The door exploded.

  One moment I stood frozen, heart pounding in my ears, and the next—splinters and shattered iron hinges shot through the room. I barely registered the movement before something struck my side, sending me sprawling. My shoulder slammed into the cold stone wall, the impact jarring my teeth together. Pain flared down my arm, breath torn from my lungs. I barely managed to catch myself before collapsing completely, vision spinning.

  I heard Father Reynaud snarl—a guttural, inhuman sound I’d never thought him capable of. Strong hands seized the collar of my tunic and yanked me upright. "Get behind me," he growled. There was no time to think. He dragged me back, positioning himself between me and the shattered doorway, his body a wall of resolve.

  His hand vanished beneath his robe, emerging with a battle axe—old, worn, its blade etched with faded symbols. It belonged to him far too naturally. How had I never seen it before? Or had I just never looked?

  Then they entered.

  The first creature—if you could call it that—looked like someone had taken a corpse and twisted it into something worse. Flesh stretched taut over a skeletal frame, lips peeled back to reveal a snarl lined with needle-sharp teeth. Hollow, pit-black eyes locked on me. My legs refused to move, every survival instinct overridden by sheer, paralyzing dread.

  Beside it drifted a wraith—a flickering shadow with tendrils curling off its form like smoke underwater. Cold hit me like a fist to the chest. Frost spiderwebbed across the floorboards, breath crystallizing with every shuddering inhale. My heartbeat echoed louder, pounding against my ribs.

  Father Reynaud shifted, grounding his feet. "Stay behind me," he said again—steady, like this wasn’t the end of the world unraveling around us.

  The vampire lunged.

  Steel flashed. Reynaud moved faster than I thought a man his age could, the axe slicing through the air with a whump that vibrated through the room. The blade bit into flesh and bone—a sickening crunch followed. Blood sprayed in a hot arc, splattering my face. Heat and copper flooded my senses, mouth filling with the tang of iron. The creature’s shriek pierced my skull, limbs flailing as it collapsed. Its head rolled toward me—eyes still locked on mine, mouth working soundlessly.

  My stomach heaved. This isn’t happening. But the blood soaking into my tunic said otherwise.

  And then the wraith moved.

  It glided forward—silent, relentless. Cold seeped through my boots, crawling up my legs. My fingers numbed. Move. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But fear anchored me in place. Tendrils lashed out, one grazing my shoulder. Pain lanced through me—deep, stabbing cold that burned worse than fire. I cried out, stumbling back until my spine met the wall again. No escape. No way out.

  Father Reynaud cursed and cleaved through a tendril, the axe sending shadows scattering. "Erika! Catch!"

  Something glinted through the air. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—fingers closing around a familiar hilt. My training blade. Same weight. Same balance. Only now, it wasn’t practice. It was life or death.

  “You’ve trained for this!” Reynaud barked. "Fight or die! There’s no other choice!"

  The wraith surged forward. I raised the blade—arms trembling, breath coming too fast. Block. Step. Breathe. Training resurfaced through the haze of terror. Time stretched—each beat of my heart a drum in my ears. My body moved—too fast, too smooth. Shadows stretched with me, my outline flickering like a bad reflection.

  Blade up. Strike.

  Steel pierced the wraith’s form. Cold exploded up my arm, seizing my shoulder in a vice of frostbite. I screamed—but the creature screamed louder, a sound that shattered the air and rattled the shelves. My vision blurred as darkness tore apart, unraveling like smoke caught in wind.

  Silence.

  My knees gave out. I collapsed against the wall, blade clattering to the floor. Breaths sawed in and out of me, chest heaving. Hands shook—blood, sweat, and something darker coating my skin. The warmth of it should’ve comforted me. It didn’t.

  Father Reynaud’s hand found my shoulder again—firm, grounding. "Good," he said. "But we’re not done. Move."

  Not done.

  Pain laced every muscle, legs quivering. My body wanted to stop. To breathe. To wake up from this nightmare. But adrenaline—and something deeper, something wrong—dragged me to my feet.

  Beyond the door, the world burned. Orange light painted the halls in hellfire glow. Smoke thickened the air. Screams echoed through stone walls—monks fighting. Dying.

  And there was no turning back.

  Father Reynaud led the way through the burning corridor, the floor beneath us slick with blood and ash. I stumbled after him, every breath a fight against the thick smoke clawing at my throat. Heat pressed in, suffocating, the air choked with the stench of burning wood... and flesh.

