Dirt spilled down in a steady stream—sandy, orange, and dark. Grainy granularity broken by scattered pebbles and tangled roots.

  “Scripture tells us in John 11:25, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.’”

  The sky was clear with a few wispy, fluffy clouds, incredible weather to be honest, even a bit warmer than usual.

  “Theodore was a gift to all who knew him—a light in the lives of his family, a source of love, kindness, and strength. We mourn his passing, but we also give thanks for the time we were given to walk alongside him in this life.”

  Pour, pour, pour. Trickle, trickle, trickle.

  The soil slipped between the roots entwined around Bryndrel’s hands. I didn’t have the strength to raise the shovel.

  “Let us not say goodbye in sorrow, but with faith that one day, we shall meet again in the presence of our Lord. Until that day, we entrust Theodore to God’s mercy, knowing that in Him, there is no more pain, no more suffering—only peace everlasting.”

  The white sheets that once wrapped the body were gone from sight now, swallowed by the earth. Bit by bit, the grave filled.

  “Now, as we return Theodore to the earth, we remember the words: ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ May their soul find eternal rest in the arms of the Lord.

  Go in peace.”

  I wanted to kill something. Someone. The birds were too loud, they had no business being so noisy this late in the evening.

  "Max," The priest said gently, his voice thick with grief of his own. "I know words won’t do much right now, but I need you to know—your father was a good man. A strong man. If anyone fought until the very end, it was him."

  I swallowed hard, my throat burning. I didn’t want to talk about him in past tense. I didn’t want to hear how noble or strong he was. I wanted him here. Not under six feet of dirt. Not gone.

  Bryndrel stepped forward, its amber eyes glowing faintly in the fading light. The dryad’s presence was calm, almost soothing, almost, but I wasn’t in the mood for its cryptic wisdom. “Max,” it began, its voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind, “grief is a storm that must pass. It will not be calmed by force, nor by vengeance. You must let it move through you, like the wind through the trees.”

  I turned to face Bryndrel. “Don’t,” I said again, my voice cold. “I don’t need your metaphors. I don’t need your comfort. What I need is to find the rest of my family.”

  The dryad went oddly quiet.

  Jackson sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging under the burden of the day’s losses. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to go on a crusade after today,” he admitted, his voice heavy with sorrow. “We’ve buried too many people. “But we need to be careful. Patient. Calm. Now is not the time to rush headfirst into something we can’t control.”

  I clenched my jaw. “I’m not rushing. No one’s rushing. All I’m gonna do is go inside and have a good, long talk with Samantha and the others.”

  Jackson studied me for a moment, his gaze searching. He opened his mouth as if to argue, to remind me of the dangers of acting on emotion, but then he hesitated. His expression softened, and he gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But I’m coming with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” His tone left no room for argument.

  I shot him a look, but he wasn’t budging. Neither was Bryndrel, who followed silently.

  Fine. Let them come.

  Pushing open the door to my house felt strange—like stepping into another life. The air inside was thick, tense, humming with the quiet energy of an argument that had already begun before we arrived.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Samantha, Helena, Kate, and Diana sat around the dining table, a single journal placed at its center. Pages filled with notes and diagrams lay open, their edges worn from being flipped through too many times. The candlelight flickered over their faces, casting sharp shadows that mirrored their expressions—frustration, skepticism, determination.

  “I’m telling you,” Kate said, her voice calm but firm, “Harold Bundewick is a vampire.” She tapped the open page with one finger. “It makes too much sense. He’s the one who sent Commander Greene here to clean up Frankenstein’s mess, the mess Bundewick himself sponsored. And Greene was a vampire.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Do the math.”

  Samantha, who had been silent until now, exhaled sharply. “Kate’s got a point.” She drummed her fingers against the table, her expression tight. “Greene’s cover was blown, and suddenly we have people disappearing. The attack on the church. And the fire at the barracks in Belford.” She looked up at us as we stepped inside. “If Bundewick didn’t care about being exposed, why go to all this trouble? Why start wiping people out?”

