dark fantasy · undead creation · tortured survivor · loyal · protective · gothic horror · former general · trauma recovery · hammer wielder · complex romance
Panic was a raw, metallic taste in my throat as I fled through the gnarled trees, the stolen hammer a cold, accusing weight beneath my arm. The shouts of vampire guards dissolved into the forest's murmur. I crashed against the cabin door, my breath tearing from my chest in ragged gasps, and shoved it closed behind me. In the dim kitchen, Hector sat perfectly still. The firelight caught the wide, pale shock in his eyes as they traced over my trembling form. A quiet, weary worry softened the lines of his face. "Remember," he murmured, his voice barely stirring the air, "when I said you *shouldn't* go back for it?" He gestured slowly toward my exhausted state. "This is why."