The Boy Who Slept Through Death
Chapter One: “The Boy Who Slept Through Death”
It was in midwinter when it all started—the horrific, merciless war between the humans and the vampires… or so they were called: the Normals and the Extras the Abnormals.
At first, it began small. Petty fights. Quiet clashes in the dark. But things went south fast.
The night a vampire was murdered changed everything.
The towns fell into chaos. The country roared with rage. Fear bled through the air like smoke. Innocent humans and vampires alike were mercilessly killed and beheaded. There were cries, loud and constant, echoing through forests and alleyways. Mothers screaming. Children hiding. Fires burning through the silence of snow.
The world became a nightmare.
And in the end, the vampires rose to power. Furious. Unforgiving. They sought to dominate, to erase humanity entirely. Humans were to become rare—foreign creatures whispered about in dark corners of a new world.
They wanted extinction.
With horses pounding through the frozen ground, the vampire general—Lucien Valehart—galloped toward a half-burned village, his red cloak tearing through the icy wind. His soldiers followed behind, sharp-eyed and silent. They were hunting. And they wouldn’t stop until the last human was found.
With a sharp flick of his reins, Lucien brought his horse to a halt at the edge of the ruined village. Snow clung to the jagged rooftops like ash. Chimneys stood broken, windows shattered, doors ripped from their hinges. Silence lingered—too still, too clean.
“Search every house,” he ordered coldly, his voice slicing through the wind. “Leave no shadows untouched.”
The soldiers scattered, their black boots crunching against frost and burnt wood. Weapons drawn. Fangs hidden. Eyes glowing.
Lucien dismounted, his boots hitting the earth with a dull thud. He walked a few paces, then sat down on a cracked stone near what used to be a well. The cold didn’t bother him. Nothing really did anymore.
He pulled the chain from around his neck, letting a small silver locket fall into his gloved palm. With a quiet click, he opened it—revealing a worn picture, the corners faded. A man and woman. Smiling. Human.
His parents.
He stared at it, unreadable. Just for a moment. Just long enough for a sound to slip past the numbness.
Humming.
Soft. Gentle. Almost... childish.
He looked up sharply.
It was coming from somewhere nearby—inside the village.
And it was human.
He stood slowly, the locket still clutched in one hand.
The humming continued. Faint. Off-key. A child, maybe. Or a ghost of one.
His eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, it didn’t belong.
With a smooth motion, he slid the locket back beneath his cloak and reached for the sword strapped to his side. The metal rang softly as he unsheathed it, its crimson-edged blade gleaming faintly in the pale winter light.
He moved toward the sound—steps silent, calculated, his soldier’s instincts kicking in like breath.
The village houses stood like corpses. Empty, skeletal things. But one had its door barely ajar. Wood splintered. Curtains fluttering faintly through a broken window.
The humming was coming from there.
Lucien raised his sword, tightening his grip. His heartbeat didn’t quicken. His breath didn’t falter.
But something in him… paused.
A memory. A voice. A cradle song in another life.
He shook it off.
Humans were dangerous when cornered. Desperate. Tricksters to the end.
And yet—he stepped toward the house.
One step. Two.
The humming didn’t stop.
He pushed the door open slowly.
It creaked—loud in the silence—and the humming stopped.
Inside, the air was warmer. Dim light poured through a cracked window, illuminating a small, cluttered room. Shelves made from salvaged wood lined the walls, stuffed with glass jars of herbs, crushed petals, dried roots. Vines crept along the beams. A fire crackled softly in a clay pot, keeping the frost barely at bay.
In the center of it all knelt a girl.
She had long sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands stained with crushed leaves and salve. Her breath caught the moment their eyes met.
Lucien stood at the doorway, sword in hand, towering, silent. Snow dusted his shoulders. Blood stained his boots.
She froze.
The boy lying beside her—small, thin, maybe seven or eight—remained asleep, his leg bandaged carefully, lips parted as he breathed shallowly.
Lucien’s eyes flicked over him. Then back to her.
She swallowed hard, as if forcing the fear down her throat. Her hand hovered near a bundle of dried lavender, but she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She was trying to stay calm.
But her trembling fingers gave her away.
“You’re human,” he said coldly, his voice low and unreadable.
She nodded once, slowly. “I… I know who you are.”
Her voice was soft. Afraid. But not begging. Not yet.
He stepped inside, blade still drawn, eyes never leaving her.
The scent of crushed herbs filled the air. Chamomile. Yarrow. Blood.
“Why are you tending to the boy?” he asked.
She hesitated, then looked down at the child. “Because he’s hurt.”
Lucien said nothing. Just stood there, sword in hand, framed by smoke and winter light.
She couldn’t tell if he was going to kill her… or not.
The silence stretched.
His blade didn’t lower.
The girl swallowed, her gaze flicking once to the boy beside her. Then back to the vampire general in the doorway.
“If you’re going to kill someone,” she said quietly, “kill me.”
Lucien’s brows drew together, just slightly.
“I’m the one you want. I’m the adult. He’s just a child… He doesn’t even know what’s happening out there.”
Her voice trembled, but she didn’t falter.
“I made the mistake of staying behind. I stayed to help. If that’s a crime worth death—then fine. Just…” She paused, glancing down at the boy again. “Just let him sleep through it. Don’t let him wake up and watch.”
Lucien didn’t speak.
The fire crackled softly beside her. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through broken beams.
She lowered her eyes, readying herself.
“I don’t expect mercy,” she whispered. “Not from someone like you.”
The words lingered in the air like frost.
Lucien took a slow step forward. Not loud. Not fast. Just… closer.
Then another.
And then—he stopped.
His sword hovered in the air between them. But he didn’t strike.
Not yet.
End of Chapter One.