  We rounded a corner—and chaos swallowed us whole. A monk, Brother Tomas, swung a staff at something grotesque—one of those feral vampires. He didn’t stand a chance. Claws tore into his chest, blood spraying across the walls as his body crumpled. My stomach twisted, but Father Reynaud yanked me forward.

  “Eyes forward,” he barked. “Survive now. Mourn later.”

  Survive. Easy to say when you weren’t shaking apart.

  Another screech cut through the din. A shadow lunged—fangs bared, hunger gleaming in sunken eyes. My instincts screamed to run, but my feet stayed rooted. The vampire charged—too fast, too close—its clawed hand slashing toward my face.

  I moved. Too fast. Too...wrong. The world flickered—the walls twisted—and for a split second, I wasn’t there. I reappeared a step to the side, breath hitching in confusion. The creature snarled, claw carving through empty air.

  What was that?

  No time. Blade up—strike.

  My sword sank into its chest, the impact jarring my arm. Blood burst forth—hot, thick—splattering across my face, my clothes, my skin. The vampire’s eyes widened—shock, confusion—then fury. It grabbed at me, nails raking my arm, tearing through fabric and flesh. I screamed, twisting the blade deeper.

  "Pull!" Father Reynaud roared. I yanked the weapon free—blood pouring out as the creature collapsed, limbs twitching. Its face hit the floor, eyes locking with mine one last time before going still.

  Everything stopped.

  My chest heaved. My hands trembled. I killed it.

  The blood on me wasn’t just someone else’s—it was mine too. My arm throbbed, warmth leaking down my sleeve. Pain mixed with something worse—something sharp and cold and final: guilt.

  Father Reynaud grabbed my shoulder again. “No time for that. You hesitate next time, you die.”

  But all I could hear was the echo of that thing’s last breath... and my own heartbeat pounding against my ribs.

  The moment we stepped deeper into the monastery halls, chaos consumed everything.

  Heat rolled off the walls in suffocating waves, thick smoke clawing at my throat with every breath. My lungs burned. My skin prickled beneath layers of ash and blood. Flames licked along the ancient wooden beams overhead, popping and spitting embers that rained down like burning snow. Each footstep splashed into pools of blood—the floor beneath us a tapestry of crimson and ruin. The air reeked of charred flesh and melted wax, an acrid, suffocating cocktail that turned my stomach.

  We rounded a corner—straight into hell.

  Monks fought desperately, their prayers turning into wordless screams. A massive shadow moved among them—something worse than the vampires. It stood twice the height of a man, its flesh stretched over jutting bones like wax over wire. Antlers twisted from its skull, jagged and blackened at the tips. Hollow eyes burned with pale hunger. A wendigo—the text I read earlier hadn't done them justice.

  Brother Ryan lunged at it with a spear. Brave. Pointless. Clawed hands snapped out, catching him mid-strike. Bones crunched under its grip. Ryan screamed until the wendigo bit into his neck, teeth tearing through flesh like wet parchment. Blood fountained, warm droplets hitting my face. His body dangled like a rag doll before being tossed aside—lifeless, eyes wide in frozen horror.

  I staggered back, bile clawing at my throat. Reynaud shoved me forward. “Don’t freeze!” he barked. “It feeds on fear—MOVE!”

  But my feet were lead. The wendigo’s gaze—if you could call that abyss a gaze—locked on me. Hunger. Ancient and endless. It let out a guttural growl—deep enough to rattle my bones—then charged.

  I raised my blade. Too slow.

  It swung. I threw myself sideways. Claws carved through stone, sparks flying. Debris rained down, pelting my back. Pain flared in my shoulder as I hit the ground hard, lungs emptying in a gasp. The wendigo’s breath hit me next—hot, fetid, thick with the stink of rotting meat. I rolled—barely—its claw slamming down where my head had been, cracking tiles.

  “ERIKA!” Reynaud’s voice—distant, furious. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. The wendigo lunged again, antlers raking past, catching my arm. Pain ripped through me—sharp, burning. Blood soaked my sleeve. Vision swam.

  Move, for the love of God! I twisted away—the world flickered again—and for a heartbeat, everything shifted. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Space bent, folding me through itself. Then I was back—three feet away, gasping, heart pounding out of rhythm.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The wendigo snarled, confused for half a second—then charged again.

