The late night air was a cold that seeped into your very being, freezing you from the inside out.

  “They arrived early. That makes me unlucky… or you very lucky. Once again.”I turned to Drennar, gaze narrowing.

  “What exactly are you implying, bloodsucker?” he shot back, eyes cold. His voice cut through the stillness like a blade, low and rough, each syllable edged with frost. His breath puffed out in faint clouds, swirling briefly before dissolving into the icy air, and the faint creak of his leather gloves tightening around his fists punctuated the tension.

  “All I’m saying is—every time we’ve made a move since arriving here, something’s gone awry. Too fast. Too clean.” My own voice was steady, but it carried the weight of suspicion, tasting faintly of iron as it left my lips. The wind stirred, tugging at my cloak with invisible fingers, bringing with it the acrid tang of coal smoke from the hollow’s chimneys and the distant, briny whiff of the river snaking through the town.

  Before he could answer, Nysera popped in like a firework in a study. The air crackled with her arrival, a sharp pop followed by a fizzing hiss. Her wild hair shimmered in the dim light, strands of violet and silver catching the glow like spun glass, and the faint scent of burnt sugar and syrup trailed in her wake, clashing with the hollow’s grim musk.

  “Why do the bad guys have a mage locked in a tower like a princess? Ooooh—do you think there’s a dragon guarding the princess mage?” Her voice was a bright trill, piercing the heavy silence like a needle through fabric. Her eyes sparkled with manic delight, wide and luminous, reflecting the flickering flame of a nearby lantern that cast dancing shadows across the damp cobblestones. Her hands fluttered as she spoke, the jingle of trinkets woven into her hair a soft, chaotic melody.

  I paused—stunned for just a second. The world seemed to tilt, the cold seeping through my boots and into my bones as her words hung in the air, vibrant and absurd. The thought unfurled slowly, accompanied by the faint rustle of leaves skittering across the stones, their dry edges scraping like whispers against the ground.

  Beneath that whirlwind of chaos and deep in her glitter filled soul…

  …was a very sharp observer.

  I could almost hear the click of her mind beneath the madness, a hidden rhythm like the ticking of a clock buried under layers of velvet and noise.

  Drennar wandered off, grumbling under his breath. His boots scuffed against the cobblestones, the sound rough and uneven, fading into the labyrinth of crooked streets. The air carried the faint scent of his departure—worn leather and a metallic undertone, sharp and fleeting, like the memory of blood on a blade.

  I turned to Nysera. The cold stone beneath my feet was slick with dew, grounding me as I steadied my voice against the rising wind. “All right. Give me your report.” The words came out firm, but the air felt thick, pressing against my chest as I braced for her inevitable chaos.

  Her eyes went wide, and she immediately launched into a ramble so fast it nearly broke my brain. They gleamed like twin moons, bright and unblinking, as her voice tumbled forth in a torrent. “There was this pixie who fought a troll, and then a griffon stepped in and they all became friends. I ate this sweet meaty stew that tasted like honey and lilacs—which is unusual for meat, because meat usually tastes, well… meaty.” Her hands painted the air with wild gestures, the faint clink of her bracelets a counterpoint to her words.

  I slapped my forehead. The sting of my palm against skin was sharp, a jolt that snapped me back from the edge of her whirlwind. “The report about Drennar, you blathering gremlin.” My voice cracked with exasperation, roughened by the cold air that stung my throat. Getting information out of her was like herding drunken cats being chased by a hyperactive child on a sugar bender— punctuated by the distant howl of wind threading through the hollow.

  “Oh! That report,” she said with a grin. Her smile stretched wide, teeth glinting like polished pearls in the lantern light, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Drenny met with a bunch of people—one of them was a masked bad guy.” The words carried a weight, underscored by the faint rustle of her cloak as she leaned closer, her scent of burnt sugar now tinged with crushed herbs, sharp and green.

  I knew it. The realization hit like a fist, cold and heavy, sinking into my gut. The air seemed to thicken, the damp chill seeping deeper into my bones as suspicion hardened into certainty. I didn’t trust him before. Now I had proof. The distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the streets, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of my thoughts.

  Time to verify. I drew a breath, the air tasting of frost and iron as I summoned my power.

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  I called on my Blood Echoes—clones formed from blood and shadow. The air shimmered crimson, a low hum vibrating through my chest as the mist coalesced into four figures. They shared my eyes, dark and piercing, my ears, attuned to every rustle and murmur, and when they returned, so do their memories. Their forms were sharp-edged, smelling faintly of copper and ash, their presence a prickling sensation against my skin as they scattered silently through Vaelthane Hollow, disappearing into the fog like wraiths.

  We split up, silently scattering through Vaelthane Hollow. The streets unfolded in a maze of sensory fragments: the drip of water pooling in cracked stone, the acrid bite of smoke from a forge, the soft creak of shutters swaying in the breeze. My echoes moved soundlessly, their shadows blending with the flickering light of lanterns that cast long, jagged patterns across the cobblestones.

