Lanterns in the Dark
Orphea
They began as a pair of glowing green lanterns burning in the dark, their light pulsing faintly, exhaling wisps of smoke that twisted like breath. At first, I thought them mere illusions of the night—some trick of half-sleep—but the longer I stared, the more the truth took shape. The lanterns blinked, slow and deliberate, and I realized they were not lanterns at all, but eyes—watching me from the void. Calm and still, silent in their observation.
They were beautiful, those eyes—each a small green flame flickering in an endless sea of black. Every night, I drifted toward them, drawn as though the darkness itself had found a pulse that beat in time with mine.
For as long as I can remember, the dreams were always there, and his watching me sleep became my constant. I should have been afraid—an ordinary girl might have been—but there was nothing ordinary about my family or me. Knowing he was there, always watching over me, I felt safe. Protected. His eyes reminded me of my father’s when he summoned his Vampyre magic, and there was nothing but love in my father’s gaze when he looked at me. Even in the midst of a scolding or a sparring match, though his face might harden, his eyes never lost that warmth.
As I grew older, the creature revealed more of himself. He was a hideous beast—fangs, horns, monstrous in form—yet I did not fear him. Instead, I found him strangely captivating. When he began to speak, his tender words of love and devotion webbed around my heart like a spider’s silk around a fly. There was no chance of escape. He claimed me from the beginning, and I longed for nothing more than to be his.
I never kept my dream Daemon a secret. My parents sometimes spoke of sharing dreams, so to me, he seemed nothing out of the ordinary. Though whenever Elliott mocked me for it, I made sure to silence him—with a good whack.
During the day, I would make a list of questions to ask him, eager to know more about him. But each time I dreamed, he refused to answer. He insisted I wasn’t ready to hear the truth, and even refused to tell me his name. So I gave him one myself. I called him Mine—not the best of names, but I was only two at the time.
And then, one night, he was gone.
Each time I closed my eyes after that, I woke choking on panic, trembling in confusion. No warning. No explanation. Only absence—so total it pressed against my chest like a weight I could not lift. It was my first true taste of fear, of loss that gnawed from the inside out. Once, I had sought the darkness, eager for his presence—for the shelter of his gaze, the low murmur of his devotion. Now the same darkness opened its jaws and swallowed me whole.
I was inconsolable, too young to understand, too broken to form words for the hollow ache that consumed me. After swearing that he would never leave me, he abandoned me, leaving nothing but more questions that would go unanswered.
No matter how Grandma Sophie tried to comfort me, I remained empty, unreachable. Her gentle words and songs fell against me like rain on stone. They were the wrong words coming from the wrong mouth.
“Mon petit, there must be a reason he cannot come to you,” Sophie would say. “I’m sure it pains him to be away, just as it pains you.”
“How do you know, Grandma Sophie?” I’d challenge her between sobs. Even though I believed her, I needed to hear her say it.
“Because it was the same for your mother and father,” she said gently. “They, too, shared dreams. But you are lucky—you can remember yours when you wake. Every morning, your mama would rise yearning for something lost to her, unable to recall what she had seen.”
Her attempts to make me grateful for that gift failed. The more I thought about it, the more I envied my mother. She didn’t have to feel the sharp edge of knowing what she’d lost. But Sophie said something that eventually took root in my mind, and slowly, her words would be the beginning of my climbing out of the darkness:
“Orphea, knowing gives you time to prepare for your search, ma chère. Make yourself strong. Learn to defend yourself. Take in all your father can teach you, and practice your magic. If you believe the beast in your dreams to be a Daemon, then that is the path you must walk. Your mother could not prepare, and she suffered dearly for it.”
There I was—an eight-year-old Dhampir, my body and mind closer to that of a fifteen-year-old human being, told by my Witch grandmother to study Daemonology. Preposterous.
But then, there was nothing ordinary about my family.
Now, at twenty-three, all I have left of Grandma Sophie are my memories, the wisdom of her words that I summon when I need her advice or comfort, and the small vial of her blood that rests against my chest.
