The cave breathed.
Not metaphorically — not as a flourish of language — but truly, grotesquely alive. The air pulsed in slow, uneven rhythms, as though the stone itself possessed lungs buried deep beneath layers of blackened rock and ancient spellwork. With every step Nyx took, the cavern responded, tightening, loosening, whispering in tones too low to be called sound. It was a place that remembered blood.
The moment Nyx crossed the threshold, silence collapsed around him like a sealed coffin.
The faint echoes of the outside world died instantly, swallowed by the maze of jagged stone and suspended webs that glittered faintly like wet veins. Light behaved strangely here — it bent, fractured, and bled into shadow instead of pushing it away. Every corridor looked the same, every turn mirrored the last, as if the cave itself had been designed to erase direction, hope, and certainty all at once.
Nyx stopped moving.
His senses flared open, vampire instincts stretching outward, clawing at the thick magic saturating the air. The scent was wrong — iron-heavy, sulfur-laced, threaded with something older than witchcraft. His jaw tightened.
"Stacy!"
His voice cut through the stillness, sharp and raw, but it did not travel the way it should have. Instead, it fractured, splintering into endless repetitions that bounced from wall to wall until it twisted into something mocking — laughter that was not his own.
Nyx clenched his fists.
Blue flame bloomed in his palms as he conjured torches, the unnatural fire writhing as though it resented being forced into existence. The light revealed a floor slick with shallow crimson puddles. He stepped forward, boots splashing softly, and froze when he saw his reflection ripple across the surface.
It wasn't just his face staring back.
It was what he was becoming.
Red-tinged pupils glowed too brightly. Shadows clung to the angles of his features, sharpening them into something crueler, colder. The reflection warped as the liquid trembled, splitting him into fragments — vampire, boy, monster — none of them whole.
"I won't lose you too," Nyx muttered under his breath.
The words felt fragile here, easily breakable.
He forced himself to move, letting instinct guide him instead of sight. Stacy's scent was faint, nearly drowned beneath layers of spell residue and blood magic, but it was there — human warmth trembling beneath terror. Every step he took toward it made the air grow heavier, thicker, as though the cave itself resisted his advance.
Somewhere deeper within the maze, Stacy screamed.
She couldn't tell how long she had been running.
Time had fractured the moment the red light swallowed her, splintering into panic and pain and breathless terror. The cave chamber she'd been dragged into was narrower than the one before, its walls crawling with dark, oil-slick veins that pulsed faintly, glowing whenever she struggled. Her back slammed against stone as something slammed her forward, knocking the breath from her lungs.
A hand — no, a claw — closed around her throat.
Stacy gasped, nails clawing uselessly at the grip as she was lifted slightly off the ground. Her feet scraped against stone, desperate for leverage that didn't exist.
The Oil Witch loomed close.
Her form shimmered, unstable, as though she were half-solid, half-liquid shadow. Blackened oil dripped slowly from her fingers, sizzling where it touched the cave floor. Her eyes burned — molten rubies set deep within a face that was too smooth, too wrong, stretched thin over something ancient and hateful.
"Tell me where the nine Blood Jewels are," the Oil Witch hissed.
Her voice was layered, overlapping itself — whispers stacked atop whispers, each syllable carrying echoes of other voices long dead. It slithered into Stacy's ears, into her skull, vibrating painfully behind her eyes.
Stacy's hands shook violently.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!" she cried, her voice breaking as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I swear, I don't—"
The grip tightened.
Pain exploded along her throat as the witch's claws pressed deeper, drawing blood. Stacy gagged, choking, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might tear free of her chest.
"You lie," the Oil Witch murmured, almost pleasantly.
One claw traced downward, carving a sharp, burning rune into Stacy's skin. The pain was immediate and blinding, white-hot fire searing into her flesh.
"Your aura reeks of fate, human girl."
Stacy sobbed openly now, fear stripping her bare. Nothing about this made sense — jewels, fate, witches — it was all impossible, unreal, a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
"I don't have anything," she whispered hoarsely. "Please—"
The Oil Witch raised her hand.
Magic gathered, thick and viscous, coiling around her claws like liquid night. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the end.
The strike never came.
A sudden, violent gust of wind tore through the chamber, ripping webs from the walls and slamming into the witch with brutal force. The grip around Stacy's throat vanished as she collapsed forward, gasping, lungs burning as she sucked in air.
Before she could even process what had happened, arms wrapped around her.
Strong. Warm.
She was lifted clean off the ground, pulled against a solid chest that radiated heat in a place that knew only cold. Stacy clutched at the fabric instinctively, fingers digging in as her body shook uncontrollably.
"Nyx…" she whispered between sobs, burying her face against him.
For a heartbeat, she believed it.
Then the voice came.
"Not Nyx," the man said calmly. Firmly. "It's Carl."
