Episode 4

“Wake up, sleeping beauty!”

Sasha’s voice blasted through my apartment before my brain had even decided it was morning. The next thing I knew, she was already halfway to my kitchen counter, balancing two cups of overpriced lattes and grinning like she’d just discovered the cure for boredom.

“You left your door unlocked again,” she announced. “Seriously, do you have a death wish, or are you just testing how many serial killers live in this neighborhood?”

I pulled my blanket tighter around me and groaned. My hair was sticking out in every direction, my mouth dry, and I was in no condition to deal with Sasha at full volume. “Sasha, it’s Sunday. Normal people sleep in on Sundays.”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking as she shoved one of the cups into my hand. “Normal people don’t win painting competitions and get their names plastered across university bulletin boards.”

I blinked at her, still half-asleep. “That happened yesterday.”

“Exactly, which means today is celebration day,” she casually plopped herself on my couch. “And before you start whining about being tired, too bad. Already planned it. You and me, museum, get ready.”

I stared at her over the rim of my latte as I took a sip. It was caramel, extra whipped cream—exactly how I liked it, which meant she’d clearly bribed me into agreeing before I even had a chance to protest. “Celebrating, in a museum?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, as if the matter was settled.

I raised an eyebrow. “Most people celebrate with cake or karaoke, not staring at old rocks.”

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Don’t knock it till you try it. The Marquesa Museum of Art & Antiquities is running a special exhibition this month. Imported relics, cursed jewelry, creepy statues. I’m telling you, it’ll blow your mind. Besides, it’s cultural, which means it’ll be perfect for you. And maybe, it’ll give you inspiration for your next painting.”

Her enthusiasm was impossible to resist. She had that kind of personality that steamrolled through any attempt at saying no. An hour later, I was dressed, caffeinated, and ready. She blasted pop songs way too loudly for a Sunday morning.

...•••...

The museum loomed ahead of us like some kind of gothic cathedral. Its massive stone facade caught the afternoon sunlight, and the tall arched windows glinted like watchful eyes. Colorful banners advertising the exhibition fluttered above the wide stone steps.

Shadows of History: Relics from the Old World.

“This place is huge,” I muttered as we parked.

“Of course it is,” she said, swinging out of the car with all the confidence in the world. “Only the best for you.”

Inside, the museum was a different world. The air was cool and hushed, the kind of silence that made every footstep sound louder than it should. There was a faint tang of marble and something older—like dust and preserved history.

We wandered down long corridors lined with glass cases. Inside were artifacts so delicate they looked like they’d turn to dust if you breathed on them, weathered scrolls, rusted coins, jewelry so detailed it seemed impossible humans had made them centuries ago.

She stopped to snap a few selfies with a crown displayed on velvet. “Can you imagine me as a queen?” she asked, adjusting her hair dramatically.

“You already act like one,” I muttered, but she just laughed.

Normally, I loved this kind of place. It was quiet, full of stories locked in stone and glass. But today, something felt, different and heavier. Almost as if the walls were holding their breath. I couldn’t shake the sensation that the air itself pressed down on my chest, weighing me into the floor.

And then I saw it.

At the center of the gallery, beneath a spotlight that carved him out of the shadows, stood a statue.

It was enormous—towering over the crowd of tourists who had gathered to take photos. A man, carved from pure white marble, every detail so perfect it seemed impossible it wasn’t flesh and bone. His hair swept back in thick waves, his jawline sharp, his body lean but powerful. A sculptor’s dream of masculine strength, frozen in time, but I barely registered the artistry. My breath caught in my throat for a different reason.

It was his face, the same face from my nightmare. The same man who had leaned over me in the dark. The one whose fangs had pierced my throat.

I stopped so abruptly Sasha nearly bumped into me. My stomach turned to ice, and my legs wobbled beneath me. I reached out blindly and clutched her arm, trying to steady myself.

“Elara? What’s wrong?” her voice snapped with sudden concern as she glanced between me and the statue.

My heart pounded violently, and my lungs refused to cooperate. I forced words out, my throat dry. “That statue, it looks exactly like—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. What was I supposed to say? It looks like the vampire from my dreams? I’d sound insane. “Like, someone I’ve seen before.”

Her expression shifted instantly, curiosity flashing in her eyes, mischief. “Interesting,” she said slowly. “Because, you know, there’s actually a legend about him.”

My head snapped toward her. “Legend?”

She nodded, stepping closer to read the little plaque beside the statue. “Yeah, this one’s called The Fallen Prince. Some say he was a nobleman, others claim he was a warlord. The official story is boring, but the local folklore? Way juicier.”

I stared at her. “Juicier how?”

She leaned in close, lowering her voice like she was telling me a secret. “According to the old stories, he wasn’t just a man. He was a vampire, the kind who ruled from the shadows, fed on the city’s elite, and vanished without a trace. Some people even claim he never died. That he’s still out there.”

I felt my skin prickle. “What was his name?”

She scrunched her brows, thinking. “Lucien. Count Lucien of Draemir.”

The name struck me like lightning.

At first, I thought I’d misheard her. But then, beneath the low hum of the crowd, the shuffle of shoes, the clicking of camera shutters. I heard it again.

A whisper, faint, but distinct.

Lucien.

The sound threaded through the air like smoke, curling around me, sinking into my skin. I froze, my pulse stuttered.

The whisper came again, closer this time, brushing against my ear.

Lucien. Lucien.

I spun, looking around wildly. No one was near enough to have said it. The tourists were chatting casually, oblivious. Sasha was busy reading the display card again.

My vision swam, pain exploded behind my eyes, sharp and blinding. I stumbled back, clutching my head. The chatter of the museum muffled instantly, like I was hearing everything from underwater. The overhead lights flared too brightly, stabbing at my skull until spots danced across my vision.

Sasha’s voice broke through, panicked now. "Elara!"

I couldn’t focus on her, my knees buckled, and I grabbed at the marble railing for balance. The whispers didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder.

Lucien. Elara. Lucien. Elara.

The two names tangled together, repeating endlessly, pulling me into a spiral I couldn’t escape.

“Stop it,” I gasped, pressing my palms hard against my ears, though I knew it wasn’t real sound. “Make it stop.”

She grabbed my shoulders, her grip firm, her face pale now. “Look at me! Breathe. You’re okay, you’re okay, it’s just—”

But I wasn’t okay. The room tilted violently, blurring into streaks of color and shadow. People’s faces warped, stretching like reflections in rippling water.

And the statue—gosh, the statue’s stone eyes, they weren’t lifeless anymore.

They were watching me.

I gasped, but before I could scream, everything dissolved into black.

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