  No thinking. Just survival. I ducked under its swing, blade slashing across its ribs. Black ichor spilled out—burning hot as it splattered my arm, hissing against flesh. I screamed but didn’t stop. Another swipe—narrow miss. Antlers gouged the wall beside me, chunks of stone exploding outward.

  Father Reynaud slammed into the monster’s side, axe biting into its thigh. The wendigo roared, claw swiping him away like a rag doll. Reynaud crashed into the far wall, bricks caving under the impact. He groaned but forced himself up, blood streaming down his temple.

  “Erika—its chest!” he barked. “That’s where it’s weakest!”

  Easier said than done when it moved like smoke and death. The wendigo lunged—jaw unhinging, rows of broken, jagged teeth aiming for my face. I rolled—too slow—its claws caught my leg, tearing flesh, heat exploding through nerves. I cried out, panic clawing at me. Its jaws snapped shut inches from my face.

  Time slowed. Fear tasted like copper and ash in my mouth. I could see the cracks in its teeth. Smell the rot. Feel the heat of its breath burning my cheeks.

  Move, Erika! Move! My body obeyed before my mind could catch up. I pushed up—blade reversed—and drove it upward into its jaw, steel sliding into meat and bone. The wendigo shrieked, high piercing gurgling scream, the sound of a thousand nails scraping my brain. Blood gushed out—hot, thick—coating me in its warmth. It clawed at me, tearing at my side, but I twisted the blade deeper.

  I yanked the blade free. The wendigo’s head jerked down—body swaying. Black ichor spewed out of its mouth, splattering me and the floor. It collapsed—earth shaking under its weight—legs kicking in a final death spasm before stillness swallowed it whole.

  I wiped at my face. My arms shook, blood dripping from my hands. Pain throbbed in every nerve. My face—my chest—drenched in gore. I couldn’t tell if it was mine or not. It didn’t matter.

  Reynaud stumbled over, grabbing my arm and hoisting me up. “Can you stand?”

  No. Did it look like I could stand? I nodded anyway. What choice was there?

  I turned and saw Elena’s body lay behind us. Her limbs twisted. Face frozen in terror. I swallowed hard—grief like a stone in my throat—but Reynaud’s grip tightened. “Keep moving.”

  The monastery groaned around us—ceiling beams ablaze, embers raining down like falling stars. Screams echoed in distant halls. Too many bodies. Too much blood.

  We pressed on—into the inferno.

  We pushed through the corridor, smoke thickening with every step. My lungs burned—each breath a ragged scrape. Heat pressed in from all sides, suffocating, relentless. I barely registered the pain anymore; it was just there—constant, gnawing at the edges of consciousness. Blood soaked my clothes—sticky and warm. I didn’t know how much of it was mine. I didn’t want to know.

  Father Reynaud led the way, his steps sure despite a limp setting in. Blood dripped from his temple, mixing with the grime and sweat streaking his face. "Courtyard," he rasped. "Last push. You keep moving, no matter what. Understand?"

  I nodded. Unable to trust my voice.

  We reached the courtyard doors. Reynaud kicked them open, and the night air—cold and biting—hit me like a slap. For a heartbeat, I thought it might bring relief. It didn’t.

  Hell had spilled outside too.

  The courtyard was a battlefield. Flames clawed at the monastery walls, casting everything in a flickering orange glow. Blood soaked the snow, turning it a muddy, crimson slush. Bodies lay twisted—some monks, some monsters. A few fought still—barely—desperation etched into every movement.

  And they were everywhere. Feral vampires darted between shadows, claws rending flesh from bone. Wraiths drifted overhead, their mournful keening slicing through the air. And worse—a second wendigo stalked through the chaos, massive antlers sweeping bodies aside like rag dolls.

  I stumbled forward. My head swam. Too much. Too much death. Too much blood.

  A scream tore through the night. Brother Alric—his chest already torn open—tried to crawl away. A vampire pounced, sinking its teeth into his neck. His body jerked. Then stopped.

  Keep moving.

  Reynaud grabbed my arm, yanking me toward the center. “We make for the gate!”

  I nodded again, legs burning as we sprinted across the blood-soaked courtyard. My boots slipped on the gore, sending me sprawling. I hit the ground hard—face-first into slush and blood. The taste of fresh iron filled my mouth.

  A shadow loomed above me. A strigoi—long limbs ending in claws like scythes—grinned down, its teeth glistening red. It swung.