Stacy stiffened.
She pulled back just enough to look up, her vision blurred by tears. Silver eyes met hers — sharp, piercing, glowing faintly in the darkness. His presence felt different from Nyx's: colder, more controlled, like a blade honed too carefully to ever dull.
Recognition flickered through her shock.
Before she could speak, footsteps echoed sharply across stone.
Nyx emerged from the corridor.
Relief and fury collided in his gaze the instant he saw her alive — safe — in another man's arms. His control shattered.
"Stacy!"
His voice cracked as he crossed the distance in a heartbeat, tearing her from Carl's hold and crushing her against him. She clung to him desperately, fingers gripping his jacket, her body still trembling from terror.
She could feel his heart racing — too fast, too strong — a storm barely contained.
"What's going on, Nyx?" she asked breathlessly, pulling back just enough to search his face. "I don't understand any of this. Who was that thing? What is happening to me?"
Her eyes flicked to Carl, confusion and fear warring within them.
"Who is he?"
Carl folded his arms slowly, posture rigid, his tone low but edged with restrained anger.
"Before you ask questions, Nyx," Carl said, "maybe you should explain what world she's stepped into."
Nyx's jaw tightened.
"You think I owe you answers?" he shot back.
Carl's eyes flared crimson.
"You owe the truth to her at least."
Stacy's voice cut between them, sharp with frustration and fear.
"Am I supposed to be something else?" she demanded. "What am I, Nyx — a witch?"
The word tasted bitter as she spoke it.
Nyx exhaled slowly.
"You deserve to know everything," he said grimly. "About me. About the Book of Blood. About the mirror world… about Jamie."
And beneath the flickering blue torchlight, surrounded by breathing stone and watching shadows, Nyx began to speak.
Nyx's voice did not rise.
It did not dramatize itself, nor did it seek sympathy. It remained low, controlled, almost detached — the voice of someone who had learned that the truth hurt more when spoken plainly. The torches flickered as he spoke, their blue flames bending toward him as if listening.
"There are two worlds," Nyx began. "This one… and another that exists beside it. Reflected through blood, mirrors, and sacrifice."
Stacy listened in silence, her breathing uneven, her body still pressed close to him. Every word felt unreal, yet something deep within her — something she could not name — stirred in recognition rather than disbelief.
Nyx spoke of the mirror world, of ancient treaties written in blood rather than ink, of witches who shaped fate and vampires who enforced balance. He spoke of betrayal so old it had become legend, of curses that did not fade with time but sharpened. The Book of Blood. The wars it had ignited. The power it promised and the price it demanded.
And finally, he spoke of Loyola Island.
His tone shifted then — not softer, but heavier. As though each syllable dragged memory behind it.
"I went there to survive," he said. "I left knowing I would never be human again."
Stacy's fingers tightened against his sleeve.
"And Jamie?" she asked quietly.
Nyx did not look at her when he answered.
"Jamie was proof," he said. "That even love can be weaponized."
Silence followed — thick, oppressive, broken only by the cave's breathing walls. Stacy felt something crack open inside her, the world she knew splitting apart to make room for something darker, larger, far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
When Nyx finished, she stepped back.
Her eyes glistened, but her posture straightened, resolve fighting through the fear. She moved closer again — not clinging now, but deliberate.
"Then leave," she said softly.
Nyx looked up.
"Leave all this madness," Stacy continued, her voice trembling but steady. "Come back with me. Live with me and your family. We can forget this world ever existed. Start over."
For a moment — just one — Nyx wanted to say yes.
He could see it: normal days, borrowed peace, a life unmarked by blood prophecy and ancient wars. The temptation burned sharper than hunger.
But vengeance had already claimed him.
"I'm doing all this for my family," he muttered, turning away.
Carl laughed quietly — humorless.
"For your family?" he scoffed. "Since when does destruction look like devotion?"
Nyx's shoulders tensed.
"You wouldn't understand."
Carl stepped closer, his presence cold and deliberate.
"Try me."
Nyx turned, eyes glowing faintly red.
"You're not important enough for me to explain."
The air tightened instantly, power coiling between them, violence hovering just beneath the surface.
"Enough!" Stacy shouted.
Both men froze.
"We need to get out of here before that… witch comes back."
Carl exhaled slowly, temper restraining itself.
"The one who almost killed you," he said, "is called the Oil Witch. And yes — she'll be back."
Stacy swallowed hard.
"She wanted to kill me."
"She would've," Carl replied calmly, "if I hadn't arrived."
Nyx turned to him, pride warring with guilt.
"Then I owe you one," he said quietly.
For the first time, their eyes met without hatred — only tension, rivalry, and something dangerously close to understanding.
They began moving.
The maze shifted around them, walls glowing faintly red as if aware of their presence. Corridors twisted mid-step, stone rearranging itself with quiet malice. The ground exhaled smoke and whispers — voices layered with centuries of agony.
