The world had no sky.

Or perhaps it did, but Damon couldn’t distinguish it from the ground. Everything was a continuous gray, as if someone had erased the colors with excessive care, leaving only soft shadows and incomplete shapes. There was no wind, no sound, just a thick stillness that wasn’t exactly silence, but something close to expectation.

He had no body there. Or, at least, not in the way he was used to.

It was as if he were observing through himself.

Ahead, a boy walked down a corridor that was too long for the size of the place. The walls were high, smooth, made of a material that resembled polished stone mixed with something organic. The floor vaguely reflected small, quick steps.

The boy seemed… happy.

Not just content. Truly happy.

He walked almost skipping, his steps light, irregular, as if the simple act of moving was already a reason for joy. Every now and then, he spun around, looking around with genuine curiosity, as if that corridor, despite its familiarity, still held small mysteries worthy of attention.

Damon felt a strange tightness in his chest.

He knew that feeling.

The boy stopped before a large double door, decorated with delicately carved ancient symbols. Without hesitation, he pushed open one of the doors and rushed inside.

“Mom!”

The voice echoed through the spacious room.

It was a large room, illuminated by a soft light that didn’t seem to come from anywhere specific. In the center, near a wide table covered with scrolls and strange artifacts, sat a woman.

She was… impressive.

Tall, with a firm posture, a commanding presence without needing to raise her voice. Her hair was long and white as freshly fallen snow, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her red eyes were not threatening—on the contrary, they carried intelligence, depth, and a quiet affection.

Black horns curved elegantly from her head, polished, a natural part of her, not something monstrous.

She wore a simple, floral dress in soft colors, which contrasted with the evident power emanating from her figure. There was no armor, no throne, no ostentation—just quiet authority.

When she saw the boy, her face lit up.

“My boy.”

Her voice was warm, enveloping, full of genuine affection.

She opened her arms, and the boy ran to her without hesitation, embracing her tightly. The woman leaned slightly to fully embrace him, one hand resting on his back, the other in his hair.

Damon felt the knot in his chest tighten.

This wasn’t acting.

It was real love.

“You’re excited today,” she commented, smiling.

“I finished my exercises faster!” the boy replied, excitedly. “And I read two more scrolls!” “Really?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “Then you have a lot to do today.”

The boy grimaced slightly.

“I’ll see Mom very little today?”

She sighed softly, resting her forehead against his.

“A little less than I’d like,” she admitted. “But the kingdom doesn’t govern itself.”

She stepped back just enough to look into his eyes.

“How are your studies on demonic energy going?”

The boy straightened his shoulders, proudly.

“I already know how to channel it without losing control.”

Before she could answer, he extended his hands.

The air around them changed.

A pink mist began to form slowly, soft, luminous, spreading through the environment. It wasn’t heavy or aggressive. On the contrary—it brought warmth, vitality, contrast. Where the mist touched the gray of the world, the color seemed to recede, as if pushed away.

Damon’s eyes widened.

That energy… he knew it.

Not as a memory.

But as an essence.

“This…” he murmured, even knowing that no one there could hear him. “This is a memory?”

The woman watched the mist attentively, but without surprise.

“Very good,” she said, with restrained pride. “You are progressing quickly.”

The boy smiled, but the smile faded slightly as the mist began to dissipate.

At that moment, Damon perceived something else.

It wasn’t a smell.

It was a sensation.

A specific vibration, deeply connected to that pink energy. Something he now recognized as part of himself, but which there was pure, devoid of adult intention. Only potential.

And then, before the scene could continue, something broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Firm. Calculated.

A side door opened.

“Your Majesty, Lilith.” The voice was masculine, respectful. A well-dressed butler bowed slightly as he spoke.

The woman—Lilith—closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if consolidating the weight of many responsibilities, and nodded.

“I’m going.”

She turned to the boy, kneeling to be at his level.

“My little one,” she said softly. “Mommy needs to go manage the kingdom.”

She touched his face carefully.

“Remember to go study, okay?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“I promise!”

She smiled once more, a smile that Damon felt pierce the space between worlds, and then stood, walking toward the door, her floral dress swaying slightly with each step.

The boy stood still, watching until she disappeared.

For a few seconds, he held the smile.

Then it vanished.

Not completely.

But it faded.

