The Stellate Vortex

"Dad?"

He heard the voice, faint yet distinct, but he couldn't move his head to see where it came from.

Who was it?

A soft hand brushed against his tangled hair, gently stroking it.

"Dad?"

What was this? He wanted to ask. Was it a child calling for her lost father?

Moments later, he felt his face being carefully lifted. The pain was unbearable, every movement sending shockwaves through his broken body, but no scream escaped his lips.

And then, he saw her.

The chamber came into focus first—an abandoned hallway strewn with rubble, a place left to decay. But what truly caught his attention was the child before him.

She couldn't have been older than six. Her pale hair shimmered faintly in the dim light, framing her small face. Her turquoise eyes, wide and innocent, stared at him intently.

Then, without a word, she turned and ran.

He wanted to call out to her, to ask her for help, or even to beg her to end his misery. But deep down, he knew he couldn't bring himself to say that. Asking her to kill him would be cruel—something that would haunt her.

But where was her family? Her mother? Her father? She had been searching for someone—wasn't she?

Time passed. Hours, maybe. It was impossible to tell.

She's not coming back…

Despair began to creep in again. Was there a way out of this endless suffering?

Then he saw her.

She was running back toward him, holding a small bottle in her tiny hands.

He watched as she knelt beside him, fumbling with the bottle's cap. Her hands struggled to twist it open, her frustration evident.

What…are you doing?

She didn't respond, of course, she couldn't hear his thoughts. Instead, she hit the bottle against the ground.

It shattered.

The crimson liquid inside spilled onto the stone floor, seeping into the cracks and mingling with his blood. It glowed—a strange, otherworldly light that began to crawl toward him like it had a mind of its own.

The moment it touched his body, he felt a jolt so sharp and excruciating that tears poured from his eyes.

His bones began twisting, snapping back into place. His skin burned as though it was being torn apart and stitched together simultaneously.

A minute of pure, unrelenting agony.

And then, it was over.

His body was straight again, no longer contorted into its nightmarish posture.

He tested his voice, whispering hoarsely, "Thank you…"

The girl tilted her head, her turquoise eyes blinking.

"Ank oo?"

She doesn't know how to speak?

It seemed so.

"Speek?"

His thoughts froze. Wait—did she just hear me think that?

The girl tilted her head again, looking puzzled. Her lips were stained with blood—his blood, he realized. It wasn't hers.

Is…reading minds her ability?

Questions filled his head. Who was she? Why was she here? And what had she done to him?

But before he could process it all, the girl wavered, swaying on her feet.

She laid down beside him, her breathing steadying almost instantly.

She's asleep already? That's…quick.

He stared at her small frame, his heart a mixture of gratitude, confusion, and unease.

Keith sat silently as the girl slept beside him. For the first time in months, he moved his fingers, a small victory that brought unexpected joy. After all the time spent as a prisoner of his own body, even the tiniest movement felt like a miracle.

He looked down at the sleeping child. She wore a simple blue dress that seemed to have been pieced together from another garment. Perhaps her parents had made it for her.

After a few hours, she stirred and woke up.

"Hi," he whispered, his voice faint but audible.

The girl tilted her head, then leaned close, putting her ear near his mouth as if to listen more clearly.

He hesitated, then said, "Hello."

She appeared confused, her expression blank.

Does she not know English?

Without answering, she grabbed his hand and tried to pull him up.

The sudden movement sent searing pain through his body, but he couldn't cry out; his throat, barely mended, might rupture if he forced a scream.

"I can't get up," he rasped, but she either didn't understand or didn't care. She continued dragging him across the floor.

She pulled him through a small doorway into another room, carefully propping him against the wall. Keith could finally take in the state of his body—it was horrific. His skin was discolored, purple bruises marking every joint and limb, his wounds grotesque reminders of the torture he had endured.

The girl, seemingly oblivious to his despair, presented him with what looked like colorful pieces of rubble and debris. She moved a small, smooth rock in a wavy motion and placed it in his hand, waiting eagerly for him to play.

Keith tried to smile weakly, though his hands wouldn't cooperate. He just held the rock, unable to play, and she eventually moved on, satisfied for now.

Days blurred into weeks. Keith spent his time slowly regaining mobility, moving his body in tiny increments when he could. The girl played near him, sometimes bringing him more pieces of rubble. At night, she would curl up and sleep beside him. He noticed that she seemed to have no family—no mother, no father.

Was she abandoned? Or sacrificed like me?

Keith wondered.

Gradually, he regained the ability to move his hands, and with that, he started playing with her when he could. He even patted her head occasionally, drawing delighted giggles from the girl.

She didn't know English, so he began teaching her using a chalk-like rock to write on the floor. The girl was a quick learner, memorizing the alphabet faster than he expected.

"This is spelled for 'papa,'" Keith said one day, pointing at the word he had written.

"Pa…pa?" she repeated.

"Yes, that's right. 'Papa' means…"

He paused, glancing at a drawing she had made earlier. It depicted a small child and a taller figure, likely her father.

"That's…uh…'papa,'" he said, pointing at the drawing.

"Papa?" She looked at him, her turquoise eyes bright with curiosity.