  I rolled aside—barely—its claws slamming into the ground, stone shattering beneath the impact. I scrambled up, blade raised—but too slow. Its hand backhanded me, sending me flying. Air rushed out of my lungs. I crashed into a fallen pillar, vision sparking with white-hot pain.

  "Erika!" Reynaud’s shout cut through the haze. The strigoi lunged—but Reynaud intercepted, axe cleaving into its arm. The creature shrieked, black ichor spraying as it twisted toward him. Reynaud didn’t hesitate—blade arcing in a vicious sweep that split its face open. The strigoi collapsed, convulsing.

  He yanked me to my feet again. "Stay with me! Don’t you dare stop!"

  We ran—legs pounding, lungs burning. The gate loomed ahead. Almost there. Almost—

  The second wendigo dropped down, blocking the path. It roared—sound rattling bones, vibrating through the ground. Antlers gouged the dirt as it charged.

  Reynaud shoved me aside. "GO!"

  No. My legs moved anyway—diving aside as the wendigo’s massive claw carved a trench where I’d been. Reynaud met its charge head-on, axe biting deep into its leg. The monster howled—kicking him aside. He crashed against the wall, unmoving.

  I screamed. Ran to him. "Get up—please!" Blood pooled beneath him. Too much. No no no—

  The wendigo turned toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Hunger radiating off it like heat.

  Run. I couldn’t. Legs rooted. Heart slamming against ribs. Breath coming in short gasps.

  Then—Reynaud’s voice, weak but fierce: “Live, Erika. Run.”

  Tears blurred my vision. My blade felt like lead. Everything hurt. But—

  I turned. Ran. Footsteps pounding in my ears—mine and the monster’s. Each step sent knives through my ribs. Snow swallowed me as I burst past the gate—lungs seizing on the cold night air.

  Behind me—roars. Screams. Then firelight faded. Trees closed in. Darkness swallowing everything.

  And I ran—heart breaking, body failing—into the night.

  Cold air ripped into my lungs, each breath burning worse than the fire I’d left behind. The world outside the monastery was a blur of snow, trees, and darkness—but there was no relief, no safety. Only running. Only surviving.

  My legs moved on instinct, each step jarring through my battered body. Pain lanced up my side with every breath. Blood soaked into my clothes—mine, theirs—didn’t matter. The forest swallowed me whole, branches clawing at my skin, snow dragging at my feet. Behind me—roars and howls. Closer than they should be. Monsters didn’t tire. I did.

  Faster. Faster! My body couldn’t keep up—bones grinding, lungs tearing. And then—the world flickered once more. Space bent, reality rippling like water under my feet. My next step should’ve landed in snow—instead, I stumbled ten feet ahead, footprints skipping where they shouldn’t. The disorientation hit like a sledgehammer. I gasped, stumbled—caught myself.

  What is happening to me?

  No time to question it. Roars echoed—too close. Panic surged. I pushed again—focused on anywhere but here. Reality bent—ripped me forward. The world blinked. Trees blurred. Snow kicked up around me like a white haze. Distance collapsed. I landed hard—knees slamming into frozen ground. Pain flared white-hot. Nausea twisted my stomach.

  I vomited—nothing but bile—I stood up and kept running. Blood pounded in my ears. Cold gnawed at my skin—fingers going numb. But stopping wasn’t an option. Move or die.

  Another skip—further this time. The forest whipped past in flashes: bark, branches, snow-drenched ground. Every jump tore more from me—like my body was unraveling at the seams. Muscles cramped. Vision darkened at the edges. Blood loss, exhaustion—too much.

  I tripped—slammed down face-first into the snow. Breath knocked out. Chest heaving. World spinning. Get up. Get up. My arms shook, barely holding me. Roars behind me—distant now. Not enough. Not safe.

  One more jump. Just one more.

  I crawled to my feet—legs trembling, body swaying. Focused on the treeline beyond. Pushed. Reality flickered again—tearing me through space.

  Then—

  I collapsed.

  Snow cushioned the fall, cold burning against overheated skin. I lay there—gasping, blinking up at a starless sky. No sound but my ragged breathing and distant wind. Is this far enough? My body didn’t care. Couldn’t move. Could barely think.

  Shapes loomed nearby—dark silhouettes against pale snow. Buildings? My blurred gaze focused—a barn. Old. Half-collapsed. Didn’t matter. Shelter.

  Crawling hurt worse than running. Blood left a trail behind me, painting the snow crimson. Fingers scraped frozen wood as I hauled myself to the barn door. It creaked open—groaning like my bones. Inside—darkness. Musty air thick with dust. Old farming equipment rusted in corners. I dragged myself to the back—knees giving out completely.

