He sprinted for his life, the sound of his ragged breaths piercing the frigid air. He collided with the underbrush and stumbled over a fallen log that he hadn't noticed.
Tumbling to the ground, he felt his heart pounding in his chest, but the overwhelming terror eclipsed the pain in his abdomen, where dried blood stained his torn shirt, and fresh blood trickled down his dirty, sweaty hands as he pressed against his wounds. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, yet he pushed through the agony and fatigue weighing him down, fully aware that survival depended on his ability to keep moving. Rising with a mix of determination and dread, he let out a soft groan from the pain, his face betraying a flicker of anguish as sweat dripped down.
Spotting muddy footprints on the ground, he kicked at the leaves to obscure his trail. As he hesitated, the chilling sound of cruel laughter echoed through the air,
"We're coming. You better run, little boy, or we're coming to get you."
He scanned the desolate, shadowy forest, where countless trees loomed around him. Glancing up at the darkening sky, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart, but it did little to ease his fear.
He then veered away from the voices, though his pace was hindered by his injuries. Each step felt like a jolt, and he raised an arm to shield his head from the branches that whipped past him.
Despite the overwhelming grief and terror propelling him forward, his body was faltering under the weight of exhaustion and wounds. A massive tree loomed ahead, and he slowed to a walk, knowing he could no longer run.
He glanced down at his abdomen, where deep claw marks marred his skin, and the distant, cruel laughter echoed ominously.
With a heavy heart, he slid down against the tree, seeking a moment of respite.
Silas was acutely aware that vampires possessed an uncanny ability to detect even the faintest sounds from afar—heartbeats, breaths, and the slightest movements.
He understood that his time was running out; the blood loss and severity of his wounds would soon claim his life, or he would be captured and perish on the way back to the palace, where she awaited him.
A solitary tear traced a path down his pale, mud-streaked face, a testament to the devastation he had endured—his family, friends, and home all lost to him.
As he wallowed in despair, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the distance. His senses were dulling; the pain had become a distant memory, replaced by an encroaching chill. He could no longer feel his fingers or arms, as if they had vanished altogether. When he looked up, a familiar face emerged from the shadows, marked by a long, jagged scar that ran down his hardened features. Clad in a light silver breastplate and old tunic pants, the man wore a sinister, cold smile. "I found you, witch," he declared, kneeling beside Silas. "You're certainly not in good shape. It's time for you to return and pay for your crimes."
As Silas closed his eyes, the familiar darkness enveloped him, and he felt the roughness of the man's hands, a reminder of battles fought under the sun.
He sensed the man lifting his battered body, the weightlessness of his injuries becoming apparent as he was hoisted over the man's broad shoulders.
Dizziness and blood loss overwhelmed him, and soon, everything faded to black.
———-
-Present Day, Centuries later-
Silas jolts awake, his heart racing as if each breath he takes is in sync with its frantic rhythm.
A deep crease forms on his forehead as he recalls the strange dream that lingered in his mind. The harder he tries to grasp its details, the more foggy they become.
With his left hand, he massages the tension in his forehead while his right hand fumbles for the lamp, illuminating the dim room.
The light spills into the silence, the only sound breaking through being his own steady breathing.
Glancing at the clock, a groan escapes his lips as he realizes he's overslept for class. He kicks the blankets aside, a chill creeping up his arms and legs.
His eyes land on his phone, buzzing with missed calls and texts from his girlfriend, who's clearly worried about him.