  It was time to see what Drennar was really up to. The thought was a cold weight, settling in my chest as I pressed forward, the damp air clinging to my skin like a second cloak.

  We searched high and low for what felt like hours. The hollow’s pulse surrounded me—the distant clatter of a cart, the faint tang of roasted chestnuts wafting from a vendor’s stall, the slick feel of moss beneath my fingers as I brushed a wall. Then—suddenly—my memories flooded back. They crashed into me like a tide, sharp and vivid, filling my senses with the echo’s findings.

  One of my echoes had found him. The memory unfolded: Drennar in an alley, the walls slick with moss and streaked with grime, the air thick with the scent of sweat and steel.

  Drennar. In an alley. Speaking to a Nox Arcanus operative. I saw the operative’s cloak, heavy with incense and damp wool, heard the low murmur of Drennar’s voice, smooth and calculated, felt the tension like a taut wire strung between them.

  I made my way silently to the rooftop above them. The shingles were cold and slick beneath my boots, coated with dew that gleamed in the moonlight. Watched. Waited. The wind tugged at my cloak, carrying the faint sound of their voices—too muffled to catch fully, but the intent was clear in Drennar’s posture, the way his hands moved with precision.

  There was no doubt now—he was passing information. The realization settled like ice in my veins, sharp and unyielding.

  I didn’t make a scene. I slipped back to the Pale Lantern Inn, my path weaving through streets thick with the scent of stale ale and roasted chestnuts, the creak of the inn’s warped sign a mournful groan in the breeze.

  I waited for him in his room, crouched in the dark. The air inside was warm, heavy with the smell of wax and old timber, the faint creak of floorboards beneath my weight the only sound as I settled into the shadows.

  Eventually, the door creaked open. The slow groan of hinges set my nerves alight, a sound that scraped against the silence. Drennar stepped in, whistling. The tune was too casual, a soft vibration that clashed with the tension coiled in my chest, and the scent of the alley clung to him—moss, steel, and something sour.

  I struck. In a blur, I pinned him to the wall, my fangs bared an inch from his throat. The wood groaned under the force, and the air filled with the sharp scent of his surprise—sweat and adrenaline, mingling with the faint copper of my own breath.

  “Why were you meeting with Nox Arcanus?” I snarled. My voice was a low hiss, vibrating through the room, the taste of rage sharp on my tongue.

  For a moment, just a flicker, fear passed through his eyes. They widened, unguarded, reflecting the dim candlelight before the smug mask returned. His voice cool. “I’ve been feeding them false information about the Shadow Hand to learn their secrets, you bloodthirsty serpent.” The words slid out smooth and oily, his breath warm against my face.

  I held him there a heartbeat longer, then released him. My grip lingered just long enough to feel his pulse jump beneath my fingers, a frantic rhythm against the stillness. He slid to the floor, brushing off his coat with forced calm. The faint rustle of fabric was loud in the tense silence, the scent of leather rising as he moved.

  “Then what did you learn?” I asked, my voice low and cold. Each word was edged with the promise of violence, the air between us thick with unspoken threats. “It better be worth your life.”

  He hesitated. Just long enough to matter. The pause hung heavy, the faint creak of the inn settling around us like a held breath. “Zolphan has allied with another vampire. Ancient. Powerful. She’s here. And she’s been watching us.” His voice was steady, but the words carried a chill that sank into my bones like the night air.

  Another chill crawled down my spine. It was slow and deliberate, like ice melting against bare skin, accompanied by the faint rustle of my cloak as I shifted. Only one name fit that description. Velguira. The name conjured shadows—ancient blood, the scent of dust and decay, the sound of whispers lingering too long in the dark.

  And then—of course—a puff of green smoke exploded between us. It was sharp and acrid, stinging my nose with sulfur and burnt leaves, a sudden assault that made my eyes water. Nysera materialized with a grin far too wide. Her teeth gleamed like a predator’s in the dim light, her presence a burst of chaos in the heavy air.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were having a party in Drenny’s room?” she chirped. Her voice was a bright trill, clashing with the room’s tension. “I brought party supplies!” She threw a handful of enchanted chipmunks into the air. They squeaked as they burst mid-flight, exploding in a shower of confetti—crimson, gold, violet—each piece catching the candlelight as it fell, the soft patter like rain against a window.

  Because of course they did. The absurdity was a sharp note, cutting through the dread that had settled in my chest.

  As the last streamer settled, I realized something: The faint rustle of paper against wood was a whisper of clarity. My trap had only caught the bait. The real beast?

  Bigger.

  Meaner.

  Sharper fangs.

  The thought was a cold weight, sinking deeper as the air hummed with an ominous note.

  And the danger? Far greater than I’d ever imagined. A fanged storm waiting to rip through us.