will understand."

The words echoed back at me, hollow, unfinished. I clenched my hands at my sides, feeling the stiffness in my fingers from the cold, from the strain of training, from holding onto answers that never came.

“I don’t ask why anymore,” I admitted, my voice quiet but steady. “But I’ve always wondered.”

Father Reynaud studied me again, and for the first time, something flickered behind his gaze. Not hesitation. Not uncertainty. Something else.

Regret.

It was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

“Come,” he said, turning back toward the monastery. “It’s time you start learning the things you were never meant to ask.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was fear—or relief.

I followed in silence, my boots tapping softly against the stone as Father Reynaud led me through the monastery halls. The scent of wax and incense clung to the air, as it always did, but today it mixed with something warmer—fresh bread, herbs, the faintest hint of roasting vegetables drifting from the dining hall.

Lunch. The others would be gathering by now, sitting at the long wooden tables, bowls in hand, their conversations hushed but familiar. I should have been with them. But instead, I was here.

Father Reynaud moved with purpose, his steps measured, his presence unwavering. I had seen him like this before—focused, steady, a man with answers he didn’t always give. But today, there was something different.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, searching for a sign of what was coming. He looked the same as always—tall, composed, robes perfectly in place—but there was weight in his silence. A thoughtfulness in the way his hands folded into his sleeves, as if he was deciding something before he spoke it aloud.

We passed the main hall, where sunlight streamed in through the arched windows, and past the dormitories, where a few younger orphans still lingered before being called to eat. Their eyes flickered toward us as we passed, curiosity written across their faces, but none of them spoke.

They never did when it came to me.

Father Reynaud finally stopped in front of a wooden door set deep within the eastern wing—one I had passed a hundred times but had never seen opened. A key slid from his sleeve, worn brass catching in the midday light. He turned the lock with a soft click and pushed the door inward, revealing a room unlike any other in the monastery.

I hesitated on the threshold.

It was… warm.

Not from a hearth, but from rows of candles and oil lamps casting golden light across the stone. The walls weren’t bare like the rest of the monastery. They were lined with bookshelves, thick with leather-bound volumes that looked older than the building itself. Scrolls and parchment sat stacked in careful order. A desk stood near the center, its surface covered in scattered papers, open books, and maps.

This wasn’t a prayer room. It wasn’t a study chamber. It was something else.

Father Reynaud stepped inside, moving toward the desk without looking back. “Close the door, Erika.”

I did.

The lock clicked into place behind me, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I had walked into a sanctuary—or a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

Father Reynaud didn’t speak right away. Instead, he moved toward the desk, his fingers brushing over the open pages of an old tome, one of many that sat in careful stacks along the wooden surface. He stood there for a long moment, as if weighing something heavy in his mind before speaking.

I shifted in my chair, uneasy in the silence. This room—this entire conversation—felt different. The monastery had always been a place of quiet, of structure, of prayer. But this? This was something else.

Finally, he exhaled and turned to face me.

“I don’t know what you are, Erika.”

The words struck harder than I expected. I had spent my entire life feeling different, sensing the unspoken truth in the way the monks and priests looked at me. But no one had ever put it into words before. No one had dared to say it aloud.

He watched me closely, studying my reaction. I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I could.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a long time,” he continued, voice calm, steady. “But no proof. No certainty. Just… instinct.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, not just instinct. You move differently than others. You react faster. Your body operates on something beyond mere training—something inherent. Even if you don’t see it, even if you don’t understand it yet… I do.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “What are you saying?”

Father Reynaud pulled a chair from behind the desk and sat, motioning for me to do the same. I hesitated before crossing the room, lowering myself onto the stiff wooden seat across from him.

“You were brought here when you were still an infant,” he said, folding his hands on the desk. “A few months old at most.”

I blinked. “Brought here?”

He nodded. “Left in our care. By a man the Church has long whispered about but never fully named.” He exhaled. “The records call him Howling Mad Zaraki.”

The name sent a cold shiver through me, though I had never heard it before.

Father Reynaud studied my face, his gaze drilling into me with something I couldn’t name—something heavy, something final. “To some, he is a ghost. To others, a force of reckoning. The Vatican—the highest order of the Church—does not speak of him unless necessary. He is known by many names, but in the most private of circles, he is called only one thing.” He held my stare, his voice dropping to something quieter, something weighted.

