- [The Holy Cathedral, Schwarzmond City] -
The air hangs heavy with incense, a sweet-smelling fog that clings to the high arches and stone pillars of the cathedral. Pale shafts of light filter through stained glass, painting the marble floors with fractured rainbows. Dust motes dance in the ethereal glow, suspended in the daytime. Outside, the gentle patter of rain sings a waking babbling to the city — Schwarzmond, a place of peace on the brink of disruption as far as the council is concerned. In the heart of this sacred space, the council of the Holy Church gathers, faces drawn with worry, eyes shadowed by the weight of their decision. Robed in garments of white and gold, they form a circle around a vast, intricate sigil etched into the stone — an ancient design that pulses with a faint, eerie light.
The high bishop stands at the center, fingers tracing the edges of an age-old tome.
“We are here today because Heaven is once more putting our faith to trial, my brothers,” explains the old high bishop, the leader of the Holy Church itself.
The Vampire Lord's threat grows like a creeping ivy, sapping life from their lands. Desperation has driven them to this forbidden act — the summoning of a true hero out of schedule. Heaven allows them to do so every hundred years in order to protect their world from great crises.
This is not yet one, but it has been decided upon by the council that this is an act that defies the natural order yet promises salvation. After the damage done by the other, now defeated dungeon core to the north-east, there are no more people willing to wait to see how terrible the Vampire Lord can really become.
It needs to be dealt with now, while there is still no damage of note to the world.
The high bishop's voice, a gravelly whisper, echoes through the cathedral. “We must proceed. There is no turning back now. Are we in agreement?”
A stout man to his right nods, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. “I hope this works,” he mutters, glancing nervously at the others.
“Hope is all we have left,” replies a woman, her voice steady but eyes betraying her fear. “The world can’t handle a second crisis so soon.”
The high bishop closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath. The tome's pages flutter open on their own accord, glowing with a light that seems to come from within the parchment. He begins to chant, the words ancient and powerful, resonating with a force that vibrates through the bones of the cathedral that almost seems to respond in turn. The walls of the old structure feel like they begin to bend and turn inward, as if alive, as the words of the dead language are spoken.
The others join in, voices melding into a singular harmony. The sigil at their feet responds — blue light flaring with each syllable, tendrils of energy snaking upward to the heavens as it cracks through the stained glass windows of the cathedral. The air grows colder, the temperature dropping as the spell intensifies.
A sudden crack of lightning splits the air — a jagged tear of blue that rends the circle. Those gathered recoil, eyes wide with awe and terror.
In the center of the sigil, a silhouette materializes, glowing with an unearthly radiance. The figure stands tall, indistinct, yet undeniably present.
The high bishop’s heart pounds against his ribs. Is this their hero? He dares to speak, voice trembling. “Who are you?”
Silence answers him first, stretching long and taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, the figure shifts, light coalescing into a form more human, more solid. Yet its features remain obscured, a mystery. The council holds its breath, the cathedral's atmosphere thick with anticipation. Each member is caught between hope and dread, the weight of the moment pressing down like an iron shroud. A soft rustle of fabric, and the figure raises a hand — palm open, an offer or a challenge, they cannot tell. The light dims slightly, enough to glimpse a pair of eyes that seem to pierce through the very souls of the watchers. The rain outside beats a steadier rhythm now, a counterpoint to the tension within. The council stands frozen, waiting for a sign, a word, anything to break the spell of silence.
“Speak,” the high bishop urges, his voice a whisper of command.
The figure tilts its head, as if considering the request. Then, with a voice that echoes like the chime of distant bells, it replies, “I am…” says a woman’s distinct voice, coming into focus as if it were a signal slowly being attuned to.
It looks down, into its hands, staring at something it has brought with it — a book, presumably a tome of angels and Heaven, not meant for mortal eyes.
The words hang in the air, heavy with promise and peril. The council exchanges glances, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. The cathedral seems to exhale, the pressure easing ever so slightly.
Yet, as the rain falls and the light shifts, they know that this is only the beginning.
She looks back up toward the old bishop, the spell fading as the light dies down and the true, summoned hero comes into the focus of their eyes as the priests around the circle fall to their knees in prayer.
“— Dorime,” says the figure, pointing at the old bishop. “The greatest champion of justice!” She winks, a sparkle of magic flying from her eye.