Stacy stayed close to Nyx without realizing it.
Her hand brushed his arm.
He caught it instinctively, squeezing lightly.
"Don't be scared," he murmured. "I'm here."
She looked at him — really looked — and something softened. Fear loosened its grip, replaced by warmth that felt terrifying in its own way.
Carl noticed.
He turned away, jaw clenched, pretending to examine the walls, though his senses were fully alert. The closeness between them gnawed at him — not jealousy exactly, but the ache of knowing where this path led.
Then the screech shattered everything.
The Oil Witch emerged from shadow, eyes burning like open wounds.
"You dare defy me?" she shrieked.
Molten webs erupted from her hands, scorching the air itself. Nyx shoved Stacy behind him without hesitation.
"Together," Nyx growled.
Carl transformed instantly.
They lunged.
The cave shook as red lightning collided with silver force. Nyx tore through illusions, claws slicing air and stone alike. Carl struck with precision, his attacks cutting magic apart with surgical fury.
The Oil Witch screamed.
Shadows coiled around them like serpents, tightening, crushing. Nyx broke free and tackled her, eyes fully demonic, his roar thunderous.
But she was stronger.
With a single sweep, she hurled both vampires into the walls. Stone cracked. Blood spilled. Carl staggered upright, positioning himself in front of Stacy without hesitation.
The Oil Witch smiled.
And lunged.
Stacy ran.
Her breath tore from her lungs as panic surged. The witch closed the distance — until blue fire exploded outward.
The scream that followed was not human.
Flames devoured the witch, burning her to ash. The shockwave threw Nyx and Carl back violently.
When the fire died, Stacy stood untouched.
Her hands glowed faintly.
"I didn't do anything," she whispered.
The cave dissolved.
"How did you do that?" Nyx asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I just felt… fire."
Carl's voice was grave.
"The hunt has begun."
Nyx turned toward the exit.
"Then we must find Nia."
The moon burned blood-red above them as they stepped into the night.
Understood.
The night air struck them like a physical force.
After the suffocating breath of the cave, the open world felt unreal — too wide, too quiet, too indifferent to what had just transpired beneath its skin. The moon hung low and swollen, stained a deep, unsettling red, its reflection trembling along the jagged mouth of the cave as though the earth itself were bleeding light.
For a moment, none of them moved.
Nyx stood still, his shoulders rising and falling slowly as his body recalibrated itself back into restraint. The fight had torn something loose inside him — rage, hunger, instinct — and it took effort to cage it again. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, claws phantom-aching beneath human skin.
Beside him, Stacy stared at the night sky as if she had never seen it before.
The glow in her palms had faded, but the memory of it had not. Her fingers trembled faintly as she flexed them, half-expecting flame to reappear, half-afraid that it might. The silence pressed in, giving her space to feel what fear had delayed — confusion, disbelief, and something deeper that pulsed beneath her ribs.
Fire.
Not heat.
Presence.
Carl noticed everything.
He stood slightly apart, posture rigid, eyes tracking the tree line, the shadows, the distance beyond the cave. He trusted none of it. The Oil Witch's death weighed on him — not as victory, but as inevitability. Power never vanished. It only moved.
His gaze drifted briefly to Stacy.
To the place where blue fire had consumed something ancient.
And spared something human.
That troubled him more than the battle itself.
Nyx finally broke the silence.
"We can't stay here."
His voice was steady now, stripped of emotion, sharpened by urgency.
"They know about the Blood Jewels," he continued. "If one witch knew, others will too."
Carl nodded once.
"The Oil Witch is gone," he said. "But what she knew isn't."
Stacy looked between them, the weight of their words settling unevenly.
"So that's it?" she asked quietly. "This is just… my life now?"
Neither man answered immediately.
Nyx turned to her.
His expression softened — not with reassurance, but with something more honest.
"I didn't choose this for you," he said. "And I won't pretend you're safe just because you survived."
Her throat tightened.
"But you're not alone," he added. "Not anymore."
The words landed heavier than comfort.
Carl watched her carefully.
The glow may have faded, but the residue of power clung to her aura like a scent. Not witchcraft. Not vampire. Something older — something unclaimed.
Dangerous.
Nyx shifted his gaze back to the cave mouth, now silent and empty, as though it had never breathed, never hunted, never existed at all.
"Then we must find Nia," he said again, more firmly this time. "Before they do."
Carl did not argue.
But his eyes lingered on Stacy one last time — on the girl who should have remained human and hadn't.
Three figures stood beneath the red moon.
No longer bound by coincidence.
Bound by consequence.
Then they moved — away from the cave, away from the dead witch, away from the illusions of safety they had lost forever.
Behind them, the cave sealed itself.
Ahead of them, the darkness waited.