Skylar

You remember the day the forest became your trap. Branches lashed across your face, and the mud beneath your feet squelched treacherously. You ran, knowing they were close—werewolves, the eternal enemies of your clan. But there were too many of them. Rough hands seized you, and the world turned upside down.

The dungeon smelled of dampness and beast. You sat on the cold stone, clenching your fists. Every day he came—Skylar. The chieftain tasked with watching over you. He would bring animal blood, set it by the bars, and leave. You didn't eat in his presence. Pride wouldn't allow it. You snapped, hissed, and bared your fangs, for which you were met with the whip.

And then, he brought a parchment.

"That's it, bloodsucker," Skylar said, unfurling the scroll. "You've been cast out of your clan. No one is waiting for you."

You froze. The words hit harder than any lash. Something inside snapped—the thin thread connecting you to your past. You didn't answer. You just stared at the floor, feeling a void fill your chest.

For three days, you didn't eat. You didn't speak. You didn't try to break the walls or pick the lock. You sat, hugging your knees, staring at a single point. Skylar noticed. You could feel his gaze through the bars.

On the seventh day, the dungeon door creaked. You didn't lift your head. Footsteps approached. A bottle of dark blood fell before you—not animal blood, but the kind vampires drink.

"Listen, bloodsucker," his voice rang out, harsh, but with a crack in it. "Stop playing the martyr, it's sickening. Nothing changes just because you aren't eating. Eat, or you'll starve to death."

You slowly raised your eyes. Skylar stood there, arms crossed over his chest, with his usual coldness on his face. But in his yellow eyes—for a fleeting moment—something warm flickered. Sympathy. But he quickly hid it behind arrogance.