I haven’t survived a thousand years without knowing a rat in the ranks when I see one. It’s time to bait the trap.

  “I have a plan. Let’s head back to the Pale Lantern.”

  The walk back through the winding streets of Vaelthane Hollow felt heavier than usual, the cobblestones slick with the residue of last night’s rain. Lanterns flickered in the evening gloom, their pale light casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the walls of the crooked buildings. The air carried the faint tang of iron and decay—familiar scents that clung to this cursed town like a second skin. Nysera skipped beside us, boots tapping out an erratic rhythm as she sang a chaotic tune about fairies riding dragons and lovesick ghosts wailing at the moon. Her voice flitted from note to note with wild abandon, like a bard possessed by a sugar-addled demon. The words made no sense, but the joy behind them was real—and utterly infuriatingThe melody wove through the air, threading between the distant cries of ravens perched on rooftops and the murmur of the evening crowd thinning out as night deepened.

  Drennar stayed quiet, his boots scuffing the ground with deliberate steps. He still carried that same air of self-superiority; like he was walking into a deal and would walk out owning the building. I’d seen his type before: confident to a fault, always calculating the angles, always assuming he’d come out on top. I know how to spot the cracks in such armor, and I could sense them in him, though they were well-hidden beneath that smug exterior.

  We slid into a booth tucked in the farthest corner of the inn. The murmur of conversation from the other patrons—a mix of weary travelers, grizzled mercenaries, and shadowy figures cloaked in secrecy—created a low hum that filled the space, punctuated by the occasional clink of mugs or the scrape of a chair.

  Nysera immediately flagged down a waitress, her eyes bright with an almost childlike enthusiasm that clashed with the grim atmosphere. “Can I get the Rockfish Platter? Does it come with ogre toothpicks? Why do ogres need toothpicks? Their teeth are already nasty enough. I know I wouldn’t wanna pick them.” Her barrage of questions spilled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke. The waitress, a tired-looking woman with gray streaks in her hair, merely nodded and scribbled the order.

  I ordered red wine—the only thing I could stomach that wasn’t blood. The vintage here was passable, a deep crimson that caught the candlelight in a way that reminded of fresh blood. Drennar got a mug of the house ale.

  “It’s time we bring the fight to Nox Arcanus.” I set the plan on the table like a blade, my voice low but firm, cutting through the ambient noise. “I want you two to spread a rumor. Say there’s a rival party going after the mage across Leviathan’s Pass.” The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, as I watched their reactions. This was the bait—the first tug on the line to see who’d bite.

  The waitress returned with our order, balancing the plates with practiced ease. Nysera clapped like a child at a festival when her plate hit the table, the scent of grilled rockfish and herbs wafting up in a faint plume of steam. She dug in immediately, her fork spearing the flaky white flesh with relish.

  “Spread the word that they’ll be meeting a contact tonight—midnight. In front of the Moonmirror Fountain.” I leaned back slightly, letting the plan settle between us like a map unfurled across the scarred wooden table.

  I took a slow sip of my wine, the liquid cool against my lips, its faint bitterness grounding me as I studied them both.

  “Can you two handle that?”

  Drennar smirked like he’d just won a poker hand, his lips curling in a way that showed too many teeth. “Yeah. It’ll be easy. Too easy.” He raised his mug and drank deep, the ale leaving a faint sheen on his upper lip as he set it down with a thud.

  Between mouthfuls of fish, Nysera chirped, “The fountain with all the moons in the mirrors—got it! Easy peasy lemon squeezy!” Her voice was a burst of brightness, a stark contrast to the shadowed booth and the weight of my words. She shoveled another bite into her mouth, crumbs scattering across the table.

  Drennar slid out of the booth and disappeared into the crowd, his figure swallowed by the shifting mass of bodies near the bar. I caught the faintest glint of his silver-threaded cloak before he was gone, blending into the haze of smoke and lantern light.

  That left me with Nysera, still chewing happily, oblivious to her surroundings. Her yellow-tinted hair caught the flicker of the candle, shimmering like wet leaves after a storm.

  I watched her for a moment, letting the silence stretch before I spoke again.

  “Nysera. Listen closely. I have a very important mission—only Captain Glittergob can handle it.”

  She froze mid-bite, eyes sparkling with excitement, a piece of fish dangling precariously from her fork. “Yessir, what is your mission, Corvy the Broody One?” She snapped a mock salute, barely missing her own plate, her grin wide and infectious.

  “Secretly follow Drennar. Tell me what he’s up to after the trap is sprung.”

  She grinned like she’d just been knighted, her teeth flashing in the dim light. “You got it, Vampy Wampy.”

  And with a giggle and a puff of green smoke—she was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of wet grass and wildflowers. The booth felt emptier without her chaos, the air stiller.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I fear I’m either becoming used to her chaotic energy—or I’ve grown fond of her. Either way, the headaches she used to cause no longer plague me. There’s a strange comfort in her unpredictability, a reminder that even in a world as dark as this, something absurd and bright can persist.