His shoulders slumped slightly. His eyes lost their sparkle. He took a deep breath, like someone very young trying to comprehend something too big.

Damon felt a shiver.

The boy looked at his own hands.

Then at the empty hallway.

“Mom is hiding something…” he murmured.

The gray world seemed to pulse.

…Damon himself wasn’t that person, after all, he was a reincarnated being who had taken over that body but… Why were those memories so intimate?… Why did it seem as if he himself was the conduit for those images, that they were… His.

The thought fragmented before reaching a conclusion.

Something pulled Damon violently.

Not like an impact, but like a hook driven into the depths of his soul, dragging him back, tearing the gray world to pieces. The image of the boy, the hallway, the fading smile, all dissolved into a torrent of confused sensations.

Pain.

Weight.

Excessive heat.

And thirst.

An absurd thirst.

Damon opened his eyes suddenly, gasping.

The ceiling above him wasn’t that of Elizabeth’s mansion. There were no elegant details, no stained glass, no familiar scent of old wood and subtle incense. The ceiling was simple, of light stone, with faint runes carved in the corners, pulsing with an almost imperceptible glow.

He tried to move.

Nothing.

His body responded with a chorus of protests—burning muscles, stiff joints, bones that felt compressed from within. A groan escaped his dry, rough throat, as if he hadn’t drunk anything in days.

“Damn it…” he murmured, or tried to murmur.

His voice came out weak.

Each breath seemed to drag something heavy through his lungs.

Then he felt a presence.

Very close.

He turned his eyes with effort, feeling his vision spin for a moment, until he managed to focus on the side of the bed.

There was someone there.

A woman was sitting on the floor, leaning against the edge of the bed, her arm resting on the mattress, her head resting on it, as if she had fallen asleep like that, overcome by exhaustion.

Dark hair fell to the side, partially hiding her pale face.

Damon’s heart gave a strange leap.

“Elizabeth…?”

It was her.

Elizabeth Wykes, the woman he expected to see less than anyone else at that moment.

Not Aria, with her evident anxiety.

Not Morgana, with that provocative and dangerous look. Not Lily, always smiling too much.

Nor Esther, who would probably be cursing him for getting into trouble.

But Elizabeth.

She looked… exhausted.

Her skin, normally firm and flawless, was too pale. There were shadows under her closed eyes, and her breathing was slow, controlled, like someone who had pushed their body beyond its limit.

Damon tried to stand up a little more, just enough to understand where he was.

The pain exploded.

He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming.

“Fuck…” he whispered.

His body simply wouldn’t obey. It was as if it were drained, empty, too heavy for itself. Something inside him screamed, a deep, primal instinct.

He needed something.

But it wasn’t water.

He swallowed hard, feeling his throat burn.

“What… happened…?” he murmured, more to himself than to the surroundings.

His gaze fell on his own hand, resting on the sheet.

It was pale.

Not just pale—truly pale, almost lifeless, as if the blood had been diluted. The veins stood out beneath the skin, bluish and thin.

His eyes widened.

This wasn’t normal.

And then he noticed something even more disturbing.

Elizabeth was the same.

Her hand, resting close to his, had the same pale, almost translucent tone. It was subtle, but evident to someone who now seemed to see too many details.

A recent memory crashed into his mind.

The kiss.

The red mist.

The body healing.

Her hand aging… and then returning to normal when she bit his neck.

Damon felt a strange chill run down his spine.

‘You…’ he thought, his head failing slightly at the conclusion. “Is she a vampire?”

Elizabeth stirred.

Her red eyes opened slowly, focusing on him almost immediately, as if she had been awake for hours, just waiting for any sign.

For a second, something raw passed through her gaze—relief, tension, exhaustion, and something deeper, almost hungry.

“You woke up,” she said, her voice low, too controlled.

Damon tried to smile, but couldn’t.

“Should I… be dead?” he asked hoarsely.

Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately. She carefully sat up, observing him as if assessing something fragile.

“No,” she finally said. “But you got too close.”

She placed her hand on her own wrist, as if she could feel the weak rhythm there.

“And me too,” she said and finished with a sigh, “Thank goodness… I’m going to take a nap,” she commented, and fell asleep again, exhausted…

Damon looked at her… “Don’t tell me that—” he ran his hand over his neck, and felt where there were two small, painful spots… “Damn it—”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep