Eira Morgan's studio smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and the faint tang of rain from the window she'd forgotten to shut. The painting before her—a sprawling field bathed in twilight—was nearly complete, the last strokes of her brush adding depth to the amber sky. It was a quiet masterpiece, a reminder of what she could still create despite the chaos in her life.

She paused, tilting her head, brush in hand. Something felt… off. She couldn't place it, but the stillness around her seemed heavier than usual. The rain had started earlier that evening, a soft patter against the window, but now even that sound seemed muted.

Her eyes flicked to the package on her worktable.

She hadn't noticed it when she arrived. Her studio door had been locked, and she always double-checked it. Yet there it sat, wrapped in brown paper tied with coarse twine, her name scrawled across the top in an elegant, unfamiliar script. The ink shimmered faintly under the dim light.

"Who the hell…?" she muttered, setting the brush down with an unsteady hand. Her skin prickled, a wave of unease rolling over her as she approached.

She hovered over the package, debating whether to open it. The rational part of her brain screamed to leave it alone—call the police, maybe. But curiosity, mingled with a strange sense of foreboding, won out. Slowly, she tugged the twine free and unwrapped the paper, revealing a piece of paper beneath.

She unfolded the parchment with an unnerving crackle, and froze. Beneath it was a sketch.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It was Finn.

Her younger brother stared back at her, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow. He was bound in heavy chains, his skin bruised and pale, as though the life had been drained from him. The dungeon-like setting was rendered with such lifelike precision that she almost smelled the damp stone and iron. Her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat.

At the bottom of the sketch, scrawled in crimson ink, was a name and address:

Caius Draven. Ravensmoor Castle. Come before the next full moon if you want him to live.

Eira stared at the name, her pulse thundering in her ears. The ink glinted wetly under the light, as though freshly written. She touched it with a trembling hand, half expecting it to smear, but it didn't. Her fingertips came away clean, though the metallic scent of blood lingered in the air.

Caius Draven.

The name was infamous, whispered in cautionary tales about the vampire lords who ruled the shadows. He wasn't just a vampire—he was the head of one of the oldest and most dangerous covens in the region. And Ravensmoor Castle… she knew it was the heart of their territory, a fortress surrounded by nothing but dark forests and worse rumors.

Her stomach twisted. She had figured Finn was in trouble, but this? This wasn't a bar fight he couldn't walk away from or some gambling debt he could pay off with a promise and a grin.

Thunder rumbled outside, loud enough to rattle the windows, and the studio lights flickered. Shadows danced along the walls, curling and stretching unnaturally. For a moment, she swore they were moving toward her. She stumbled back, her chest tight, clutching the sketch as though it could anchor her.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "This can't be real. Finn's fine. He's—"

But she couldn't finish the sentence. Finn had always called her when he was in trouble—when he was stranded, broke, or worse. She had bailed him out of countless bad decisions over the years, but this was different. She hadn't heard from him in days, not since he'd texted her about a party outside of the city.

She sank into the chair by her worktable, gripping the parchment so tightly her knuckles turned white. A thousand questions tore through her mind.

Why would Finn cross someone like Caius Draven? How did he even end up on the radar of a vampire lord?

The air in the studio seemed to thicken, and a chill crawled down her spine. She glanced toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, but beyond that, she could've sworn she saw something—or someone—watching.

Two golden orbs glinted faintly in the shadows outside, like eyes.

Eira's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. But when she blinked, the orbs were gone, swallowed by the storm.

She couldn't stay here.

She had to do something.

Rising on shaky legs, she grabbed her satchel and began throwing things into it. Desperation clawed at her as she shoved art supplies and a sketchpad into the bag. She didn't know why she might need them, but leaving them behind felt impossible. She folded the sketch, its haunted imagery searing itself into her mind, and stuffed it into the bag as well.

The address scrawled beneath the name tugged at her like an invisible thread.

"Hold on, Finn," she muttered, grabbing her car keys. "I'm on my way."

The rain poured harder as she sped out of the city, the windshield wipers struggling to keep up. Her tiny car's headlights barely pierced the darkness of the rural roads. The neon glow of Ravensmoor faded in her rearview mirror, replaced by endless rows of trees that loomed like silent sentinels.

Every mile felt heavier, the weight of the sketch pressing against her thoughts. The name Caius Draven echoed in her mind, both foreign and familiar, like a long-forgotten nightmare clawing its way to the surface.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the dense forest around her. For a fleeting moment, she saw something dart between the trees—a shape too fast and sleek to be human. Her grip tightened on the wheel, her pulse racing.