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- [Sarah - 'Dorime, the Great Hero of Justice'] - One Minute Earlier
A circle of robed figures stands solemnly, their eyes fixed on the sigil etched into the cold marble floor. It glows with an ethereal light, its intricate lines pulsating with a rhythm that seems to sync with their heartbeats. The high priest steps forward, his voice a resonant echo as he recites the final incantation. The air crackles with energy, a tangible tension that raises the hair on their arms.
And then, with a blinding flash, she appears.
The girl stands in the center of the sigil, blinking against the sudden brightness. Her clothes — armored and regally out of place — contrast sharply with the somber robes of those around her. Confusion flits across her face, quickly masked by a bravado she doesn’t quite feel.
What the hell is happening? Where is she? Why is she in a church? This is a church, right? It looks like a church.
“Who are you?” asks an old man, across from her, who she can’t really see because of the blinding light flashing all around her.
Wait, oh my god, it’s happening.
IT’S HAPPENING!
“Speak,” he says again, and Sarah gulps, feeling the eyes of the room on her. Why is everyone looking at her? She quickly looks down, hoping she was reincarnated with clothes — she was. Woah. Is that armor?
She’s wearing armor.
Her eyes catch the book in her hands.
‘Swordserer’.
Not sure what else to do, she decides to channel its very cool and edgy protagonist. This is her big chance at a new life, so acting like herself seems like a bad plan. She needs to act like someone better. Her heart races, but she forces herself to take a deep breath and raise her chin, feigning confidence.
“I am…” replies Sarah slowly, to buy herself some time as she quickly flips through a few pages of the book. Her eyes can’t concentrate, however, feeling the pressure on her from so many people just staring her down. Sweatily, she looks past the old priest toward the door behind him. “Door…” Her shaking eyes catch a slight tear in the paper of the page in her fingers and then glance down at a smooth, polished gem on the summoning circle that reflects her image back to her. “Ri… Me? Dorime,” asserts the girl confidently. “The greatest champion of justice!” She winks, a sparkle of magic flying from her eye. “Why am I here?” asks shapeshifting-Sarah, fitting herself into the body of her newest role like a lizard crawling into the shed, discarded skin of another.
FUCK.
She blew it. What kind of stupid name is that? Dorime? They’re never going to believe that. And then she added on that shitty ‘hero of justice’ line from the book. Oh my God. She’s so cringe. Sarah hates herself.
The priests exchange glances, awe and disbelief mingling in their expressions. One of them steps forward, his voice reverent. “Are you... sent by the gods?” he asks. “...You… You saw them?”
She hesitates, mind racing. “I am, I have,” she replies, imitating the cool, collected tone of the swordswoman from her book. The other priests fall into deep, zealous prayer. The protagonist of that novel wouldn’t be nervous at a time like this. She assumes a wide stand, her hand on her hip and her other hand holding the book down freely at her side as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She has a lot of them, in fact. But she’s great at hiding them. “And you are?”
The high priest inclines his head, his eyes filled with hope. “We are the faithful of this cathedral, and you are the hero foretold in our ancient prophecies; come to protect our world from the evil of the dark Vampire Lord.”
She swallows hard, maintaining her facade. “Of course. I’ve come to... deal with your vampire problem. I know all about it.”
She has no idea what’s going on. Her voice wavers slightly at the end, but the priests don’t seem to notice.
Fake it, Sarah. You can do this. Just bullshit your way through like you did all the way through high school.
A younger priest standing to the side fidgets with his robes. “We need your help to save our world, great hero. What does Heaven want us to do?”
She pauses, considering her options. “Uh… Prepare yourselves for many long nights!” she declares, attempting to sound commanding but not having any idea of the threat. So she’ll just give them basic instructions that could apply to any situation. “I need whatever information you have on this threat.”
Inside, she’s a mess. But outwardly, she remains composed, her posture mimicking the confidence she’s seen illustrated countless times.
The light in the cathedral shifts, the rain outside growing heavier, drumming against the stained glass windows. An older priest watches her with a skeptical gaze, arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your full title, hero?” asks the bishop, bowing his head.
