DAXTON

Several Decades Ago,

The barn stank of mildew, blood, and old straw. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the wood, dancing across the dirt floor. I was eight years old. And I was dying.

My wrists ached where the chains dug in. My throat burned like someone had poured acid down it. The bloodlust had hit me days ago, tormenting me. I hadn't eaten. I hadn't slept. My body was too hot, damp with fever and sweat. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper. ...