The scent of burning incense filled the small chapel, mixing with the lingering dampness of the stone walls. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting fractured colors across the worn wooden pews. It was a quiet morning in the village.
Too quiet.
Salvatore sat alone, his hands resting on the aged oak altar, fingers tracing the grooves carved into the wood. The people of the village would arrive soon, seeking his guidance, his blessings, his carefully crafted lies.
But today, his mind was elsewhere.
The past had a way of bleeding into the present.
And today, it was drowning him.
He closed his eyes, and in an instant, he was no longer in the village.
The scent of incense became blood and fire. The quiet hum of the chapel became the screams of dying men.
He was back on the battlefield.
Leonhardt's sword carved through the air, his movements relentless. The weight of each blow still lingered in Salvatore's bones, as if the wounds had never truly healed. He could still feel the cold steel splitting his flesh, the taste of his own death on his tongue.
The nightmare.
The hands. The mouths. The devouring hunger of those he had slain.
He opened his eyes sharply.
The chapel remained. The silence remained.
But the past did not leave.
Salvatore exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temples. Even after centuries, Leonhardt had managed to carve himself into Salvatore's mind. Not just as a warrior, but as something far worse.
A reminder.
A reminder that for all his power, for all his centuries of existence—he was not untouchable.
A sudden knock at the door pulled him back fully.
He straightened his posture, slipping seamlessly into the role he had perfected over the years. The priest. The savior of the village. The man who was supposed to be a beacon of light, not the shadow hiding beneath it.
"Enter," he said, his voice calm, steady.
The wooden door creaked open, revealing an elderly woman wrapped in a thick shawl. Her wrinkled hands clutched a rosary, her expression lined with something close to worry.
"Father Salvatore," she began, stepping forward. "There is something... something strange in the village."
Salvatore tilted his head slightly. "Strange how?"
The old woman hesitated, glancing toward the open doorway, as if afraid something might be listening.
"A man arrived last night. A traveler. He asks questions, but something about him is... wrong." Her fingers twisted around the rosary beads. "He speaks of old things. Forgotten things."
Salvatore remained still.
A traveler. Asking questions.
His presence in the village had never been questioned before. He had made sure of that.
For years, he had been careful. Methodical. Eliminating suspicion before it could take root.
So why now?
Why, after all this time, had someone come looking?
He offered the woman a small, reassuring smile. "Worry not. I will speak to him myself."
The woman nodded, but the unease in her eyes did not fade. She turned and shuffled out, the heavy door closing behind her.
Salvatore sat in silence for a moment.
Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.
The past was not done with him yet.
And for the first time in centuries...
He felt its gaze staring back.