When Lucien had retreated that night, he had cast one final look back at Elena—A glance that embedded itself deep into Cyril's heart like a poisoned thorn.
He knew that look all too well.It was the gleam of a predator who had marked his prey—The thrill of possession, the certainty of the hunt.
And Cyril knew, without a doubt—Lucien would not let this go.
From that night onward, whenever he wasn't walking the woods with Elena, Cyril took to silently guarding her home from the towering old tree nearby.
He became a shadow woven into the night, cloaked in moonlight, his gaze fixed upon the soft glow from her bedroom window.
The first attack came sooner than expected.
That night, the wind stirred the treetops, the scent of unfamiliar blood drifting through the air.
Cyril opened his eyes.
Three young vampires — still clumsy, their movements rushed and unsteady — crept toward Elena's window.
Without anger, without hesitation, Cyril descended like a silent specter.
Within three heartbeats—
One had his shoulder bone snapped,
One had his carotid artery severed,
The last was hurled over the courtyard wall like a broken doll.
There was no killing.
Only a warning.
Blood misted the night air, mixing with the scent of old leaves.
Cyril stood beneath the eaves, bathed in broken shafts of light, gazing at Elena's sleeping silhouette through the window.
He watched her for a long, long time.
The second attack was worse.
Clearly, the first had only been a probe.
That evening, he and Elena had been walking through the woods.
Moonlight bathed the ground in silver; she was chatting away, giggling about small-town gossip, her voice as bright as the wildflowers she tucked into the pocket of his coat.
Cyril had just lowered his head to look at that flower when he heard it—
The sharp rip of something breaking through the bushes.
"Don't move," he whispered, shielding her behind him.
In the next breath, five figures burst forth, dark and swift as hawks diving for prey.
Elena gasped, stumbling into his arms, her voice shaking like a dying leaf.
"Cyril... am I going to die?"
Her hands clutched desperately at his coat, as if he were her only anchor in a storm.
Cyril's eyes darkened.
He held her tighter, murmuring, "No. I'm here."
This time, he did not hold back.
Fists and claws collided with bone and bark.
Leaves whirled through the air like silver rain.
Though fast and lethal, Cyril was outnumbered.
A slash cut deep across his arm, exposing bone.
Yet he did not retreat.
His strikes turned brutal, deadly.
One skull shattered.
One rib cage collapsed.
Two fled in terror, leaving a trail of broken bodies behind.
Cyril stood in place, blood streaming from beneath his coat, his breath ragged but steady.
Elena ran to him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she threw her arms around him.
"You're hurt... you're bleeding so much!"
He forced himself to straighten, veins standing out at his temple.
One hand gripped her tightly; the other pressed against his wound.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured.
"I'm not going anywhere.
Anyone who tries to harm you — I'll kill them all."
That night, he finally understood.
If he showed mercy again, it would only send her into hell.
The third attack was savage beyond anything before.
It was a night of the full moon.
The air was thick with moisture, heavy with the scent of blood and looming death.
Cyril waited at the forest's edge.
The trees trembled.
Birds fled in a flurry.
He looked up—and saw them.
A dozen figures, black-cloaked, emerging from the woods like a tide of darkness.
At their head was Lucien.
"This time," Lucien sneered, baring his fangs, "let's see how you save her."
"I'm not just going to take the girl," he growled.
"I'm going to drain you dry."
Cyril didn't speak.
He merely unclasped his coat, revealing a battered but unyielding frame beneath.
His golden-red eyes blazed with a cold, lethal fire.
The wind stilled.
The battle erupted in a heartbeat.
Shadows clashed like thunder.
Fists and claws tore through the trees.
Cyril became a streak of blood and shadow, cutting down his enemies without mercy.
He no longer held back.
He snapped necks, crushed ribs, tore open chests.
Blood splattered the moonlit leaves like a rain of rubies.
The trees whispered in the language of the dead.
One vampire lunged for his back—
Without even turning, Cyril thrust his hand backward, piercing the attacker's heart.
In minutes, the ground was littered with broken bodies.
Lucien knelt, ribs shattered, face twisted in hatred.
"Wilhelm won't let you live," he rasped.
"You'll pay for this—"
"You won't be there to see it," Cyril said quietly.
And then—
He ripped Lucien's heart from his chest.
Blood gushed like a crimson tide.
Lucien's eyes widened in one final, futile protest—
And then dimmed.
The forest reeked of blood.
Cyril staggered, his body battered, but he did not fall.
He limped toward the village, stopping across from Elena's window.
No light shone behind the curtains.
Had she already gone to sleep? he wondered.
He turned to leave.
"—Cyril!"
A familiar voice shattered the silence.
Elena came running, throwing herself into his arms, her tears soaking his bloodied coat.
"You're hurt... you're bleeding so much..." she sobbed.
Cyril raised a trembling hand, gently wiping her tears away.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Don't cry," he murmured.
"I don't want to see you cry."
"They won't come back, right?" she asked, voice trembling.
"Mm," he nodded.
"Lucien is dead."
She nodded too, leaning her head against his chest.
"I need time to heal," he said at last.
"During that time, stay home.
Promise me — don't go out after dark."
Elena bit her lip hard, but nodded.
He thought that everything was over now.
He was wrong.