Lucien:
I was wandering the graveyard again.
Drunk.
Not on wine. Not on whiskey.
On bloodlust.
It clawed at my throat, hot and aching, demanding release.
There was something laughably poetic about it—me, a vampire, haunting a cemetery like some poor cliché. A predator pacing a battlefield long after the war had ended.
I moved through tombstones like a phantom in my own right. The air was cool, the ground soft from recent rain, and my boots crunched over gravel and dried petals like old bones snapping underfoot. The wind whispered in Latin through the trees. A language only the dead remembered.
These were my people now.
Rot and ruin.
I used to fear death. Then I lost the luxury of fearing it.
Eternal death.
Dying a concept I no longer believe in.
And maybe that’s the problem.