I often examine it when melancholy creeps in, imagining her croaky French voice singing silly songs about naughty, color-changing chameleons who play tricks on people. Inside the crystal vial, the magic in her blood shimmers with a faint blue sheen—a tint invisible to human eyes, yet vivid to mine. It ripples like moonlight on still water, mesmerizing and alive, drawing me away from darker thoughts.
I’m looking at it now, feeling more sorrowful than ever. My Daemon has not come to me in years, and for an inexplicable reason, the ache feels sharper today.
“I see my brooding storm cloud has returned.” The voice is sudden, amused. My head snaps up. I rise at once—no one else can move like that. Only my father.
I leap into his arms. “Father!”
“Was your mission not a success?” He takes my face, examining me with glowing red eyes, searching my thoughts.
Since the day I mastered my Vampyric thirst, my father trusted me to venture into the world beside him, to fight at his side. Together, we help safeguard the human realm from creatures that have strayed too far into chaos. It is a duty soaked in blood and zero recognition.
Not long ago, word reached us of a town two hundred kilometers east, where newborns and small children were vanishing without a trace. We tracked the source—a young Vampyre, wild and untrained, lost to his hunger and feeding on the easiest of prey. My father left me to handle this case alone—it was a test, and I passed. I ended it swiftly, then made the long journey home on foot. I could have flown, but I prefer to walk; the rhythm of my boots hitting the earth helps to clear my thoughts.
I smile, mostly to reassure him, as I sit down on the little bench that overlooks the pond on our coven’s estate. “I may have gone a little overboard, but I wanted to ensure there was no regenerating for such a degenerate Vampyre.”
My father sits beside me. “Then what’s happened, oh perpetually gloomy one?”
My heart sinks as my eyes drop to my fidgeting fingers.
He gently tilts my face up to meet his gaze. In our culture, women are expected to be demure, meek, and silent—traits I’ve learned to imitate when blending into human society. But at home, Father prizes strength and applauds defiance. To follow blindly, without thought or will, he often says, is to live as a lamb awaiting slaughter. He believes the beast within us must be recognized and balanced; if we deny it, it festers, devouring us from the inside until it drives us to unspeakable acts, no matter how desperately we beg it to stop.
I press my lips together, reluctant to speak, but the concern in his eyes leaves me no escape.
“I feel unfinished… incomplete,” I murmur.
I know I’m still young, yet watching my parents together kindles a longing in me.
They wear their love like armor, and it fuels every breath they take. It’s not loud—it’s not even always visible—but it fills the air around them to the point you can taste it.
I’ve sought after a taste of it, tested the waters among human men, but they’re too fragile. I might break them by accident—none could withstand me. One careless touch leaves bruises on their skin.
Even Woo-young—the most handsome man in town—repulsed me when he leaned in to kiss me. My aura draws men like moths to flame, even those devoted to their wives. My magic weaves around them—their humanity making resistance impossible. Their weakness disgusts me—their attraction is false—and so, my lips remain un-kissed.
My father puts his arm around me. “Orphea, my darling, I would hate to overstep, but perhaps it’s time you went in search of this dream Daemon of yours.”
My stomach tightens. His name—Mine—echoes in the dark corners of my memory.
The doubt returns. “That’s if he’s even real.”
Father gives me a skeptical look. “There’s only one way to find out, Little Cloud. If you don’t seek answers, this uncertainty will cling to you like a second skin—hollowing you out, piece by piece, until nothing remains. And when that emptiness takes hold, your Vampyre will rise to fill it. It will devour what’s left of your humanity, and you’ll be lost to the shadows.”
I nod. He’s right. He’s always right.
“If I hadn’t seen Viola in my dreams myself,” he continues, “I’d have told you to pull your head out of the clouds years ago. But one can never tell with these things. From what I saw of your dreams, I believe he is real, and it’s entirely possible something’s keeping him from you.”
“I don’t think Mother would approve,” I murmur. “Being away for one week is one thing—but I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Do not make the mistake of underestimating your mother, Little Cloud. Every person who has done so is buried in the ground or at the bottom of a lake,” he says with a proud grin, savoring a memory I’m not privy to.
As I watch the fireflies hovering above the still lake, somewhere between the hush of wind and my breath, I begin to list what to pack for my journey. Before I know it, the choice is made.
There’s nothing to consider.
In my heart, I’ve already left.
