Upon unlocking the mine gate, the exquisite fragility of these humans against the abominations we call bloodsuckers struck me once more—pitifully, almost beautifully so. A species, one might say—though the term is hardly appropriate, for the vampiric aberrations do not live in any proper sense of the word. They persist, they endure, they grotesquely imitate life; yet true life, in its warmth and growth, is beyond them.

  Their shapes, powers, vulnerabilities, and habits are so diverse that even the most erudite scholar of our age would despair trying to classify them! I, however, had once pored over the studies of the great encyclopedist Vincente Valtieri, himself a bloodsucker of remarkable intellect, who had devoted centuries from his long, unnatural "life" to a meticulous study of his own kind.

  He had even compiled a compendium, the monumental opus Compendium of the Regnum Animalia Daemonica, which attempted—perchance foolishly, mayhap heroically—to bring order into the chaos of vampiric taxonomy. There, he placed himself within the Ordo Sanguinarii, Familia Nosferatae Antiquae, Genus Vilectra, Species V. philosophica.

  I mention these details, tedious as they may seem to the impatient reader, only to make crystal clear how absurdly and dangerously diverse these abominations could be—these monsters who, in defiance of all natural law, persist where death itself should reign. Mortals, in their characteristic superficiality, call them all vampires.

  I descended into the mine, and the entrance swallowed me whole in its warm and sweet embrace. Oh, it was deliciously hot inside; a blast of nearly searing, heavy like molten lead air struck my face — thick with the scent of rust, dust, and stone sweat. It wasn't the chill of a tomb that awaited me there, but something far more alluring, almost... intimate. I smiled. For I felt at home.

  The mine was atypical—not a tunnel but a vast shaft spiraling downward, its sides veined with broken beams and trembling platforms. Wooden walkways clung to the rock like spiderwebs — crooked, rotting, held together by rusted nails and stubborn habit. From these led fragile ladders, some with steps, others only ropes, swaying in the reddish gloom like the entrails of some sleeping titan.

  Ah, that light — not truly light, but a ruddy haze that oozed from the very stone, iron-rich and feverish. It shimmered faintly, like blood seen through a veil of smoke. I licked my lips; yes, I could taste the mountain — metallic, sharp, invigorating. The scent of iron always makes me feel alive.

  Somewhere deep below, water whispered and echoed — slow drops falling from the vaulted dark into pools unseen. In another direction, I heard the growl of an underground river, eternal and patient. The walls themselves were sweating; beads of moisture glimmered on the rock like tears.

  Every step I took made the planks creak and shiver beneath my boots. The entire structure breathed, trembled, protested softly as I passed. It was delightful — as if the mountain itself resented my presence, yet could do nothing to stop me.

  In many places, side tunnels gaped like open mouths: some tall and wide, others no higher than a child's reach, each promising secrets, maybe treasure, or perhaps just a terrible death. But I had no time for wandering — my curiosity, for once, was disciplined. So I only sniffed their entrances to be sure that nothing was hiding there, in their winding depths. Nothing interesting though, so I descended further because the collapsed gallery was at the very bottom, where the heat grew thick, strangely sweet, and the air felt almost liquid. That's where I was heading — light-footed, amused, listening to the sighs of wood and iron beneath me.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  How charming, I thought, that such a fragile thing as a human body still dares to descend into places that could crush it with a single breath.

  And so, step by step, I went down into the heart of the red mist — smiling, of course. Always smiling.

  And then... longing?

  I stopped cold. No, this wasn't right! Not at all.

  True, I love the shadows and the heat—they soothe me like familiar, loving arms—but this was different. I was in a monster's lair, and no monster's lair is ever a pleasant place.

  As that thought crossed my mind, a new wave of warmth, of joy, of desire, washed over me, coursing through my body like molten honey. I pleasantly shivered, but I controlled myself and went on full alert, forcing those treacherous sensations into pain, twisting pleasure into revulsion, training my mind as Maria had taught me — to think, to separate, to analyze.

  And so I did.

  I sent my thoughts probing outward, toward the source of those alluring waves that pulsed unseen in the mist.

  What I found there struck me with a mixture of awe and dread: it was a gift and also a bait:

  A jungle, wet and lush, under two swollen moons.

  The scent of rain, the cries of unseen beasts.

  And in a pool of crystal water, a gazelle bending to drink — graceful, unguarded — while something unseen, a velvet shadow, circled closer, silent, smiling and longing for warm blood and fresh meat.

  Something was showing me this. Inviting me, calling me there to taste the beauty. Ah, this was no mere vampire! No! No pale scavenger feeding on peasant blood. What coiled in the shadows from below was something older, stranger, infinitely more dangerous—an extremely rare and strange abomination.

  I struggled to recall the passages from Valtieri's Compendium, his obsessive attempt to define every kind of bloodsucker that ever plagued Nirn. And then the name surfaced, unbidden, heavy with dread and amazement — Lamia. Maybe a mutated Vilectra? Or just a Venatrix? How delightfully rare and exquisite, both of them!

  But the moment I began to doubt the vision, to analyze rather than surrender to it, everything changed.

  Suddenly, all beauty vanished.

  Lamia had perceived my awareness—she knew she'd been seen!

  And then, only sorrow remained: a vast, ancient sorrow, like the loneliness of the Void itself.

  After it came fury—blind, unreasoning, rising from the depths like a hurricane.

  Oh yes, now she was angry indeed!

  I drew the Lucky Dagger from its secret sheath and advanced quickly, making no attempt to hide my movements, while sending her thoughts of love, calm, and reassurance. She hesitated. I felt the rage within her subside, trembling into something quieter, almost fragile.

  When I reached the heap of stones and planks that sealed the gallery, the psychic thread between us snapped like a cut string.

  Silence fell.

  Somehow, Lamia withdrew into herself, and I realized something chilling: the abomination possessed a terrifying kind of mental discipline—one that even I could barely comprehend.

  I whispered a small spell of light, its glow trembling over the crude barricade. There was no gap, no orifice, not even a breath of space between the boulders and the beams that blocked the passage.

  I sniffed the air: wet stone, rust, the bitter scent of freshly hewn wood.

  She couldn't have moved through that wall of dead matter.

  And yet...

  I reached again for her mind, probing gently beyond the barrier—but there was nothing.

  Only silence.

  Only the soft, cold echo of absence.

  I slid the dagger back into its sheath and walked quickly up the trembling catwalks toward the gate.

  Outside, the fog pressed close and heavy around me, and the mountain's breath was icy against my skin, and—against all reason—I longed for the sweet, loving warmth of that underground lair. I knew at once that longing wasn't entirely mine.

  And that realization amazed me!