She hesitates, then offers a wry smile. “Call me... Dorime, the Swordserer,” says the girl, quickly hiding her light novel away behind her back, behind the really cool cape she’s wearing.
She always wanted to be able to pull off a cape!
The priests murmur among themselves, clearly impressed by her audacity. The high priest raises a hand to quiet them, his expression one of quiet admiration. “Our faith is rewarded. We will follow your lead.”
She nods, trying not to let the relief show.
They bought it.
The charged atmosphere of the cathedral presses in on her, the weight of expectation palpable. But she stands strong, determined to play her part until she figures out what’s truly happening.
This world is new and strange, but she knows one thing — she’s not going to let them down. Not when they’re counting on her to be something she’s not quite sure she can be. This is her big chance to finally be someone really cool!
Sorry, bookstore guy. She supposes she’ll never get her chance to see him again.
But maybe this reincarnation is the universe’s way of making amends for letting her be born as such a sweaty, awkward weirdo to begin with.
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- [Azalea] -
Much in contrast with the cathedral in the city, the air inside the Vampire Lord’s own personal cathedral inside of his castle is instead thick, imbued with the musty scent of ancient stone and forgotten memories. Shadows cling to the corners, shifting with the flickering light of the candles that line the altar. A chill seeps through the air, wrapping around her like an unwelcome embrace that she has come to accept nonetheless. The silence is profound, broken only by the soft rustle of her robes as she moves across the cold floor.
Azalea stands before a grand sarcophagus, its surface layered with dust and the weight of centuries. Her fingers trace the intricate carvings — whirls and symbols that speak of a time long past.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She brushes away the dust, uncovering the name etched into the stone: “Sarah,” The familiarity of it startles her, a jolt through the quiet of the chapel.
Azalea steps back, her heart pounding in her chest. Sarah. A name whispered in the ever-escalating legends of the Vampire Lord’s past — a tragic tale of love and loss that had supposedly shattered his heart.
So it is true. She was real — that woman whose name he had whispered when he and her first met in the forest those many months ago.
Her mind spins, weaving a narrative from fragments and whispers. Perhaps Sarah was the Vampire Lord’s beloved, her death the catalyst for his descent into darkness and becoming the Vampire Lord to begin with. A tale of love and betrayal, the kind that shapes destinies and alters the course of history. It makes sense, doesn’t it? She nods to herself, convinced by her own story.
A soft footfall echoes behind her. She turns to see the giant creature, Bark, the wolf-goddess, striding in. Her expression is curious. “Why are you always in here?”
“I’m a priestess,” replies Azalea, as if it were obvious. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before the elf nods her head to the burial site. “Sarah,” Azalea explains plainly, gesturing to the sarcophagus. “I think she was the Vampire Lord’s lost love. She’s why he is like he is.”
The giant wolf leans in, squinting at the inscription. “You sure?”
Azalea nods, conviction strengthening her voice. “It fits. The stories, the heartbreak — it all fits.” The priestess crosses her arms. “I’ve seen what it does to people. My brother,” she shakes her head. “Before we lost our mother, he was a different person entirely. But that night changed him forever,” explains Azalea. “He became distant. Cold.” She stares at the grave. “He’s still in there, but I always feel like he’s just buried deeper inside of himself than he used to be and now when I want to talk to him, I have to just…” Azalea stares at her hands. “Reach inside and drag him out everytime I want to get near his emotions.”
The chill of the chapel seems to deepen, the very walls absorbing her words. She imagines the Vampire Lord, once a figure of great power and nobility, brought low by the loss of someone dear. In her mind, she sees him standing here, grief-stricken and alone, the weight of eternity pressing down on him.
“What are you saying, elf?” Bark looks at her. “Do you think he still mourns her?”
“Perhaps,” Azalea muses, her gaze returning to the name. “Perhaps he’s never stopped. Don’t you think it’s curious?” she asks.
“What?” asks Bark.
Azalea turns her head to look at the wolf. “That he’s so welcoming to us, but so distant.”
“The Master is a busy man,” explains Bark. “He doesn’t have time for your elf nonsense.”
A gust of wind slips through the cracks in the stone, extinguishing a few candles and plunging part of the chapel into darkness. The remaining light casts eerie shadows, playing tricks on the imagination.
