The Crimson Thorn (Patreon)

The night had never been her enemy. It had always embraced her, whispering secrets only the undead could hear. But tonight, the night betrayed her.

Lilith stood amidst the ruins of her ancient dominion, the cold wind twisting through the remnants of a forgotten empire. The scent of blood her own drifted through the air, sharp and metallic. She looked down at the wooden stake protruding from her chest, dark crimson dripping from its cruel point. A mortal's desperate strike, unexpected, yet oh so delightfully painful.

Her breath hitched, her porcelain skin paling further, if such a thing was possible. The pain curled through her like a lover’s embrace, deep and intimate. She arched her back, her lips parting in a soft gasp, relishing the sensation of her own demise.

But she would not fall so easily. Not yet.

Her blood-red eyes burned against the storm-choked sky, lips curling into a defiant smirk even as the agony deepened. Her fingers trembled, reaching for the wound, feeling her cursed life ebbing away. The night may have turned against her, but she was still Lilith. A legend. A nightmare.

And nightmares never truly die.