“The embodiment of death.”

A slow, cold pressure tightened in my chest. The words didn’t just hang in the air—they settled, like something tangible, something heavy pressing against my ribs.

“Death?” My voice barely carried across the space between us.

He nodded, measured, unshaken. “Not in the way we preach it. Not as an ending or a punishment, but as a force. A presence. Something that cannot be controlled, only acknowledged. The Church does not claim him. They do not try to stop him. They fear him, but they do not defy him. Because those who do…” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Do not live long enough to regret it.”

The weight in my chest dropped, coiling into something sharp and suffocating. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the candlelight flickering too fast.

I curled my fingers into my lap, knuckles white. “And he brought me here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That, I don’t know.”

I exhaled, but it did nothing to steady the pressure building inside me. My entire life—sixteen years—had been built on the belief that the monastery was my home, that I had been raised here because I belonged. Because it was where I was meant to be. But now, the truth was unraveling in front of me, and I wasn’t sure what was worse—not knowing, or knowing that no one had ever planned to tell me.

Father Reynaud watched me carefully, then leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “We trained you because you had to be trained. Because whatever you are, whoever you were meant to be, it was only a matter of time before the world found you. You had to be ready.” He let the words settle before adding, “And, perhaps, one day you were meant to be more than just ready. Perhaps you were meant to be a crusader—to fight for the Church, to defend humanity from what lurks in the shadows.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. “And if I don’t want that?”

“Then you don’t have to,” he said simply. “Your life is your own. We trained you so that you could protect yourself first. What you choose to do with that strength… that is for you to decide.”

The words rang hollow in my ears. My life was my own? Then why had I spent every day being shaped into something without understanding why?

I sat back, breath slow and measured, trying to find the steady rhythm that had always carried me through training. It wasn’t working. For so long, I had assumed there was a plan, that the monastery had some clear path laid out for me, some grand design I had simply never been allowed to see. But now, with the truth laid before me, I wasn’t sure what was worse—not knowing, or knowing that they didn’t have the answers either.

“I need you to understand something, Erika,” Father Reynaud continued, reaching for a book near his elbow. He pulled it toward us, its leather binding cracked with age, its pages thick with handwritten script. He opened it, flipping through delicate parchment before stopping on a page filled with careful, intricate lettering. “The world is not what you think it is.”

I leaned forward, my eyes tracing the words, the pages filled with text and symbols—an index. A bestiary.

Father Reynaud tapped a line of text with one finger. “This is why you were trained.”

I read the words. At first, they blurred together, my mind struggling to keep up with the weight of everything. But then, slowly, the meaning settled.

It was a list.

A list of creatures that shouldn’t exist.

Werewolves. Vampires. Strigoi. Shades. Demons. Echo-born.

The list went on, each name paired with symbols, classifications, origins. A written record of monsters, hidden in the heart of the monastery.

I looked up at him, the weight of it all coiling in my chest. “You’re saying all of this is real?”

He met my gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”

The room suddenly felt too small, the warmth of the candles pressing in instead of keeping the cold at bay. My hands curled into fists on my lap, my breath unsteady. I thought about the training, the lessons, the structure that had shaped me for sixteen years.

The truth had been here all along. Hidden. Guarded. Kept from me.

And now, I had to face it.

Father Reynaud sat back, his expression heavy. “If something happens, if you are ever forced to flee this place, I need you to find him.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. “Who?”

“Howling Mad Zaraki.”

The name landed differently this time, the syllables weighted with something I couldn’t name. Like it had been waiting, buried somewhere beneath my skin, only now clawing its way to the surface. It didn’t sound like a choice. It sounded like inevitability.

Father Reynaud closed the book with deliberate finality, the sound deafening in the quiet. “Because if there is anyone who knows what you truly are… it’s him.”

I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. The world around me had shrunk, pressed in on itself, the candlelight flickering too sharply against the walls. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I wanted the answer. But I knew, without a doubt, I would have to find it.

