The town of Elmsworth was small, tucked between fog-covered hills and dense pine forests. It had a single bakery, two gas stations, and a sense of time moving slower than the rest of the world.
For Ahaana, it was the first place that didn't feel like a battlefield.
They rented a quiet cottage near the edge of the woods, far from curious eyes. The house had creaking floorboards, ivy climbing the stone walls, and windows that opened to the sound of wind rustling through trees.
It was… peaceful.
And terrifying.
Because peace was unfamiliar.
---
Ahaana stood in the backyard one morning, her arms stretched as she looked up at the cloudy sky.
Her muscles ached from the last full moon. But it wasn't just her body—it was her heart. Everything had changed. Her father. Her identity. Her whole life.
Now, there was only *this*—the stillness between storms.
Vikram stepped outside with two mugs of hot chocolate. He wore a plain sweater and looked almost… normal.
"I can't believe you drink this," he said, handing her the cup. "Too sweet."
"Better than blood," she smirked.
He chuckled. "Fair."
They sat on the porch steps, sipping in silence.
She looked at him. "Do you ever miss your old life?"
He tilted his head, thinking. "Sometimes. But not the darkness. Not the loneliness. You… made it worth leaving."
Ahaana felt her cheeks warm. "You always say the right thing."
"Because I've lived long enough to know when the truth matters most."
She nodded, her smile fading. "I still think about him… my dad."
"He made the right choice in the end," Vikram said softly.
"I know," she whispered. "But it still hurts."
---
Ahaana enrolled in a small local college. Nothing fancy—just a few art classes to keep her mind busy. She started sketching again. At night, she and Vikram walked in the woods. She learned to control her senses, her rage, her urges.
Vikram taught her tricks he'd learned in his long life—how to breathe through pain, how to hear the sound of lies, how to move without being seen.
They laughed more. Fought less. Slept beside each other, fingers entwined.
For once, Ahaana didn't feel like a burden.
She felt… loved.
---
But peace, like all good things, is fragile.
One evening, while unpacking a box Vikram had never opened, Ahaana found an old leather journal.
She flipped through the pages—drawings of runes, maps of hidden cities, ancient vampire clans.
Then she found something strange.
A sketch.
Of a child.
With silver eyes… and fangs.
She frowned.
"Vikram?" she called.
He came in, drying his hands on a towel.
"What's this?"
He froze when he saw the page.
"It's… a vision."
"A *what*?"
"From an oracle," he explained. "A long time ago. She said a child would be born of both bloodlines. Vampire and werewolf. A child of balance… or destruction."
Ahaana stared at the sketch.
"I didn't think it was real," Vikram said. "Until you."
Silence fell between them.
"You think we could have… a child like that?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "But if it's true, then there are others who know too. People who might want that child dead before it's even born."
Ahaana slowly closed the journal.
The peace shattered like thin glass underfoot.
---
That night, long after Vikram had fallen asleep beside her, Ahaana stood at the window.
The moon hung high, pale and watchful.
She placed a hand on her stomach.
A question bloomed in her heart—quiet, terrifying, and sacred.
*What if it's already started?*