  Collapsed beneath a stack of tarps and forgotten machinery. Heart pounding. Hands trembling. Blood smeared everything I touched. Every inhale rattled through cracked ribs. Cold seeped in—numbing, soothing. Or maybe that was the blood loss.

  Somewhere out there—monsters hunted. But for now... darkness swallowed me.

  The darkness pressed in. I didn’t know how long I lay there—blood-soaked, shivering, curled beneath a tarp like some wounded animal. The cold bit deep, but it was nothing compared to the ache burning through my chest. Not the bruises, not the gashes or torn flesh—no, worse. The kind of hurt that gnawed from the inside out.

  Images wouldn’t stop flashing behind my eyes. Elena’s face—those wide, terrified eyes meeting mine, lifeless. Brother Tomas’s scream echoing in my head, sharp and final. Blood painting the walls like some twisted artist’s brushstroke. Their faces. Their voices. Gone. Just... gone.

  And Reynaud—God. His final moments burned into me. The way he stood between me and the wendigo, barely able to hold his axe. Blood poured down his face, soaking into the collar of his robe. He’d turned to me—eyes fierce but tired—"Live, Erika. Run." No hesitation. No regret. Just sacrifice. I could still hear the crunch of bone when that monster struck him. See the way he crumpled against the wall, blood spreading in a dark pool beneath him.

  I left him there.

  My fingers clenched in the frozen dirt, nails digging into the cold earth. Why? Why had this happened? What had we done to deserve this? The monastery wasn’t perfect, but it was home. A place of sanctuary. Of faith. And now it was ash and blood and broken bodies.

  Tears burned my eyes, spilling over—hot against frozen cheeks. I tried to swallow them back—tried to be strong. Reynaud’s voice echoed in my head: Mourn later. How? How do you mourn when everything inside you is just... empty?

  A sob clawed up my throat. I buried my face in my arms, breath hitching. I should’ve fought harder. Should’ve saved someone—anyone. But I ran. I ran. Left them to die while I escaped. Coward. Survivor. Both.

  I wanted to pray. God, I wanted to—but the words wouldn’t come. My lips moved, but no sound emerged. Where were You? The thought lashed through me—sharp, bitter, unforgiving. We’d prayed. All of us. Candles lit. Psalms sung until our voices cracked. And for what? For bodies cooling on blood-soaked stone? For Elena’s lifeless gaze burned into my mind? For Tomas’s outstretched hand that never reached help?

  My fists pounded the dirt, pain flaring in my knuckles. "You were supposed to protect us," I rasped into the darkness. Voice raw. Cracking. Anger flared—hot, blinding—burning brighter than the fire I’d fled. Tears turned to fury. At God. At myself. At the monsters that had torn everything apart. "WHY!?" My scream echoed off the barn walls, small and hollow against the vast emptiness. No answer. Just silence. Just me—and the distant wind, howling like the ghosts that wouldn’t let me forget.

  Pain bloomed fresh in my chest, grief swelling until it choked me. I curled tighter into myself, arms wrapping around my knees like that could hold me together. Breath came in ragged gasps, sharp and useless. What am I supposed to do now? The monastery was gone. Father Reynaud... gone. Everyone... gone.

  And I was still here. Alone. Breathing. Why me? What twisted part of fate thought I should survive? Tears streaked down my face in burning rivers. They should’ve lived. Not me.

  Images swam in my mind—Reynaud shoving me toward the gate, bloodied but unyielding. His voice echoing: "You hesitate, you die." And Elena... her laugh during morning chores, soft and shy.

  Rage dulled into exhaustion. And through it all—guilt. Heavy. Suffocating. Their blood was on me—in more ways than one. On my clothes. My skin. My conscience.

  Faith is supposed to comfort. The thought crept in like a whisper. It felt like a lie. Like shattered glass, sharp and cold, too broken to piece back together. Where was the mercy? Where was the salvation?

  The wind howled outside, rattling the old barn walls. Cold seeped in deeper, numbing my fingers and toes, stealing warmth I didn’t have left. Good. Let it take me. Let it freeze everything until there was nothing but emptiness.

  I cried—heaving sobs muffled against my arms. Alone in the dark. Mourning ghosts who wouldn’t answer. Begging for a God who didn’t listen.

  The darkness didn’t offer comfort before.

  But now it had.