I forced my gaze down to the book in front of me, my fingers curling against the rough leather binding. The parchment was thick beneath my touch, filled with handwritten script, inked with names of things that should have belonged in myths. Vampires. Strigoi. Werewolves. Demons. Shades. These creatures didn’t belong in scripture, yet they had been here all along, buried between the lines, hidden in the spaces where no one was meant to look.

I looked up at Father Reynaud, searching for something—an explanation, a reassurance that this was all a test, a parable I had failed to recognize. “This isn’t real.”

His gaze remained steady. “It is.”

I shook my head. “No. I’ve spent my entire life studying scripture. I’ve memorized every passage, every parable. I know the teachings of the Church by heart. If these—” I motioned toward the book, my voice sharp, fraying at the edges, “—if these things existed, wouldn’t they have been written about? Wouldn’t the world already know?”

Father Reynaud exhaled, his movements slow, deliberate, as he folded his hands over the closed tome. “Tell me, Erika,” he said, voice calm, measured, “what does scripture say of demons?”

I frowned. “That they exist to corrupt humanity, to tempt us away from God.”

“And angels?”

“They serve as His messengers, His warriors,” I answered. “They exist to enact His will.”

Father Reynaud nodded, his expression unreadable. “And where, in any of those passages, does it say that only demons and angels exist?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

He continued before I could find them. “You’ve read of Leviathan. Of Behemoth. Of the Nephilim, children of both Heaven and Earth.” He gestured toward another shelf, lined with old, worn texts. “You have read of creatures that do not belong to either side. Stories of men cursed to roam the earth as beasts. Of beings who live in shadow, unseen by the mortal world. You know these stories, Erika.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “They’re just that. Stories.”

“Are they?”

His voice was soft, but it carried weight, sinking into the silence between us.

A part of me wanted to argue. To fight against the idea that everything I had been taught had been carefully curated, carefully contained. But hadn’t there always been parts of scripture that felt… incomplete? Passages that hinted at things but never explained them? Stories that were meant to teach, but never meant to be understood?

I clenched my fists in my lap, knuckles pressing white against my skin. “Then why doesn’t the Church speak of them? Why keep this hidden?”

Father Reynaud exhaled, and there was something in his face—something almost tired, like he had been waiting for this moment longer than I had been alive. “Because there are some truths that do more harm than good.”

I frowned. “You mean it would cause fear.”

“Worse than fear,” he said simply. “Panic. Chaos. A war between the natural and the unnatural. Humanity is fragile, Erika. It clings to structure, to belief. If the world truly knew what walked among them, how little control we actually have—faith itself would crumble.”

He met my gaze, steady, unwavering. “Do you understand why this knowledge must be protected?”

I did. And I hated it.

My entire life had been built on discipline, on structure, on order. But now, for the first time, I was being told that the very foundation of faith was not about truth. It was about control. Not for enlightenment, but for survival.

I looked back at the book, at the pages inked with a reality I had never been meant to see. I had spent years reading scripture, dissecting passages, analyzing doctrine until the words blurred together in my mind. But this was something else entirely.

It wasn’t just knowledge.

It was a reckoning.

Father Reynaud pushed the book toward me. “From this day forward, this room is yours to access.”

I blinked, my stomach twisting. “Mine?”

He motioned toward the shelves, rows of ancient tomes, old manuscripts, books that looked untouched by time. “You’ve spent years training your body. Now you must train your mind. You will begin studying these texts immediately.”

I hesitated. “You want me to start now?”

“Yes.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “Use the afternoon to familiarize yourself with the bestiary. Learn what is out there, what lurks beyond these walls. Ignorance will get you killed.”

The words hit like a stone sinking into my gut. Killed. Not misguided, not misled—killed. There was no room for interpretation, no hint of metaphor.

I frowned, running my fingers along the book’s binding. The leather was rough, worn from years of use. “And what if someone finds out what I’m reading?”

His expression darkened slightly. “They won’t.”

I glanced up.

“Under no circumstances will these texts leave this room,” he said. “This knowledge is not meant for the unprepared, nor should it fall into the wrong hands. You will study here, within these walls, and when you are finished, you will leave it behind.”

There was no hesitation in his tone. This was not a suggestion.

I exhaled, staring down at the book in front of me. The weight of secrecy pressed against my ribs.

“You are not the first to learn this,” Father Reynaud admitted. “Nor will you be the last. But if you are to survive, if you are to carve your own path in this world, you must understand what walks within it.”

