Chaya's Journal #10

Attic in Coffin Maker’s Shop

 Vallaki Vampires. Real vampires. Not myths. Not whispers in the dark. They were there, moving, snarling, eyes like coals burning with hunger. I could feel their presence before I even saw them—the air thick with something unnatural, something that made my skin crawl and my stomach twist. They were waiting for us. Lurking. Watching. Like spiders in their web. The moment Gretch opened the lid of that crate, they struck. The fight was chaos. There was no time to think—only to react. Claws slashed through the air, fangs snapped dangerously close. I threw up my shield, called upon Selûne’s light, but they were fast. Faster than anything I’ve ever faced before. I heard my friends fighting around me—Vesper’s blades flashing, Riordan snarling something as he lunged into the fray, Gretch calling upon his magic, Horvar fighting with a quiet, grim determination. Stoick was a wall of steel, holding the line while Lucian and I did our best to heal and protect. I struck out with my mace, trying to push them back, trying to give my friends room to breathe, but they did not stop. They did not tire until they were killed or, in a stroke of genius, they were lured back into their crates.

The streets of Vallaki bustled with the festival’s energy—children laughing, performers dazzling the crowds, the scent of roasted meats and spiced cider filling the air. And yet, beneath the revelry, monsters walked among them. Two of them, sealed away in their crates, sat in the carriage before us. It was a quiet, unnerving thing, to pack up horrors in broad daylight while the world continued on around us. Stoick and Riordan secured the carriage, their expressions grim. Gretch muttered under his breath, eyes flickering toward the crowd, as if expecting a third to emerge from the festivities at any moment. Henrik had come to me, furious, and I had no patience for his outrage. Not after what he had done. But when I confronted him in private, his bravado shattered like glass. He wept. He pleaded. He told me of the hooded man—his threats, the way Henrik had felt helpless to resist. I wanted to believe he was just a coward. I wanted to believe he had been tricked, used. But how many people will suffer for his weakness? And worse—one had escaped. I tried not to think of it as we took the carriage out of town, but the dread coiled in my stomach. Vesper, Lucian, and Horvar would search for the last one, somewhere among the festival crowd. I prayed Selûne would guide them, that they would not face the same horrors we had without warning. As we neared the river, a different horror unfolded.

Gretch spotted a man on a boat, tossing a struggling bag over the side. The moment it hit the water, the bag moved. We did not hesitate. I do not remember pulling my armor off. I do not remember the cold bite of the water as I dove in. I only remember the sinking bag. The thrashing. The silence below the surface. When I pulled her out, she was barely breathing. A little girl, black hair plastered to her face, skin pale from the chill of the water. Arabella. That was her name. When she spoke of her family who is camped outside of Vallaki—we did not delay. We had to return her home. I only hope, as we rode away from the river, that our friends were safe. That they had found the last of the creatures before it could feed. I cannot shake the feeling that we have only begun to unravel this nightmare.