Crossing the Horizon

AYA

^AFRICA, 1923^

We journeyed far and fast. Alexander didn’t allow me to return home. He didn’t permit me to gather my belongings.

He led me out of his quarters under the cloak of darkness, took my hand, and whisked me away from Cairo. He claimed it was for their benefit—and for mine.

He procured clothing for me—a pair of beige linen pants, a white shirt, and a lengthy black coat. My old attire had to be abandoned.

He was adamant that it was crucial to convincingly fake my death. I held onto my earrings and my headscarf. There were certain things I wasn’t prepared to let go of so soon.

During the night, we traced the Nile southward, leaving behind the only country I had ever called home. I followed him without question; I had no other option, my thirst was so intense that I could barely recall my own name.

The subsequent nights merged into a peculiar, feverish blur. Time became irrelevant; I couldn’t discern whether an hour or an entire night had passed.

My body was in pain, contorting and adapting to this new life, while my mind struggled to comprehend the reality of my transformation. Alexander was always present—observing, waiting, guiding.

The thirst was relentless. Regardless of how much blood I consumed, my throat was perpetually parched with an unquenchable hunger.

Alexander fed me again the following night—this time, a man he had enticed into our subterranean hideout. I hesitated.

The image of the first boy’s lifeless body still haunted me, but my hunger overpowered my fear. Once again, my fangs pierced warm skin, and my body shivered with delight as the sweet, thick liquid filled me.

It was intoxicating, overwhelming, like fire and silk coursing through my veins. Afterward, I felt stronger. The pain that had plagued me since my transformation subsided, but it never completely vanished.

A constant reminder of the ordeal I had undergone. Alexander explained that it would take time—days, weeks, months—for my body to stabilize, for my mind to adapt.

His words barely registered. I was still torn between the horror of my actions and the undeniable fact that I yearned for more.

He dressed me in sophisticated attire—deep reds, blacks, silks, and leathers that hugged my newly refined figure. My skin was softer, paler; my eyes sparkled with an unnatural intensity when I saw my reflection.

My hair, once lackluster due to stress and fatigue, now glistened in the candlelight. I was more beautiful than I had ever been, more terrifying than I could have ever imagined.

Our nights were spent hunting. Initially, Alexander guided me; his movements were smooth and precise as he selected our prey.

He didn’t allow me to feed indiscriminately—he taught me to be discerning, to exercise restraint, to view humans not as individuals, but as livestock.

“A good hunter doesn’t overfeed,” he advised me, wiping a speck of blood from his lip after draining a man in a back alley. “Control is power, Aya.”

But I lacked control. Not yet. The hunger propelled me, consuming my every thought.

I managed to suppress it when Alexander was observing, but when alone, it returned with a vengeance. I found myself attuned to the heartbeat of every passerby, salivating at the scent of fresh blood.

The rhythm of a pulse became mesmerizing, luring me in like a siren’s call. And the most terrifying part? I enjoyed it.

It felt as though we were fleeing from something, though Alexander never confessed it. Each night, after feeding, Alexander enlightened me about the world I was now a part of.

The vampire hierarchy. The concealed courts. The wars waged in the shadows.

“You are no longer human, Aya,” he declared, his blue eyes boring into mine. “You are stronger, faster, more powerful than any mortal could ever dream.

You have been bestowed a gift—freedom, immortality, purpose. You will never have to submit to another man again.”

It should have reassured me. It should have felt like deliverance. But instead, it felt like shackles tightening around my wrists.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I didn’t know if this was what I wanted. But I was beginning to fear that it no longer mattered.

He shared stories of his childhood, of the centuries he had lived. He confessed that he wasn’t even four hundred years old.

Which meant I was an anomaly in pureblood society. No underage pureblood was permitted to turn a vampire.

He vowed to protect me, that he wouldn’t let anyone take me. That he would annihilate anyone who dared to try.

He shared stories about his family—his two younger sisters, his parents, and his grandfather, the king.

He opened up about the pressures, the expectations, and his deep-seated yearning to abandon it all, to live freely, to explore, to witness the world’s ceaseless transformation.

On our third night, perched atop the Saharan dunes under a star-studded sky, he confessed—he didn’t want to be king.

He was afraid of what it might turn him into. He was scared of the impact of such immense power.

He led me deep into the wilderness, across plains and mountains, through rainforests and desert dunes.

We journeyed only under the cover of night, seeking refuge during the day in hidden caves, deserted ruins, and dense undergrowth.

We spent countless hours lying on the sand, gazing at the stars above. I saw them more vividly than ever before.

I noticed their movement, the shifting of constellations. Alexander highlighted his favorites, tracing their patterns with his fingers as he narrated their journey across the sky.

He explained how the constellations varied in different parts of the world, how time erased and replaced them. The stars were our nightlights.

He taught me, guided me, and held me back when I couldn’t control my own power or thirst. He showed me how to hunt, how to track, how to follow the scent of prey—be it a lion, an antelope, or a buffalo.

He taught me how to wrap my arms around an animal’s neck, to squeeze until I felt the snap, and then to sink my fangs into its body and drain it.

He trained me to discern flavors and to select prey wisely. He purchased a chessboard, and we spent hours playing under the stars.

In those moments, my tension subsided, and my sorrow numbed. I could concentrate on the game, on the strategy, on beating him in three moves.

For a brief period, I felt normal again. It was easy to listen to him, to spend hours by his side.

Easy to let him touch my shoulder as he guided me, to let him brush his fingers against my cheek to wipe away my tears.

He was my creator. He could sense my emotions and read me like an open book. He knew what I needed and how to communicate with me.

And that only made it easier to yield to his commands.

He was patient. He explained things over and over, as many times as I needed. He never raised his voice.

He never got angry with me—even when I messed up, even when I lost control. Although I could sense his frustration at times, he never let it show.

Every now and then, he took me to villages where I had to face my biggest challenge—humans. Their scent was intoxicating, rich and tempting. They were delicate, so easy to break.

Their necks snapped in seconds, their blood flowed thick and sweet. The remorse only hit me after the body went limp in my arms. Living with myself was the toughest part.

I wept for hours afterward, soaking my face and clothes in fresh, bloody tears. And Alexander waited.

Then, when the grief threatened to swallow me, he would show me something beautiful, something designed to distract me from the guilt—the way the sand shimmered under the moonlight, the soft pink inside a seashell, the distant rumbling of hooves as a herd galloped across the plains.

He was determined to show me beauty in the darkness. And it was beautiful.

The world was beautiful, cloaked in night, yet brimming with wonders. Alexander told me we could see colors humans never could—ultraviolet, infrared.

He taught me how to distinguish them, how to recognize the difference between the flutter of a butterfly’s wings and the buzzing of bees. I spent most of my time marveling at a world I had never truly seen before.

We journeyed to snow-capped mountains and deep into underwater caves. Nothing was beyond our reach.

Nothing was more dangerous than us. I had never felt so powerful.

I had never felt so in control of my own life. Alexander stayed by my side, always vigilant, always ensuring I had control—over my thirst, over myself.

He was insistent that I learn to survive, to master my instincts in a way that would keep me hidden from humans and from other purebloods. After a month of traveling, learning, and struggling, we reached Cape Town, South Africa, where we boarded a ship bound for Australia.

Controlling my thirst on that voyage was the most challenging thing I had ever done.