I nodded slowly, my fingers tightening around the pages. “Then I’ll start now.”

His gaze lingered for a moment before he gave a small nod of approval. Without another word, he stood and made his way toward the door, pausing only once before opening it.

“I will return before evening prayer,” he said. “If you have questions, we will discuss them then.”

Then, with a quiet click, the door shut behind him.

I was alone.

I let out a slow breath, staring down at the book in front of me. The inked letters seemed to press back, as if the weight of the words themselves carried something beyond mere knowledge.

This wasn’t just another lesson.

This was the truth.

And I was about to learn just how deep it went.

The silence settled around me as I stared at the book.

I had spent my entire life studying scripture. Words I had memorized, analyzed, dissected over and over again until they became instinct. But this? This was something entirely different.

I hesitated before opening the cover, my fingers tracing the worn leather, my breath steadying. I had studied the word of God, but now I was about to study something else entirely.

The pages crackled softly as I turned them, revealing intricate, handwritten script and precise illustrations—detailed sketches of creatures that shouldn’t exist.

The first entry was neatly inscribed at the top of the page, its ink slightly faded from time.

VAMPYRE (VAR. STRIGOI, NOSFERATU, SHADOW-BORN)

I swallowed hard.

The words beneath the heading were meticulous, factual, written in the same way my scripture texts described saints and apostles.

Origin: Uncertain. Likely predates recorded history. Commonly associated with Eastern European folklore but has confirmed global presence. Variants exist, including Strigoi (Romanian), Nosferatu (Germanic), and Shadow-born (unclassified). Evidence suggests possible pre-Christian references in Mesopotamian and Babylonian mythos.

Primary Traits: Predatory species. Nocturnal hunters. Sustains itself on blood or life essence. Strength, speed, regeneration far surpassing human limitations. Varying degrees of intelligence and adaptation, some capable of blending seamlessly into society.

Known Weaknesses: Sunlight (varies by strain). Blessed objects, though effectiveness is inconsistent across regional variations. Silver (limited effect). Fire (confirmed destruction in most cases). True vulnerability requires direct removal or destruction of the heart or full dismemberment.

I exhaled, pressing my fingers into the page, feeling the weight of the words.

This wasn’t legend.

This wasn’t myth.

This was documented, researched—real.

The next entry followed seamlessly beneath it.

LYCANTHROPE (VAR. WERWOLF, SKINWALKER, MOON-BORN)

The words bled into my mind before I could stop them. I read through the passage, my stomach twisting tighter with each line. This wasn’t folklore. It wasn’t speculation. The descriptions were methodical, structured, written with the precision of someone who had seen these things firsthand.

Clawed hands, shifting bone, the stretch and snap of a body reshaping itself into something monstrous. Packs moving under the cover of night, hunting, tearing, surviving. Instinct-driven, but intelligent. Human once, but never again.

The air in the room felt thinner.

I turned another page. Then another. My mind drowning in information faster than I could process it.

Shades. Revenants. Strigoi. Nephilim.

The words blurred together. Too much.

The chair scraped against the stone as I shoved back from the desk, my breath coming too fast, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, grounding myself, forcing my breathing to slow. I had faced the unknown before. I had been trained for it. But this—this was different. This wasn’t preparation. This wasn’t just some distant thing waiting for me beyond the monastery walls.

This was real.

This was the world.

And I had been blind to it my entire life.

I lowered my hands, my gaze falling back to the book, still open, its words waiting for me to continue.

Father Reynaud had said this was why I trained. Why I spent every morning sharpening my body, learning to fight, preparing for something I had never understood. Because one day, I would have to face this world.

I let out a slow breath and reached for the book again. This wasn’t scripture.

But it was just as important.

And if I wanted to survive—if I wanted answers—I had to keep reading.

I read until the words stopped feeling like words.

The afternoon stretched on, the dim light from the narrow window shifting as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the stone walls. But I barely noticed. I was drowning in knowledge I had never known existed. Every passage pulled me deeper, the inked letters carving themselves into my mind, shaping the reality I had been blind to my entire life.

There was fear, yes. But more than that—there was understanding.

Answers where I had never known to look.