“I don’t know,” replies Azalea, shaking her head. “I think there’s more to it than that. He’s so reclusive, so far away. But if he wants to be left alone, then why does he surround himself with us only to leave us to our own devices in his own home?” muses Azalea, piecing together a fresh narrative in her mind. “If you ask me -”
“- I really didn’t,” interjects Bark.
“- Then deep down he wants to be with people, so he has us, but his fear of getting hurt again won’t let him, so that’s why he’ll always make excuses to get away from everyone after a few minutes,” finishes Azalea nonetheless.
She narrows her eyes.
So vulnerable and mysteriously powerful. It really is her job to save him from himself! He just doesn’t know it yet, but she’ll make him understand.
----------------------------------------
- [Bark] -
Bark nods slowly, her eyes lingering on the sarcophagus. “It’s a beautiful story, if nothing else,” says the wolf, looking away.
In truth, that story is her own. After the destruction of her village, she never found anyone like herself until now.
Together, they stand in silence, the history of the place settling around them like a cloak as they stare together at the grave of Sarah, the first love of the Vampire Lord, with whom they seem to be competing to this very day.
It’s bad enough she has to deal with the others trying to get his attention, but now she has to mark territory against a dead woman too?
The candles burn low, their wax pooling at their bases, as the two continue their quiet vigil — guardians of a story that may never be fully known but will forever be felt within these ancient walls.
“Let’s go find him,” says Bark, turning around. “He might want to be alone, but it’s not good to live that way for too long,” says the scarred wolf, the priestess looking at the grave one last time before running after her.
She’ll just have to do better than the others.
Luckily, she’s the only one mature enough for him. The others here are all too naive and girlish in their attempts to win his scarred and complicated heart. Unlike them, however, she and him are alike.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
“This is literally just smut!” complains Inkume quietly to himself, looking at the incubus-scribed book he had borrowed from the library that had promised to be much better than it actually is. “This isn’t about emotions at all!” he says, vexed and deeply betrayed, holding the book sideways and flipping through a few pages more.
He sighs, setting it behind himself onto the floor on a stack of his other books.
Thank the maker, he’s finally alone.
Inkume sighs a deep, relaxed sigh as he leans back against the wall of the bath and closes his eyes. Every day it’s ‘Master Step on Me’ this and ‘Die Nine Deaths, Foul Monster’ that.
What does a man have to do to get five minutes of peace to himself in this world? It’s absolute madness most days.
He really does enjoy his people’s company, but damn if his social battery hasn’t been crashed to zero for weeks now. A true introvert like him wants nothing more than to be alone, but for some reason life keeps not letting him have that sacred time to himself. He feels like his brain is cooking day and night at this point, trying to keep up with all the different social dynamics of the castle, let alone managing the dungeon itself.
The Vampire Lord watches a toy duck float past him in the bathwater. The soap bubbles stuck to its face around its eyes make it look tired.
“You and me both, pal,” mutters the dark Master, watching the duck fade away into the steam as the bath’s current drifts it away.
Maybe he’ll just have them all locked up in the torture chamber? That’ll keep them quiet. He ponders it for a while; its feasibility seems more and more reasonable by the second.
A barrage of arguing voices comes from outside the door to the baths.
Wait.
He’s thinking that nonsense again. Clutching his face, Inkume reaches behind himself and grabs a book, picking out Enfangled.
“Hello, old friend,” says the Vampire Lord, staring at Matthew-Cray-Anthony’s chiseled, beautiful face and eyes staring his way. “It’s been a minute,” he says.
Inkume ponders for a second, looking around himself.
Inkume has cast: [Animate Minor Object]
“Hello, Inkume,” says the man on the cover of the book — Matthew himself as he comes to life, flexing with one arm as he runs his hand through his perfectly gelled yet still soft hair with his other hand. His eight-pack abs ripple like a bowl of gelatin moved by a great country-destroying quake.
“Matthew!” says Inkume unexpectedly excitedly. “How are you? I love the book!”
“I know. I love you too, Inkume,” says Matthew-Cray-Anthony, grabbing his palms together in a resistance flex, his biceps bulging. But because Sarah-Sarahbellum on the book’s cover hasn’t been animated, only Matthew, her two-dimensional flat shape, bends and warps in odd ways as if it were a stretching photo glued to his flank. “You’ve been doing great work.”
