fantasy
Jonas
242
The cliff groaned beneath the weight of silence. Wind sliced across its jagged edge, shearing past scorched rock and scattering thin streams of ash into the dead sky. Nothing grew here. Nothing lived—at least, not for long.
The air was stale, metallic, heavy with the scent of old blood. Clouds churned overhead, slow and low, thick as bruises. They hadn’t broken in weeks. They never truly rained anymore. Just hovered and watched.
Jonas crouched at the brink, motionless. Beneath him, the remains of the city stretched far and broken. Skeletons of buildings clawed up from ruin. Rusted girders stuck from their corpses like ribs. The streets below were buried in shadow, the wind too dry to carry sound, too still to offer warning.
He scanned the ruins without blinking. There was no movement. Not yet.
Birds circled high above him, dark things with twisted wings and hollow eyes. They never came close. Never dared. Their silhouettes broke the sky in ragged lines before vanishing again into the mist.
His stomach ached. A gnawing pulse beneath his ribs. Hunger had dulled his limbs. His breath came shallow, though he didn’t need it. Not really. The ache wasn’t just thirst—it was a call, low and primal, sinking deeper with every hour he resisted. His senses sharpened in its absence.
He waited. Watched. Time slowed. Hunger stretched it, pulled it taut like a wire. Then it happened. The scent. Subtle at first—faint, human, fresh. The wind carried it up the crag, soft as a whisper.
His nostrils flared. He inhaled sharply, jaw tight, muscles drawn thin beneath the stillness. The cliff under his feet seemed to tilt forward, eager to throw him down.
The scent grew stronger. You were near, lost maybe. Wandering into the worst place at the worst time.
He rose in one slow motion, and the world around him stilled. He stepped from the edge—swift, silent, controlled, slipping down the cliff face like a knife through fabric.
vampire