  I pulled out a chair and sank into it. Jackson stood nearby, while Bryndrel lingered in the doorway, its presence almost blending into the shadows.

  Helena, sitting with one leg draped over the other, shrugged. “Because it’s a clean-up job.” Her voice was dry, edged with something bitter. “If the barracks in Belford had people who knew the truth, then burning it down was the easiest way to silence them. No witnesses, no problem.”

  “So you’re all saying that Bundewick is probably the reason why my father is dead and the others captured?”

  A heavy silence followed.

  Samantha nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Jackson let out a slow breath beside me. His earlier words echoed in my head. Now is not the time to rush headfirst into something we can’t control. But how the hell were we supposed to sit back when Bundewick was tying up loose ends—when we were the loose ends?

  “Great, when are we going to pay him a visit?”

  Samantha exchanged a glance with the others, her expression a mix of caution and resolve. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and spoke in a measured tone. "Max, I get it. I do. But we can’t just storm in there. Bundewick isn’t some low-level thug—he’s powerful, connected, and dangerous. And a vampire for gods sake. If we’re going after him, we need a plan. A real one. Not just rage and revenge."

  Kate nodded. “She’s right. We need weapons, supplies, a way in and out. We don’t even know where he is.”

  I clenched my fists, the roots beneath my skin pulsing faintly. They were right, of course. Charging in without a plan would be suicide. But the thought of waiting, of doing nothing while Bundewick continued to destroy lives, made my blood boil. Still, I forced myself to nod. "Fine. We’ll prepare. But we’re not waiting forever."

  An idea flickered in the back of my mind—a way to get the supplies and equipment we needed.

  The dryad shifted in the doorway, its amber eyes glowing faintly. “The roots of corruption run deep,” it said, its voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “But even the tallest tree can be felled.”

  Samantha’s squad startled, nearly knocking over the candle on the table. Kate flinched so hard her hand flew to the knife at her belt, while Helena muttered a curse under her breath at the dryad’s voice. Apparently they still haven’t gotten used to it, to Bryndrel.

  The conversation shifted, the tension in the room easing slightly as the focus moved away from Bundewick. Samantha leaned back in her chair, her gaze settling on me. "There’s something else we need to talk about, now that I think about it" she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "Your alchemy. You said you’d demonstrate it. Show us what you can do."

  I exhaled through my nose, glancing at the box the others had helped me bring inside—the one holding my supplies. “Fine,” I said, though my stomach twisted with nerves. Would I be able to do it this time? Last time, my hand got blown off. At least Jackson was here now.

  I rifled through the box, looking for something simple to demonstrate with. But my gaze kept drifting back to the bundle of lightning lichen. My fingers twitched. Yeah, this time, I’d do it right.

  Grabbing a handful of lichen, I sat back down at the table, surrounded by expectant eyes. I didn’t have a stick to transfer the essence to—should I go outside to grab one? No. I had a better idea.

  I picked up the candle in the middle of the table.

  Their stares burned into me, so I shut my eyes. Alright. How was I supposed to start? Not with anger—that was a disaster last time. I thought back to the gremlin I stunned, how it felt when immaterial roots extended from my fingertips and into its skull. This time, they sank into the lichen.

  It was working.

  The storm inside the plant hummed against my senses, crackling with potential. It was beautiful.

  I pressed forward, focusing on my heart. The roots entwined with my arteries and veins, pulsing in perfect rhythm. They weren’t just roots, though. They were pathways. If arteries carried blood, then maybe these carried essence.

  Let’s test that theory.

  I concentrated, searching for the right sensation—the mental muscle I needed to pull essence through the tendrils in my hands. My heartbeat pulsed once. Twice. Then—zap.

  Electricity jolted through me like eels and angry bees. It buzzed under my skin, radiating from my chest, raw and untamed. I only held onto it for a second, just long enough to channel the energy through my other hand—straight into the candle.

  The result wasn’t controlled. Not even close.

  But it was stunning.

  The wick flared to life, glowing like the inside of a plasma ball, crackling with an eerie, electric whine—louder, sharper, more volatile than any taser.