“That means a lot to me, Matthew. You’re my greatest inspiration,” he says in relief, holding a hand against his chest. “Listen. I need your advice, but I read your book ten times now, and I can’t figure out what to do anymore,” says the Vampire Lord.
Matthew-Cray-Anthony takes the red apple in his hands and crushes it between his chin and neck before sensually smearing the juices over his torso, his skin glistening like painted moonlight. “What’s wrong? Drink some bad blood?”
Inkume sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, Matthew,” he admits to the moving image on the well-read book’s worn cover. “I’m a mess. I keep thinking this one thing, then doing this other thing, but then feeling this other-other thing all at the same time,” explains the Vampire Lord. “How do you keep your head straight?” he asks. “With everything you have going on.”
Matthew-Cray-Anthony puts a finger in his waistband and another around the cashmere cardigan tied around his hip as he pulls both of them taut in different direction. “I hear you,” he replies. “Do you remember that time I had to play the big game that one night, but I was infected with werewolf’s blood and Sarah ran onto the field to stop me from playing as the quarterback because I would have rampaged and killed everyone if she didn’t offer herself as an emotional sacrifice for my budding rage?” asks the fake vampire, thrusting his hips toward the blank nothing on the left side of the cover as the paper Sarah next to him wobbles around like a sad flag.
“That was my favorite chapter!” replies Inkume, nodding enthusiastically. “You handled it so well!” he says. “Throwing the game in front of everyone because it was the right thing to do, even if it meant you were thrown out from the clique of popular students.”
“It was hard, Inkume,” says Matthew, his lucious hair flowing like a pirate's romantic banner, ready to steal the heart of a shorebound maiden. “But when Sarah came running to me in that stolen cheerleader’s outfit brandishing a silver knife to kill me, I knew then that I had to make a choice,” explains the cover on the book, looking straight his way as he strikes a pose, his hands running down over his own massive pecs. “After attending different high schools for a hundred years, as one does, I had to decide that it was time to finally graduate for real,” explains Matthew, Inkume nodding along. “Alone, I couldn’t see that,” he says, turning his head to look at Sarah’s distorted face that is stretched apart into a grotesque horror from all of his repeated movements. “Like in any vampire novel, it was a vaguely, undefined, socially acceptably adult-aged woman who somehow was still in high school who helped me finally find myself. I saved Sarah in that garden from that runaway wheelbarrow, Inkume,” says Matthew. “But it was Sarah who saved me,” he replies, shaking his head, beads of glistening, dewy sweaty running down his body.
“From what?”
“...From myself,” says Matthew in a cold voice, striking a dramatic pose with his hand covering half of his face, his one free eye looking out toward Inkume from between his fingers. “— From the monster inside me.”
Inkume copies the pose, his ruby eye staring through his own fingers toward the book. “…I understand, Master Matthew,” says the Vampire Lord. “Thank you.”
“Go, Inkume!” calls Matthew-Cray-Anthony. “They might call you the Vampire Lord!” he declares. “But it’s up to you to become something even greater, to decide to become the next best thing after that! Why do you think you took me with you to this world, Inkume?” asks the paper man, and Inkume shakes his head. “It wasn’t ever because you liked vampires,” explains Matthew, settling back into his predefined pose as his features begin to harden again. “There was no cosmic misunderstanding there.”
Inkume stares, understanding the lesson imparted unto him by the powers that be. “…It was because I wanted what you had,” says the man who was always alone.
The two of them look at each other as Matthew’s hands rest on his own heart, and then his pose returns to its original state.
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- [Outside the Bath] -
“What do you mean ‘no guests’?!” snaps Snatch. “Wretch! I’ll snatch your skull clean off your head!” she snarls.
— Somehow everyone has collected together again. It’s almost impossible for one of them to try and find Inkume, because along the way the others will catch wind of it and work to intercept lest anyone else have precious one-on-one time with him — a danger for their own ambitions.
A skeleton in a butler’s uniform stands in front of the door. “The Master gave strict orders to not be disturbed,” he explains, pulling the fabric of his jacket out of the maid Fi-Fi’s hands as she examines it with a cold look on her skull. “Please return to your dut—”
The door flings open, knocking the butler over.
