Soo….I’m going to leave here the first chapter of my OC story. In case anyone likes it! :D
You were eight years old when the war began.
At first, it did not feel like war. It arrived quietly, almost imperceptibly, like a distant storm gathering beyond the horizon. Then came the sound—low at first, then deafening—and the sky darkened with shapes that moved too fast. The first explosion shattered everything. After that, there was no time to think, only to react.
Bombs fell without warning, tearing through buildings and streets alike. The city you had known all your life dissolved into smoke and debris within hours. People ran in every direction, their voices lost beneath the noise of destruction. And among them, moving with an unsettling calm, were figures that did not belong—tall silhouettes draped in long cloaks, untouched by the chaos surrounding them.
There had been no plan, only urgency. Your mother held your brother's hand tightly, searching for you inside the house while your father went to check the outside in the middle of the night. You were hiding in the wardrobe due to fear. And you were all leaded by confusion.
Everything happened too quickly. And somehow, you survived.
From the darkness of your hiding place, you witnessed enough to understand what was happening, even if your mind refused to fully process it. They looked human—at first glance, almost indistinguishable. But there was something deeply wrong in the way they moved, in the unnatural stillness of their expressions. Their eyes reflected a dull, ominous red. And when they opened their mouths sharp fangs peeked.
You did not cry. You did not move. You remained still as the world you loved was reduced to silence. And when it was over, the quiet that followed felt heavier than the noise that had come before.
Days later, you were found by one of your own. A commandant, human, part of what remained of an organized resistance. He gathered the survivors—what little was left—and took you away from the ruins. From that moment on, survival was no longer a matter of chance, but of discipline.
Years passed, though time did little to ease what had been etched into memory. It did not soften the images, nor dull the fear. It simply moved forward, carrying you with it whether you were ready or not.
By the age of thirteen, you were given a weapon.
There was no ceremony, no moment of recognition. The war had erased such things. Humanity could no longer afford the luxury of seeing you as a child. You were simply another body capable of fighting, another life that could be used to delay the inevitable.
You knew you were not suited for it. Strength did not come naturally to you, nor did courage. Each time you held a weapon, your sword, your hands betrayed you with a faint tremor you could never quite control. Each day became an effort to endure, to survive long enough to see the next.
But the fear never left you.
It settled deep within, shaping the way you thought, the way you moved, the way you looked at the world around you. It was stronger than anger, stronger than resentment. Even after everything that had been taken from you, even after what you had seen, it was fear that remained more powerful in you.
Since the creatures arrived, the world had not simply changed—it had been redefined. Humanity had always known war, had always been capable of turning against itself for reasons that often seemed meaningless in hindsight. But this was different. This was not a conflict born of ambition or ideology. It was something far more absolute.
They had placed themselves above humans in the natural order without hesitation. Their existence depended entirely on human blood, and there was no alternative to it. That alone made any possibility of coexistence impossible. To them, humanity was not an enemy to be defeated, but a resource to be secured.
And that was what made the war so desperate.
They did not seek to destroy completely. That would have been inefficient. Instead, they captured. They preserved. From the very beginning, their intentions had been clear in their actions. Those who were no longer useful were eliminated without hesitation, while the young were spared—not out of mercy, but out of purpose. A future supply, carefully maintained.
It was a system. A structure. Something planned.
What unsettled you most was not their strength, nor their speed, nor even their ability to hunt with such precision. It was the way they looked. That was the worst part of all. The way they could stand among humans without immediately revealing what they were. Apart from their eyes and their fangs, there was nothing to distinguish them. Nothing that would allow you to recognize the danger before it was too late.
Predators were not meant to resemble their prey.
They spoke as humans did, moved as humans did, and could imitate emotions well enough to deceive anyone who let their guard down for even a moment. There was no clear boundary, no reliable way to separate one from the other until it no longer mattered.
That was what made them terrifying.
Not just what they did—but how easily they could do it.
By the time you understood, it was already over.
The thought lingered with you as you moved through the forest, each step measured, each breath controlled. The silence around you felt unnatural, as though the world itself were holding back, waiting. When you suddenly stopped.
You could feel it before you saw it, a subtle shift in the air that your body recognized instantly. Your grip tightened around your sword, though you knew how little that might matter. You didn't even know how to use it properly.
Then, from somewhere beyond the trees, there was movement.
You did not need to see it clearly to understand.
Your heart began to race, each beat loud enough to drown out every other sound. For a brief moment, you closed your eyes, steadying yourself, forcing your breathing into something resembling control.
Please, you thought, the word forming silently.
Let it be a low-ranking one.
Should I continue it?
Voting ended onMay 21
