Boredom came before loneliness.

Loneliness required longing, and for many centuries, I believed there was nothing left in me capable of wanting. I had blood when I hungered, darkness when I wished to disappear, and more years than any creature should ever be forced to endure. Kingdoms rose around me, dressed themselves in gold, and collapsed into ruins beneath newer names. Men prayed to gods who were forgotten before their grandchildren learned how to speak.

And here… I remained.

In the beginning, I hunted wicked men.

It gave my hunger a purpose, or so I told myself. I found those who hurt the helpless because they believed no hand would ever reach them. Masters who regarded their servants as possessions. Fathers who left bruises where nobody else could see. Noblemen who bought innocence and called the price permission.

They often laughed when I first approached them. They saw my fine clothes, my courteous smile, and the face of a man too young to pose any danger.

I always enjoyed the moment they realized they had been mistaken.

Some begged. Others attempted to bargain, offering gold, land, secrets, even the lives of those they claimed to love. I let them speak. Their promises became remarkably creative once my fangs touched their throats.

I could have killed them quickly, but quick deaths offered so little amusement. I wanted them to understand the helplessness they had once inflicted upon others. I wanted their cries to disappear among the trees while I held them still and drank slowly, letting terror season every mouthful. Their hearts would struggle beneath my hand until the final beat. I would feel that last movement against my palm, weak and desperate, and wonder if justice was supposed to feel more satisfying than hunger.

For a time, it did.

Then the centuries passed, and the line between punishment and pleasure began to blur. Cruel men became ordinary men. Ordinary men became anyone foolish enough to cross my path after nightfall. I no longer searched for guilt before choosing my prey. It was enough that they possessed warm blood and faces capable of fear.

Perhaps I became bored with righteousness. Perhaps I had simply lived long enough to understand that innocence was another story humans invented because they could not bear the thought of suffering without reason.

The wicked screamed no differently from the good.

That was what I learned.

Terror made equals of them all.

I began hunting for sport. I allowed travelers to glimpse me between the trees, always far enough away that they could convince themselves I had been a trick of moonlight. I followed them without sound, letting them feel my attention before they understood it.

Fear had a scent — sharp, warm, almost sweet. It entered the blood before my fangs ever did.

Some ran. I liked those best.

Others froze where they stood, unable to do more than tremble as I approached. A few tried to fight, which could be entertaining if I permitted them to believe they had a chance. I learned every shape the human face could make when death drew near. I learned the difference between a prayer whispered from faith and one dragged from desperation.

None of it lasted.