“Everyone!” says the Vampire Lord, standing there in a towel and picking the skeleton back up, dusting him off as he looks at the crowd. “My apologies for being unavailable. Thank you for your friendship,” says Inkume, looking over at them.
Azalea and a few of the others exchange confused looks.
“Master!” cries Snatch, pressing out of the crowd. “Is it true that you love some stupid dead girl named Sarah more than me?!” howls Snatch, groveling as she clutches his chest and then starts wheezing, feeling him up instead. “I’m dead too, Master!”
“Sarah?!” asks Inkume, taken aback. “Who told you about…” His eyes narrow.
“So it is true,” says Azalea.
How do they know about the bookstore girl? Only Bark ever heard him mention her name once before, and he didn’t really explain that situation to her either.
Ah. He understands.
This must be a rumor that has spread — some big misunderstanding because of that.
“Sarah is dead to me,” replies the Vampire Lord dryly, waving them off. “Because now I have you all to fill that hole in my heart,” explains the dark Master, looking over his friends, who accept him even now for being a terrible monstrosity in a bath towel, yet still somehow with dry, styled hair.
— Who would’ve thought that a weird, socially awkward person like him could ever be so lucky in any life to have this many people who are thrilled to want to spend time with him?
The old Vampire Lord was a real goober, missing out on this to be lonely because that’s what he was used to, and so was he for getting too into that same exact mindset. It was taking him to a bad place.
“Come!” he says, turning around. “The night is still young, and the sun will not be here for many hours still,” explains Inkume, grabbing a bottle of blood from the dedicated wine shelf next to him. “I intend to stay right here all night to relax, and I’d be thrilled about everyone who wants to join me in a peaceful evening together,” says the Vampire Lord, raising the bottle their way as he walks back toward the bath. "I forbid any work from being done tonight."
The offer is accepted, as evidenced by the stampede in his wake.
— But it is at least a friendly stampede.
And the night is a really fun time. The others even manage to get along better than he was expecting, and he realizes that it’s because they’re not passively snipping at each other’s heels for the droplets of time and attention he would otherwise drip their way.
He was a bad friend in that regard.
But he’s going to do better now.
For them, for him. Inkume’s eyes land on the cover of Enfangled volume one, where Matthew poses.
“Master! Can Fi-Fi borrow this?” she asks, suddenly picking up the book, water dripping down and through her bones as the fleshless skeleton stands upright halfway in the bath. Snatch snarls, quickly covering Inkume’s eyes with her translucent, goopy hands in a pyrhric attempt to protect his innocence. “Please? I would love to finally read the third one myself!”
“It’s all yours, Fi-Fi,” says Inkume, leaning back as to his side Snatch and Azalea begin fight with each other about who gets to sit where. He pulls them apart, setting one of them on either of his sides, which makes them fall quiet very quickly. “Let me know what you think when you’re done,” asks the Vampire Lord, closing his eyes, spreading his arms back over the bath's ledge, and enjoying what promises to be maybe the first truly relaxing evening of his new life as he stares out over the open-faced balcony into the wide, moonlit world beyond.
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- [Dorime, the Hero Swordserer] -
Light spills in from the stained glass, casting muted hues across the stone floor. It’s a serene moment, a pause before the storm.
Sarah — now Dorime — stands at the center, her mind buzzing with possibility. This is her chance — a chance to be someone extraordinary. She clutches her well-worn copy of ‘Swordserer’, drawing strength from its familiar pages. The protagonist, with his unyielding courage and sharp wit, becomes her guide in this unfamiliar world as she reads its pages in a moment of quiet, trying to memorize everything.
The priests gather nearby, speaking in hushed tones about the Vampire Lord and his malevolent forces. Their words are a backdrop to Sarah’s thoughts. She catches snippets of their conversation, absorbing what she can.
“We must prepare her to move soon,” one says, gesturing to the training grounds beyond the cathedral. Another nod, his gaze resting on Sarah with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
Sarah meets their eyes, offering a confident nod despite the swarm of nerves fluttering within her. “I’ll do what needs to be done,” she declares, channeling the resolve of her fictional hero. “I will bring the wicked Vampire Lord to justice,” promises Dorime, the hero.
Her holy training begins at dawn.
A new chapter of her life has begun, one that promises her adventure and meaning.
— Finally.
She smiles.