A small group of novices huddled near the altar. Their quiet whispers filled the air, along with occasional gaps of awe as they gazed upon the unconscious figure sprawled before them.

"Look at him," Sister Maria breathed, her dark eyes wide with wonder. "He's so... beautiful."

Sister Agnes nodded emphatically. "Like an angel fallen from heaven," she agreed, her auburn curls bouncing lightly as she nodded. 

Their reverent observations were interrupted as they noticed the wounds marring the man’s perfect form. Sister Constance reached for a vial of holy water near the altar. "We must help him.” 

Sister Constance tipped the vial over, pouring a little onto the wound. As the blessed liquid touched the stranger’s skin, it sizzled and smoked, eliciting a pained groan from the unconscious man. The novices gasped in unison, stumbling backward in shock.

"Did you see that?" Sister Maria's voice trembled. "The holy water... it burned him!"

Sister Agnes’s eyes widened in realization. "He's... he's a vampire!" she exclaimed, sounding fascinated, despite her proclamation. “Or a demon.” 

A tense silence fell over the group as they grappled with this revelation. The creature before them, so magnificent and yet so dangerous, represented everything they had been taught to fear. Yet, they couldn't help but feel both curiosity and compassion for the wounded being.

Their attention was drawn to a soft snore coming from nearby. In a worn wooden chair, Rowena sat slumped, her head lolling to one side. Her eyebrows were scrunched as she was deep in a dream of some sort. The exorcist had finally succumbed to exhaustion after hours of tending to the mysterious stranger.

Sister Constance took a hesitant step towards Rowena. "Should we wake her?" she whispered to the others.

Before any of them could respond, Rowena's eyes snapped open. She jolted upright, her hand instinctively reaching for the rifle that lay beside her chair. Her gaze darted around the church, quickly assessing the situation.

"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice rough with sleep but still alert.

The novices began speaking all at once, their words tumbling over each other in their excitement and fear. Rowena held up a hand, silencing them, then pointed to Sister Agnes. "You. Tell me."

Sister Agnes swallowed hard, then spoke, her Irish lilt coming through out of nervousness. "We were trying to help him, Miss Rowena. But when we used the holy water, it... it burned him. We think he might be a vampire."

The word caused a perceptible shift in Rowena’s demeanor. She blinked as she looked at the man’s still form. She noticed the angry red marks where the holy water had touched his skin, already beginning to heal at an unnatural rate. "I see," she said quietly. "It's alright. I can handle the rest. You've done well, but I need you all to step back now."

The girls obeyed without hesitation, retreating to a safer distance but unable to tear their eyes away from the unfolding scene. They watched as Rowena approached the unconscious stranger, her movements careful but unafraid.

Just as Rowena reached out to check the man’s pulse, his eyes snapped open. In an instant, his hand shot up, a reflex born of centuries of survival. A blast of invisible force erupted from his palm, catching Rowena squarely in the chest. She was lifted off her feet and sent flying across the church, crashing into a pew with a hard thud. 

"Miss Rowena!" the novices cried out in alarm, rushing to her side. They crowded around her fallen form, faces etched with concern. "Are you okay?"

Sister Maria knelt beside Rowena, her little hands fluttering nervously. "Should we call for help?" she asked, her voice shaky. 

Rowena, wincing as she sat up, waved off their concerns. "I'm fine," she assured them, though her breath came in short gasps. "Stay back, all of you. He's disoriented and dangerous."

Picking up her rifle, Rowena pointed it at the stranger. "I saved you, but give me a reason not to put a bullet in your skull."

The novices huddled closer together, their eyes darting between Rowena and the now-awake vampire. They watched as realization dawned on his face, the fear in his eyes fading, replaced by remorse.

The man pushed himself up into a sitting position, his movements graceful despite his obvious weakness. His silver eyes scanned the church, taking in the ornate architecture, the flickering candles, and finally, the group of wide-eyed novices and the woman he had just attacked.