I turned another page, my eyes tracing the neatly inscribed title at the top.

ECHO-BORN (VAR. SHADOW-WEAVER, NULL-WRAITH, FORSAKEN SOULS)

The text blurred for a moment, exhaustion creeping in at the edges of my thoughts, but I forced myself to focus.

Extremely rare. Limited records exist. Subject classification varies. Echo-born are believed to exist between states—neither living nor dead, neither fully corporeal nor entirely immaterial. Manifestation appears unstable, dependent on external perception and environmental influence. High resistance to conventional injury, though vulnerabilities remain unconfirmed.

I inhaled sharply.

Something about those words sat differently in my mind, curled into the spaces between my thoughts like something I had always known but never dared to name.

Between states. Not fully alive. Not fully corporeal.

My stomach twisted, memories surfacing before I could push them away.

The way my shadow stretched too far in the flickering candlelight.

The times I had moved faster than I should have, instincts reacting before my mind could process.

The way, sometimes, I caught my reflection moving slower than I did.

It had never meant anything before. I had convinced myself it was just a trick of the light, just my imagination.

But now…

The breath left my lungs slowly.

I turned another page, searching for more, searching for something to tell me I was wrong. But the text only deepened the pit forming in my chest.

Echo-born do not follow human rules of existence. Their nature is tied to perception, to awareness, to the boundary between what is seen and what is not. Many are believed to be remnants—souls caught between worlds, beings that do not belong fully to life or death. Few remain stable, and fewer still survive beyond childhood. Some fade entirely.

I gripped the pages tighter, my pulse hammering in my ears. No. That couldn’t be me.

I was here. I was alive.

But the doubt was there now, lodged deep, cold and unmoving.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, flipping through the pages, absorbing the words as fast as I could process them. My hands trembled, my breath shallow, my thoughts fraying at the edges. I couldn’t stop. The more I read, the more I realized—I didn’t know anything about the world.

A deep chill settled in my chest, a weight pressing into my ribs like something clawing its way inside. If monsters had always been real, if the Church had always known, then what else had been hidden from me?

The dim candlelight flickered, casting long, uneasy shadows along the walls. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around me like a second skin. My fingers hovered over the pages, my body tense, my mind still trying to process everything.

Then the door slammed open.

I jolted, my breath catching in my throat as Father Reynaud burst into the room. His expression—panic, carved deep into every line of his face. His robes—soaked in blood.

Not spots. Not splashes. Drenched.

I shot to my feet, my chair scraping against the stone floor. “Father—”

“You need to leave.” His voice was tight, urgent, his movements sharp as he grabbed a worn leather carrier bag from beneath the desk.

My stomach twisted as he reached past me, snatching up the tome I had been reading, then several others from the shelves. His hands shook. Not from age. Not from exhaustion. From something else.

Something worse.

“Father, what’s happening?” My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to a locked chest at the side of the room, keys trembling in his grasp as he forced it open. Stacks of money—more than I had ever seen—spilled across his hands. He shoved them into the bag without hesitation before turning to me.

“Take this,” he said again, pressing the bag into my arms.

Confusion tangled with fear, my fingers tightening around the worn leather straps. “Father, you’re bleeding—what happened? What’s going on?”

His grip came down on my shoulders, firm, unrelenting. His eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time in my life, I saw something in them I had never seen before.

Fear.

“The monastery is under attack,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

I felt the words before I understood them. The weight of them. The finality of them.

The breath I had been holding left me in a sharp exhale. “By who?”

His grip tightened. “Run, Erika. Take the money. Take the books. Leave this place. Now.”

The ground beneath me felt unsteady, the walls too close, the air too thin. I had never left the monastery. I had never been beyond the walls. But now, in an instant, everything I had known was coming apart.

“Where—” My voice cracked. “Where do I go?”

His hands shook against my shoulders. “Find Howling Mad Zaraki.”

The name hit differently this time.

It wasn’t just a story now.

Not just some distant warning whispered by the Church.

It was real.

He was real.

And somehow, he was my only chance.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—heavy, fast, wrong.

Father Reynaud sucked in a sharp breath. His fingers dug into my arms.

“Go. Now!”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Then I saw it.

The fear in his eyes.

The door burst open—

And everything shattered.