She forced herself to focus, ignoring the shadows at the edges of her vision. She couldn't stop, not now. The road twisted sharply ahead, and as she rounded the bend, she caught her first glimpse of it.

Ravensmoor Castle rose out of the storm like something from a fever dream. Jagged towers reached into the sky, their dark stone shimmering under the rain. The structure was massive, ancient, and alive with an unsettling energy that seemed to hum in the air. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the iron gates, their intricate carvings depicting snarling beasts and winged figures.

Her car skidded slightly as she pulled to a stop before the gates. The engine sputtered to silence, and for a moment, the only sound was the pounding of the rain. Eira sat there, gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles ached, staring up at the castle.

Her chest tightened as the reality of where she was—and what she was about to face—hit her. A flicker of panic rose, quick and sharp, threatening to overtake her.

What the hell was she doing? She had no plan, no backup, no idea what waited for her beyond those gates. Her breaths came fast and shallow, the walls of the car pressing in around her. She clutched the wheel tighter, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as her thoughts spiraled.

What if I can't save him? What if I'm too late? What if it's a trap?

She bowed her head against the wheel, squeezing her eyes shut. For a moment, she wanted to give up—to turn the car around and leave Ravensmoor behind.

Someone else could handle this.

Someone stronger.

Smarter.

But then Finn's face rose in her mind—the way he used to laugh when he teased her about her stubbornness, the way he'd looked at her for reassurance after their parents died. And then, the haunted version of him in the sketch, beaten and bound, his eyes hollow and lifeless.

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling but steady.

Not him too.

She inhaled deeply, forcing the panic down, swallowing it like a bitter pill. Her grip on the wheel eased slightly.

Just then, something moved behind the gates. As she lifted her head, movement caught her eye—a figure, tall and cloaked, standing just out of the light. Its presence was undeniable, its eyes glowing faintly silver.

Her breath caught as she quickly wiped her damp cheeks with a shaky hand. She wouldn't let them see her fear—not the ones who'd taken Finn, and certainly not the figure watching her from behind those gates.

Her fingers brushed the parchment in her bag, grounding her. "Stay strong, Finn." she murmured, her voice hardening. She thought of the time Finn had broken his arm as a kid, the way he'd refused to cry until she'd sat beside him, holding his hand. He'd always counted on her to make things right.

The world around her seemed to hold its breath, the rhythmic drumming of the rain muffled for just a moment. The faintest sound—a whisper—brushed her ears, low and indistinct. She whipped her head toward the passenger seat, her heart hammering in her chest. The car was empty, of course, but the sensation of being watched prickled her skin.

A shiver coursed down her spine. She had no choice.

Eira reached for the door handle, her hand trembling. As she stepped out, the cold rain struck her like a slap, soaking through her clothes in seconds. She gasped at the chill, her breath visible in the icy air. The castle loomed ahead, a shadow that seemed to stretch across the sky, its jagged towers cutting into the storm.

The gates creaked, an almost welcoming groan, as if the castle itself was alive and waiting for her. She froze, her instincts still screaming at her to turn back. But then, through the rain and the thunder, she heard it again—the whisper.

"Come."

It was closer this time, soft but unmistakable, curling around her like a cold breath at the nape of her neck. Eira's head snapped toward the sound, her pulse spiking. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice sharp despite the tremor in it. The darkness gave no answer, and the rain swallowed her words. She swallowed hard, the whisper lingering in her ears like an unwanted caress.

Her fury flared, burning through the fear that threatened to paralyze her. She clenched her fists, her voice low. "You want me to come?" she muttered under her breath, gripping the strap of her bag. "Fine. You'd better be ready for me."

Her boots splashed through the puddles as she stepped forward, her knuckles white.

The figure behind the gates shifted, stepping into the faint glow of the castle's lanterns. It moved with an unnerving stillness, as though the storm bent around it rather than touching it. 

The gates creaked open, their iron groan echoing through the night, and with them, her last shred of hesitation vanished.

The figure didn't move as Eira crossed the threshold, her soaked clothes clinging to her as the cold bit into her skin. Her fury burned hotter, keeping her moving even as the castle loomed above her like a maw waiting to swallow her whole.

Hold on, Finn, she thought again, her resolve hardening with each step. I'll get you back. No matter the cost.