The Bloodbound Awakening

The bus groaned to a halt in the shadow of the town, its brakes hissing like a sigh of relief after the winding mountain roads. Elian peeled her cheek from the fogged window, her skin sticky from hours of fitful sleep. Outside, the world had turned to twilight-though her phone insisted it was barely past noon. The air smelled different here, thick with damp earth and something faintly metallic, like old coins left too long in the rain.

"Welcome to the world's most depressing postcard," Jason announced, vaulting into the aisle with all the grace of a startled deer. His combat boots thudded against the floor as he stretched, cracking his neck with a sound that made Mira grimace.

"Must you always sound like a walking bag of popcorn?" Mira muttered, shoving her well-worn copy of European Gothic Architecture into her backpack.

Jason grinned, leaning over Elian's seat until his breath-sour with the ghost of gummy bears-warmed her cheek. "What's the matter, Mi? Scared the big bad town will chew you up?"

Elian wrinkled her nose and pushed him away. "If it does, we're feeding you to it first."

Laughter rippled through their classmates as they filed off the bus, but Elian's smile faded the moment her feet touched the cobblestones. The ground itself felt wrong-too cold, too smooth, as if the stones had been worn down by something other than time. She flexed her toes in her boots, half-expecting to feel the cobblestones pulse beneath her.

"El?" Mira nudged her shoulder, her brow furrowing. "You're doing that starey thing again."

Elian blinked. "Sorry. Just... this place." She gestured vaguely at the crooked buildings, their gabled roofs sagging under the weight of centuries. "It's like it's looking at us."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, and I'm the King of France." He flung an arm around her neck, dragging her toward the hostel. "Come on, Spooky. Lowell said they've got actual medieval chamber pots here. I call dibs on the one with the gargoyle face."

Mira rolled her eyes but followed, her boots clicking against the stones. Elian trailed behind, her gaze snagging on a narrow alley between two leaning houses.

There.

A shadow shifted-too tall, too still.

Then the wind howled through the gap, and the darkness moved. Not like a person. Like liquid. Like breath.

"Elian!" Mrs. Lowell's voice snapped her back. The teacher stood at the hostel door, her clipboard clutched like a shield. "Keep up, unless you want to be left out here after dark."

Elian swallowed hard and hurried inside, but the whisper of the alley followed her, curling around her ankles like mist:

"We see you."

The hostel's lobby smelled of beeswax and something faintly metallic, like the tang of blood in the air. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light dancing across the faces of carved wooden saints lining the walls. Their eyes seemed to track Elian as she approached the front desk, their hollow gazes boring into her back.

An elderly woman with skin like crumpled parchment looked up from her ledger. "Ah. The Americans." Her accent curled around the word like a sneer. "Room assignments are on the board. No noise after ten. No candles. No foolishness." Her gaze lingered on Jason, who was already poking at a rusted suit of armor in the corner, his fingers tracing the dents in the metal as if they were battle scars.

Mira grabbed their key. "Third floor. Lucky us."

The stairs groaned under their weight, the wood worn smooth by generations of travelers. Elian ran her fingers along the banister-and jerked back as a jolt of cold shot up her arm.

"Did you feel that?" she hissed.

Mira frowned. "Feel what?"

"Like... a pulse."

Jason laughed. "Yeah, the pulse of rotten wood. This place is probably held together by mold and wishful thinking."

But Elian clenched her fists. The wood had thrummed under her touch, like the slow, steady beat of a heart.

Their room was small, with twin beds and a window overlooking the town square. The glass was warped, distorting the view of the grotesque fountain below-a tangle of stone limbs and hollow eyes that seemed to stare back at her.

Mira dumped her bag onto the left bed. "Dibs on the one not facing Murder Statue Central."

Elian didn't argue. She set her backpack down carefully, as if too much noise might wake something.

"You're really freaked, huh?" Mira's voice softened as she sat beside her.

Elian hesitated. "Do you believe in... vibes?"

"Vibes?"

"Like, a place just feeling wrong."

Mira glanced at the window, where the fountain's shadow stretched long across the square. "I believe in bad plumbing and sketchy Wi-Fi. But..." She chewed her lip. "This town's got something. Maybe it's just jet lag."

A knock at the door made them both jump. Jason poked his head in, his hair sticking up in wild spikes. "Lowell says dinner's in twenty. Also, I found a dungeon in the basement."

Mira threw a pillow at him. "It's a wine cellar, you idiot."

Jason dodged, grinning. "Same difference. You coming, Spooky?"

Elian forced a smile. "Yeah. Just... give me a sec."

The moment the door closed, she pressed her palm to the wall.

Thump.

A single, faint heartbeat.

Then nothing.

Dinner was served in a cavernous hall, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Long wooden tables groaned under platters of stewed meat and dark bread. The air smelled of rosemary and something earthier-mushrooms, maybe, or damp soil. Elian poked at her food, her appetite gone the moment she noticed the carvings on the table: tiny, intricate runes etched into the wood, their meanings lost to time.

Alistair, their tour guide, perched at the head table like a vulture. His fingers-too long, too knobby-drummed against his wine glass. "Veyruhn," he began, his voice like dry leaves, "is a town built on bones."

Jason whooped. "Now we're talking!"

Mrs. Lowell shot him a glare, but Alistair ignored them, his gaze sliding to Elian. "Centuries ago, this valley was a sanctuary for those who practiced... older arts." He took a slow sip of wine, the liquid dark as blood in the firelight. "The kind that leaves marks."

Elian's fork clattered against her plate.

Mira leaned in. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Slippery fingers."

Alistair smiled, showing too many teeth. "The most famous resident was a nobleman they called the Night's King. Some say he still walks these streets, waiting for-"

"Okay!" Mrs. Lowell clapped her hands. "That's enough ghost stories for one night. Tomorrow's itinerary is packed, and I will confiscate phones if anyone falls asleep in the cathedral."

As the group dispersed, Elian lingered, her eyes drawn to a tapestry behind Alistair. It showed a crowned figure standing atop a mound of bodies, his face twisted in sorrow-or hunger.

Alistair followed her gaze. "Ah. Raelith."

The name hit her like a slap.

"You... know him?" she whispered.

Alistair's smile widened. "Everyone in Veyruhn knows the King of Shadows, child. Even if they pretend otherwise." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of sour wine. "But you... you feel him, don't you?"

Elian's throat closed.

Then Mira called from the doorway, "Elian! You coming?"

She fled without answering.

That night, Elian dreamed of running.

Stone walls blurred past her, their surfaces slick with something dark. The air stank of iron and burning hair. Behind her-footsteps. Too fast. Too many.

A hand grabbed hers, yanking her into an alcove.

"Quiet," a voice hissed.

She turned-and screamed.

The face was hers, but wrong. Eyes black as pitch, lips smeared with blood.

"You promised you'd come back," the other Elian whispered.

She woke up gasping, her nails digging into her palms. The room was freezing.

And at the foot of her bed-

A shadow.

Not a trick of the light. Not a dream.

It had shape. Weight.

Elian's breath came in shallow bursts. This isn't happening.

The shadow tilted its head.

Then-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Elian?" Mira's voice, thick with sleep. "You okay? You were... whimpering."

The shadow dissolved.

Elian stared at the empty space, her heart hammering.

"I'm fine," she croaked. "Just... a nightmare."

Silence. Then Mira's footsteps retreated.

Elian lay back down, her skin prickling.

The whisper came as she drifted off:

"He's waiting."