Page 30 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I know so little about the man, but the few interactions I had with him in Gray’s dreams cling to me. Even now, I can recall therise and fall of his voice, rich and warm, as he told me about Siwa and Arethusa beneath the endless desert sky.

Rurik has led us to a whirlpool, a restless spiral of dark water. He says it comes and goes with the tides, and has long believed to be an entrance to the underworld. Imagining what stumbling upon a place like this must have felt like for pre-classical humans, I can believe it. It feels ancient, like a secret whispered between the earth and the sea.

I glance around at the vampires gathered here and lower my shields, letting their tangled feelings wash over me. Lys’ legacy is etched into all their faces—clear as day. He raised them to be survivors, adaptable and resilient, but also to appreciate life’s beauty. Grayson’s fierce love for his chyld, Stefan’s boundless enthusiasm, Aiden’s quiet devotion to Gretchen… even Rurik, who, for all his rough edges, has his good points. He protects his chyldren, raises some mighty fine dogs, and I’m willing to bet his love of history came straight from his Maker, who practically lived through it all.

“Lysimachus of Acarnania,” Grayson begins, his voice a low rumble that carries through the cavern, “was more than just my Maker. He was a guiding light in my sometimes tumultuous youth, a beacon of wisdom and understanding in a world that often seemed intent on extinguishing my spirit.”

A flicker of a smile touches his lips. “I was a restless child, brimming with energy and a thirst for knowledge that often outpaced the patience of those tasked with caring for me.” In my mind’s eye, I see him—the beautiful boy with his black stallion, the child dancing in antlers and shells. “My father, Philip, demanded discipline and obedience, but Lysimachus saw something else in me. He recognized my hunger for adventure, my yearning to explore the world and leave my mark upon it.”

He pauses, his gaze dropping to the swirling waters. “Lys was more than a teacher. Even after my turning, he remained atrusted advisor, a confidant. He showed the same care for me as a newly risen vampire that he did for the eight-year-old boy he found hiding in a cowshed.

But in recent decades…” His voice falters, a flicker of pain darkening his features. “… the darkness that clouded his mind, the echoes of Roxana’s influence, created a distance between us. A distance I regret now more than words can say. I should have tried harder to help him, but the idea of his final death was so far beyond my understanding of the world. I’m sorry. I wish I’d done better by you.”

A tear slips down Grayson’s cheek—a rare display of vulnerability from my usually stoic vampire. With a gentle motion, he pours a handful of ashes from the jug, watching the gray dust settle on his palm. “Farewell, old friend,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “May your journey to the underworld be swift and peaceful.”

Stefan moves closer to Aiden, seeking comfort. Rurik clears his throat and hesitantly steps forward, his usual confidence faltering. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes downcast, as though the grief is too raw to confront head-on. Leon and Maximo take their places beside him, a sharp pang of sadness striking me.

Vivien should be here to stand with Gray.

“Lysimachus,” Rurik begins, his words quick and sharp, ricocheting off the rock walls and ceiling, “was a scholar, a historian, a man who understood the power of knowledge and the importance of preserving the past. He taught us to question everything—our most sacred cows, our staunchest beliefs—and to seek wisdom not just in books, but in the world around us.”

A fond chuckle escapes his lips. “He loved technology, practically filled the castle with machines.”

Gray’s face softens, a nostalgic grin spreading across his features. “The printing press. Gods, the ink and tiny pieces… everywhere.”

Aiden’s lips curve in a wistful smile. “I still have one of those early books.”

Rurik nods, his melancholic smile barely masking the tension in his drawn features. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something shiny and round. “I carry this with me, always.” He opens his hand, revealing a worn silver coin. My eyes widen in recognition.

“It’s an obol,” Rurik continues. “Lys gave it to me as a reminder that all things end—that even immortality is a season that will someday turn.” He studies the coin, rolling it in his palm, before gazing out at the water. “Our Maker had a favorite and oft-repeated koan: ‘If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.’”

Weak smiles and soft chuckles ripple through the group. Klassja wipes her eyes while Stefan exhales a shaky breath.

“With almost nine hundred years to ponder its meaning, I think I finally understand why it held such significance for him. For us, who have witnessed centuries pass, immortality isn’t just a philosophical construct. It’s the backdrop of our existence—woven from countless dangers, betrayals, and near-death encounters. Lys saw through the illusion of permanence, even in an endless life, and he urged us to embrace change, to shed the burdens of the past, and to continually evolve.”

Aiden’s quiet voice cuts through the silence: “If it doesn’t serve you, let it go.”

Rurik nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Exactly. His greatest gift was teaching us not to stagnate, to challenge our assumptions, and to grow—even if it occasionally meant defying him. He was never so brazen as to believe he had reached enlightenment, but he saw the opportunity that our existenceoffers: to become better, to do better, and to lift others around us.”

His voice catches, but he presses on. “His death seems senseless. But perhaps we can find solace in knowing that our Maker embraced the ever-turning wheel of life and death. That he knew the end of this existence was merely the beginning of another. May he rest with Nyx now, and with his own Maker, secure in the knowledge that he’s ensured the continuation of their lineage—not just in blood, but in spirit and resilience.”

A lump rises in my throat as Rurik raises his hand, the ancient coin gleaming in the dim light. With a gentle toss, he sends the obol spinning into the whirlpool.

Goosebumps prickle my skin as it winks out of sight beneath the darkened waters.

Stefan shuffles forward. The boisterous, larger-than-life vampire I know is gone, replaced by a man shattered by grief.

“I’m next.”

Grayson reaches out, his voice soft and coaxing. “He knew, Bröder. You don’t have to—”

Stefan shakes his head, stepping out of Gray’s reach.

“Lys!” His voice booms through the cavern, echoing against the walls, only to crack and falter, betraying the sorrow he’s barely holding back. “My Maker, my friend, my… damn it, Lys, you were supposed to endure!” He swipes furiously at his eyes, his broad shoulders shaking with emotion. “I never thought… I never imagined…” The words crumble, lost beneath the weight of his grief.

The cavern holds its breath. The only sound is the gentle lapping of water against the stone. Stefan’s anguish is raw, a visceral ache that presses against everyone present. I want to take it from him, to ease the unbearable weight, but I know this pain is sacred.

“The bond,” he whispers, his voice ragged and broken. “I kept hoping he might call me home. In truth, I couldn’t bear the thought of… of being truly alone.”

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