"No, not me. That," he corrected, pointing again.

But she didn't budge. She kept calling him "Papa," and no amount of correction could dissuade her.

Months passed. The girl had learned enough to hold conversations with him, though she still insisted on calling him "Papa." Keith had stopped arguing about it; her insistence was unshakable.

One day, while she was asleep, Keith tried standing up. Using the wall for support, he managed to pull himself upright. A triumphant smile spread across his face as he took his first step.

But his body, still weak, betrayed him. He collapsed to the ground, letting out a sharp cry of pain.

The girl woke instantly and rushed to his side.

"Papa hurt! Papa hurt!" she cried, her voice filled with panic.

Keith curled up, clutching his side. Though the pain was unbearable, he reached out to pat her head, offering a reassuring smile.

His recovery continued, and soon he could walk short distances. One day, while exploring the room, he found a piece of parchment. It was old, the writing faded, but it was in English. He read it carefully, his heart sinking as he pieced together the story.

"Damon, help me. They threw me here. I don't know what to do. I think my baby will die. I've lost Damon. Please help me."

---

"Damon, I gave birth. It's a girl. She looks so much like you. I wish you were here."

---

"Damon, there's a monster here. I can hear it often. It scares me."

---

"I tried going to the source of the sound. The statues move. One cut my hand. It's hurting, Damon."

---

Bloodstains covered parts of the parchment, obscuring some of the text. Keith continued reading, his chest tightening with every line.

"Damon, what should I name our daughter? She seems to have vampiric abilities like you. She can understand me after she accidentally drank my blood."

---

"Damon, I don't want our daughter to die. Please come rescue us."

---

"Damon, remember when we first met? You saved me so many times, took me in even though I was a burden, and loved me for who I was. Please, Damon, save us."

The next entry chilled him.

"Damon, I need to kill the beast to get out of here. I hope you can find her soon. Please. I don't think she'll starve because of Hannibal's blessing."

Hannibal? Keith thought. How long ago was this written?

He kept reading, dread growing in his heart.

"Don't worry. I have the potion you made. I only use a drop, but it helps me a lot. I'll come back."

"But if I don't… Damon, or whoever is reading this, please take my daughter out."

That was the last entry. The writing ended abruptly, leaving no further trace of the woman.

She had likely gone to face the beast—and never returned.

Keith walked around the dim, desolate halls, his body still aching but slightly more manageable thanks to the makeshift bandages and sticks he'd found in a pile of medical supplies. It had taken him an hour to dress his wounds properly, and even then, the pain lingered.

The girl—who still had no name—watched him silently as he worked.

He glanced at her, her turquoise eyes bright and curious as she sat nearby, fiddling with her stones.

She doesn't even have a name, Keith thought bitterly. Of course she doesn't. What would I even call her?

He shook his head. No. I have no right to give her one. Just because she calls me 'Papa' doesn't mean I am. Her mother might be gone, but her father is still out there somewhere. I'm not him. I can't take that role from him.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as the girl played.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Keith began to push himself further. He explored the strange underground castle, hoping to understand more about where they were. Most of the rooms were barren, their emptiness offering no solace or clues.

"Well, another empty room," Keith muttered as he limped out of one.

The structure was vast, like an ancient underground fortress. Its layout confused him, but certain features stood out.

He frequently passed by a massive, sealed door—the same one through which he had been thrown. No matter how hard he tried, there was no mechanism or way to open it.

Another area, closer to the castle's heart, caught his attention. Statues armed with weapons stood guard in front of what seemed to be a throne room. The gates there were also firmly shut.

"These must be the statues that attacked her mother, "

Keith realized grimly.

He didn't dare go near them. The thought of facing whatever those statues had done to her mother sent a chill through him. He turned back, heading toward the room where the girl—waited.

---

She was playing in their makeshift shelter when Keith limped in. He leaned his walking stick against the wall and sat down heavily. The pain from his wounds still hadn't entirely subsided, and the walking only made it worse.

She looked up from her play, her face brightening.

"Story?" she asked eagerly.

Keith shook his head. "Not today."

"Why?"

"I'm tired," he replied, his voice quiet.

"Then sleepy?"

Keith smiled faintly. "Yes… sleepy."

Unwrapping his bandages slightly, he shifted uncomfortably, removing the sticks that had been supporting his weakened frame. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

---

He didn't dream.

Keith hadn't dreamed in weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, all he had were his thoughts—the haunting fragments of his past, the harsh reality of the present, and the uncertain hope for the future.

"Papa?"

The sound of her voice brought him back to reality.

Keith opened his eyes, the title stabbing at his heart. He didn't like it.

She keeps calling me that

I don't deserve that name. Fathers are supposed to be brave. I'm not brave. I'm scared all the time. I've done nothing for her that a real father would do.

Her real father must be alive somewhere, searching for her. Keith was sure of it. He had to find a way out of this place. If he could, he could leave her in the care of someone more capable, someone who could truly protect her.

I can't stay here forever. I have to find a way out. And the only way out is through that throne room.

Keith made his decision then. He would fight those guards, no matter the risk. If it meant giving him a chance at a better life, it would be worth it.

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