The stench of blood and burning flesh hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke that twisted up into the cold night sky. Trees cracked under the weight of the fire's hunger. Homes—simple, ancient, carved into the heart of the forest—collapsed with groans of splintered wood, their embers glowing like dying stars.
And the screams.
Gods, the screams never stopped.
Once, the Lumiren had lived in peace. Hidden away. Revered by the old world. But peace meant little in a kingdom that feared what it could not control.
Now, they were hunted like animals.
A woman stumbled through the remains of her home, her silver-white hair stained red. She clutched a child to her chest, her own breath ragged, eyes wide with a terror that had no name. Behind her, a soldier dragged her husband by the throat, a cruel grin splitting his face as he plunged a dagger into the man's heart—then twisted.
"Run!" the dying man gasped, blood spilling from his lips.
The woman didn't hesitate.
But the vampire soldiers were too fast.
A whip cracked through the air, wrapping around her legs like a snake. She screamed as she hit the ground, shielding her baby with her body. The soldier yanked her back with brutal force.
"Please!" she cried out. "He's just a child! He's done nothing—!"
But mercy had long been burned out of them.
The child was ripped from her arms.
The vampire holding him tilted his head, curious. The child had eyes like moonstone and blood as bright as rubies, a mark of what he was. What they all were.
"Another blessed one," he murmured, holding the infant high. "He'll burn just the same."
"No—!"
Her scream was cut short by a blade to the throat. The body slumped, still twitching.
All around them, the forest village was being torn apart.
The Lumiren fought back where they could—flashes of light, shimmering shields, whispered incantations woven into their dying breath. But they were healers, not warriors. Their gifts were meant to restore, not destroy. And the vampires knew it.
They used silver-tipped arrows soaked in wolfsbane. Salted nets. Iron blades forged in ancient magic. Every cruel tool that had been outlawed centuries ago was now wielded in the open. And they smiled while they did it.
One elder was nailed to the sacred tree in the village center, his wings—yes, wings—ripped from his back and pinned beside him like some grotesque display of triumph.
"Let the others see what happens to gods," a vampire captain sneered.
A Lumiren child, no older than seven, stood frozen at the edge of the scene. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her feet were bare. Her hands trembled. Her skin glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped in flesh.
She turned to run.
A soldier caught her by the hair, dragging her back.
"No—no, please—I didn't do anything—I didn't—"
She screamed as the torch touched her skin.
And still the vampire did not flinch.
Deeper in the forest, a bunch of elders fought to protect the last of the sacred bloodlines. The spell they cast was ancient, one of concealment, one meant to shatter the link between their people and the power that made them a threat. But it was too late. The enemy had breached the final sanctuary.
And behind them came him.
The vampire.
He stepped into the clearing, his boots untouched by the blood-slicked ground, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow given form. His crimson eyes swept over the devastation—not with rage, not with pleasure. Simple calculation. Finality.
"The last of you," he said, voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. "And still you cling to hope."
An elder stepped forward, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. "This… will not end with us."
The vampire tilted his head, as if amused. "No. But it begins with you."
He raised a single hand.
And the sky obeyed.
Arrows rained down like a storm of death, each one striking true—throats, hearts, spines. The air split with screams as the Lumiren were cut down mid-prayer, mid-breath, mid-flee.
Cries of agony pierced the night, but the wind—cold and indifferent—swept their echoes far into the forest, as if the world itself wished to forget the sound.
When the last body fell, silence crept in like smoke, thick and final.
The vampire turned to his followers, his crimson gaze landing on the towering tree at the heart of the ruins—a sacred sentinel that had stood watch for centuries.
"Burn it to the ground," he commanded, voice void of emotion.
Without hesitation, they obeyed. Oil was poured onto its ancient roots, soaking the bark, the earth, the blood.
And then the torch touched wood.
Flames climbed the trunk like ravenous beasts, devouring leaf, limb, and legacy. The fire cast dancing shadows across the bodies now gathered at its base—Lumiren elders, children, warriors. All fed to the blaze.
The tree crackled. The bodies hissed. And the fire roared. Not even their ashes would be spared.
When the silence finally returned, nothing remained but blackened soil and a rising wind that carried the last whisper of the Lumiren into oblivion.