"I... I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to... I thought..." He trailed off, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Sister Agnes, always the bravest of the group, stepped forward slightly. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice apprehensive, but inquisitive. 

His eyes met hers, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something ancient and sorrowful in those eyes, a depth of experience that made her short existence feel insignificant in comparison. 

"My name is Dante," he replied, his voice gaining strength. "And I owe you all an explanation. Please, allow me to tell you who, and what, I am."

The novices exchanged glances. Rowena, still catching her breath, gave a small nod of encouragement and lowered her rifle.

"It's alright," she told the girls. "Let's hear what he has to say."

Dante closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he opened them again, they held a soft glow that held the audience’s wonder. He took a deep breath, and began his tale.

"Let me show you our history," he said, his voice resonating with power. Suddenly, the air before them rippled, like heat waves on a summer day. The novices gasped in unison as the very fabric of reality seemed to part, revealing a vista of the moon's barren surface.

"This is how our story begins," Dante narrated, his voice echoing through the vision. "The first guest arrived in what is known as antiquity to your human civilization."

They watched in awe as a circular, disk-like ship streaked across the starry void, crashing onto the moon's surface with a silent impact. A plume of dust rose in slow motion, hanging suspended in the low gravity.

"From the wreckage emerged our progenitor, known as the Moonlit Queen," Dante continued. The group saw a figure step out, her hair floating ethereally around her face as she surveyed her new domain, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

"She brought our civilization to this planet, establishing Earth as a host world," Dante explained. The scene shifted, showing glimpses of other planets, other moons. "We have a range of guests on host worlds across the galaxy, each managing their designated planets."

"At the heart of our society lies the moonstone," Dante said, his hand unconsciously reaching towards his chest as if grasping for something that wasn't there. "It is a marvel of nature and cosmic energy, created from the reflected light of a system's star."

The vision changed again, showing a glowing, opalescent stone that seemed to contain a swirling galaxy within its depths. "Earth is one of several planets whose moon is capable of producing such a stone," Dante explained. "It is our lifeline, our connection to our kin across the stars. It sustains us, reducing our need for blood and allowing our seers to guide our species through their divinations."

The scene faded away, showing Dante in different clothing, hunting down an escaped vampire woman. "For centuries, I served as an enforcer for the lunar vampires," he said, his voice harboring a hint of regret. "We maintained the secrets of our society and carried out the orders of the lunar council, acting as their right hand in this realm."

As Dante spoke of his life as an enforcer, the images grew darker, more turbulent. Flashes of conflict, of difficult decisions and painful consequences, played out before their eyes. "But I am no longer part of their society," he said. "I was exiled, cast out from the ranks of the enforcers and the lunar vampire society as a whole."

Finally, the swirling visions coalesced into a single scene—a moonlit garden of unearthly beauty. In its center stood a woman of breathtaking grace, her silver hair shimmering in the diffuse light.

"This is Lucia," Dante's voice softened. "She guided me towards a more peaceful path, showed me there was more to our existence than blind obedience to the council."

As they watched, Lucia turned, her eyes seeming to lock directly onto the viewers. The novices gasped, some stumbling backward in shock.

"Dante," Lucia’s voice was soft yet clear. "Why are you here again? Why do you keep returning to these memories?"

Dante's body tensed, surprise clear on his face, undercut by the slightest hint of fear. "Lucia, I... I didn't know you could..."

"Move on, my dear friend," Lucia continued, her eyes shimmering with newfound tears. "The past cannot be changed. You need to find your place."

She reached out, her hand seeming to pass through the barrier between memory and reality. Her fingers brushed against Dante's cheek, and he flinched as if burned.

"Remember, Dante," Lucia’s voice began to fade, the vision starting to blur around the edges. "Even memories have power amongst our kind. Be careful how deeply you delve into the past. If they sense your presence, they will eventually find you."

With those words, the entire vision collapsed in on itself, leaving the church in a sudden, shocking silence. Dante stood motionless, his hand pressed to his cheek where Lucia had touched him. A single, blood-red tear traced its way down his face.