Page 64 of Black Wing and Shadows
A low murmur spread through the cadets.
“What are they making?” an Infantry cadet blurted.
Melamora’s expression hardened. “No one knows for certain. Some call them Alp. Others, Strigoi. But the word appearing most often in reports—” She let the pause stretch, her eyes sweeping the rows, “—is Nosferatu.”
The name hit the hall like a cold draft.
“That’s just a legend,” one Historian scoffed, though his voice shook.
“Legends,” Melamora said sharply, “are only stories until someone decides to make them real. Do not dismiss what you do not understand.”
The mutters grew louder, cadets leaning in to whisper the name under their breathNosferatu. Nosferatu.
The word Nosferatu clawed straight through me.
I had heard it before. Years ago, when I was still little enough to sit on my father’s knee while he spun stories by firelight. He’d told it like a camp tale, voice low and dramatic, letting the shadows on the walls dance as he spoke.
“They’re men who traded their souls for blood,” he’d said, eyes gleaming with the fire. “Bodies that don’t stay dead, hearts that don’t beat, but still they walk. Their teeth are sharp enough to tear through bone, and their thirst never ends. Nosferatu.”
I’d pulled the blanket to my chin, wide-eyed. He’d only grinned, leaning close so his breath tickled my ear.
“If you ever hear one scratching at your window,” he whispered, “don’t look. Don’t open. Once you meet their eyes, they’ll never let you go.”
Then he’d laughed, ruffling my hair, as if it was only a game to spook me before bed. But I still remembered lying awake that night, staring at the shutters, half expecting to hear the scrape of claws.
And now, years later, the word didn’t sound like a story anymore.
The word lingered in the air like a curse.
“Nosferatu,” one cadet muttered, the syllables sharp as broken glass.
“That’s a ghost story,” another scoffed. “Meant to scare children into shutting their windows.”
“Exactly what you’re acting like now,” Melamora cut in, her voice flat. “Ghost stories are often truths wrapped in warning.”
A Historian cadet leaned forward. “Even if it were true, why would humans need such abominations? They already outnumber us.”
“Numbers aren’t everything,” Melamora said. “They fear our fliers, our wards, our lifespans. So, they create what they cannot be. Something that doesn’t tire. Doesn’t die. If they succeed, it won’t matter how many troops we have.”
Someone snorted. “If they drink blood, we’ll cut their throats before they get close enough.”
Melamora’s eyes narrowed. “Arrogance is the first casualty of war.”
I caught myself gripping the edge of my seat, knuckles white. My father’s voice still echoed in the back of my mind.Shadows on the wall. Don’t open the window.
Across the rows, I saw Alex shake his head. “Humans can’t outmatch the Fae. Not in magic. Not in strength. Not in flight.”
“Keep thinking that,” Melamora said coldly, “and you’ll be the first to die.”
“Humans? Nosferatu? Stories to frighten children,” Asmoth said, loud enough for the rows around him to hear. “If they come, they’ll bleed like anything else.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the hall.
Melamora’s voice cut through it, sharp as steel. “Do you think I stand here spinning ghost stories?” She let the silence stretch until the last nervous chuckle died. “Ancient Historian records mention Nosferatu on Yebel centuries ago—creatures raised through rituals that drained the life of the unwilling. They fed on blood because their own bodies could no longer sustain them. Entire villages fell before a single one.”
The laughter was gone.
“But they were destroyed,” a cadet blurted, uncertain now.
