Damien's POV
It started with the cold. Not the kind that touched the skin, but the kind that started from inside behind the ribs, curling down the spine. It made everything else too loud. Too bright. Too much. Damien had locked himself in the old cellar beneath his aunt's house. He didn't remember climbing down the stairs. Didn't remember how his palms had started bleeding from his nails slicing through them, or how he'd punched the wall hard enough to dent the stone. He just knew he needed to not be around anyone.
"Damien." Her voice filtered down like a thread of warmth through the cold.
His aunt. He couldn't speak. His throat burned. His body was shaking, not with fear, not exactly. It was hunger. A new kind. Not for food. Not even for blood, not yet. It was for something that fit what he was becoming. She came down the stairs slowly. No fear in her. No hesitation. She was dressed in black, her sleeves pushed up, revealing old runes inked into her forearms.
"I was wondering when it would start," she murmured, stepping into the gloom.
He turned to her eyes glowing faintly red in the low light. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running for miles. His mouth opened, and he managed one word.
"Help."
She didn't flinch. Instead, she knelt before him and held out her hand. "You're not dying. You're awakening. Everything you're feeling the burning, the ache, the hunger it's your body trying to remember what it really is."
His breath caught. "What am I?"
Her smile was sad. "A vampire. But not like the stories. Not cursed. Not evil. Just… old. Hungry. Alive in a way most people can't imagine."
His hands were trembling. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"You won't," she said. "Not if you let the transformation finish."
He looked up at her, eyes raw. "It feels like something's crawling under my skin."
She nodded. "That's your instincts. They're trying to surface. Your senses are sharpening. Your mind's rewiring. And you'll be stronger than you've ever been if you survive it."
He swallowed hard. "What if I don't?"
"Then I'll keep you locked in this cellar," she said dryly, "until you come back to your senses."
It made him chuckle. Barely.
Then the pain hit again blinding, full-body. He gasped, fell forward, and his aunt caught him before he hit the ground.
"Let it happen, Damien," she whispered, her voice now humming with old power. "You're not alone in this."
His bones cracked shoulders stretching, teeth sharpening. His vision flickered, then settled. And for the first time, he saw really saw his aunt's aura pulsing like dark fire. A memory not his own flooded in. Crimson. Snow. A scream in the night. Then silence. He was on the floor, gasping. But still alive.
And now he is something different, something doesn't understand.
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Caspian's POV
Sunday in a new town felt… off. Too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that made you check your phone just to make sure the world hadn't ended while you were asleep. Caspian shoved his hoodie over his head, grabbed his ear buds though he didn't play anything and stepped out into his grandma's backyard. Dew stuck to his socks, the grass cold between his toes. The house behind him was older than anyone in it had a right to be, all mossy shingles and creaky floorboards. It didn't try to pretend it wasn't weird. He liked that. The wind chimes by the back door were made of silver spoons and chipped crystals. They jingled faintly as he stepped inside.
"Shoes off," Grandma called from the kitchen. "And do the salt."
Caspian rolled his eyes affectionately and kicked his shoes off by the mat. He picked up the tiny salt jar from the shelf and sprinkled a line across the doorway. It shimmered faintly, like a quick wink of static. Still weird. Still cool. Grandma stepped into the living room, tying her braids back with a ribbon that looked suspiciously like it had once been alive. She eyed him.
"You're feeling it now, aren't you?"
Caspian shrugged. "I guess. Like… I don't know. Stuff's heavier. The air. My phone glitches more. Sometimes I think I hear stuff when no one's talking."
She nodded, completely unfazed. "Good. You're waking up. About time."
Caspian raised a brow. "That a compliment?"
"It's a fact. Don't go fishing for praise. Come on we're starting your training today."
He followed her to the center of the room, where she had already set a wide glass bowl on the table, water stilling inside it.
"Scrying," she said. "Modern witches still use it. Think of it like magical FaceTime. Except it shows you what you need to see, not what you want to."
He hovered beside the bowl, staring down at the still surface. "So… what if I don't see anything?"
"You will," she said, smirking. "And when you do don't flinch."
The water shimmered. For a second, just a second, it twisted into an image his face. Then not his face. Older. Different. Familiar, but not. His chest tightened.
A breath escaped him. "Okay, yeah. What the hell was that?"
Grandma didn't answer right away. She just tapped the rim of the bowl with her knuckle.
"Your magic's just saying hi."
Caspian looked up at her. "Kinda rude."
She laughed, warm and raspy. "You'll get used to it."
And somehow, despite the chill in the air and the weird feeling crawling down his spine, he believed her.