  I made my way to the center of town, the streets narrowing as I approached the heart of Vaelthane Hollow. The buildings here leaned inward, their rooftops jagged against the bruised purple sky, as if conspiring to trap the secrets that thrived below. The air grew colder, heavier, laced with the faint hum of magic that pulsed beneath the surface of this place.

  The Moonmirror Fountain came into view, rising like an altar to a forgotten god. Its basin was carved from dark obsidian veined with silver, smooth as glass and cold to the touch. Ancient Falstarian runes circled the rim, glowing faintly beneath the ever-burning lanterns swaying above on invisible threads. At its heart, a crystalline spire jutted upward—water flowed not from a spout, but from the air itself, forming silken streams that cascaded upward before folding back down in an impossible, gravity-defying loop.

  The water shimmered like liquid moonlight, perfectly still even as it moved—reflecting not the sky above, but the truth beneath whoever dared look into it. No coins. No wishes. Just secrets. The very thing Vaelthane Hollow is full of. Tonight, it would serve as the stage for my own deception.

  I waited patiently, my senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the air—the distant clatter of hooves, the rustle of fabric on the wind. The town clock tolled eleven, its chime reverberating through the empty square, a mournful sound that seemed to linger longer than it should.

  Nox Arcanus agents arrived, they dropped silently from the rooftops, cloaks fluttering like falling crows. Their movements were precise, practiced, their forms shrouded in dark fabric that blended with the shadows.

  They’re early. Someone wanted me alone.

  I smiled, baring my fangs, the thrill of the hunt stirring in my veins. “You should’ve brought more people if you wanted to take me down. Is this really the best Nox Arcanus can do?”

  I released my restraint, and my aura unfurled like a tidal wave—cold, ancient, predatory. The air thickened with it, a palpable force that pressed against the world like a storm about to break.

  The effect was instantaneous. Some of them trembled, blades quivering in their hands. Others dropped to one knee, overwhelmed by sheer presence. Still, they stood. Impressive. Lesser men would have fled, their minds shattered by the weight of a millennium’s worth of blood thirsty rage.

  I drew a sharp breath and sliced my wrist open with a talon, letting blood spill freely. It glistened in the lantern light, dark and viscous, before I shaped it mid-air, hardening it into twin daggers of crimson steel. The process was second nature, the blood bending to my will as easily as clay in a sculptor’s hands.

  I raised them, their edges glinting with a lethal promise. “Come at me, if you dare.”

  They did. Unified battle cry. Rushing as one. The sound of their boots against the stone echoed in the square, a staccato rhythm that matched the pounding of my own ancient heart. That is if my heart actually beat.

  The first reached me—blood frozen mid-swing. He stopped, unmoving, his eyes wide with shock as my power held him in place. I slit his throat cleanly and ducked as a blade missed me and struck down his comrade. The second fell with a gurgle, clutching at the wound that bloomed across his chest.

  Two down.

  I spun, blocking and dodging from every angle. Steel clashed. Shadows danced. The remaining agents moved with desperate precision, their blades a blur of silver in the moonlight. I leapt high, flipped mid-air, and landed beyond the pack, my cloak swirling around me like a storm cloud.

  They didn’t hesitate—charging again, their numbers dwindling but their resolve unbroken.

  I threw both daggers. Two more fell, chests impaled, their bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds.

  The rest surrounded me, their breathing ragged, their eyes burning with defiance.

  I vanished, dissolving into a flicker of shadow and intent. Reappeared behind one. Neck snapped. He dropped like a sack of rocks, lifeless before he hit the stone.

  The others turned—too slow. I grabbed one, used him as a shield. His partner stabbed him clean through, the blade piercing flesh and bone with a sickening crunch.

  Two left.

  I dissolved into Blood Mist, crimson and shadow spiraling into a storm. They screamed as a thousand cuts carved through flesh, the mist tearing at them like a living thing. When I reformed, the ground was painted red, the air thick with the coppery scent of their demise. But the hunger had grown, a gnawing ache in my core. Damn. I’d used too much blood.

  That’s when I felt it—something approaching. Silent. Intentional. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, an instinct honed over centuries.

  A large, muscular Drydalis stepped into view, his frame towering against the fountain’s glow. He smiled. And bared fangs.

  So. Zolphan was experimenting again. Trying to create vampires. What a mockery. An abomination, slandering the name of Velsangui. This thing was no true vampire—its aura was a twisted echo, a pale imitation of the power I wielded.

  Let’s see what it could handle.

  He moved—fast. Twice as fast as the others. But not fast enough. His bulk made him predictable, his strength a crude substitute for finesse.

  He lunged, claws outstretched. I sidestepped. Twisted his neck with a sharp jerk. He crumpled, his body sprawling across the stones.

  I waited, arms crossed, the night air cool against my skin. If he was anything close to real, he’d regenerate.

  Minutes passed, the silence broken only by the soft ripple of the fountain’s water.

  He rose again—slower, his movements sluggish, his eyes clouded with confusion. Disappointing. But expected.

  He charged again, a roar tearing from his throat.

  I met him mid-swing, hand plunging into his chest. I ripped out his heart, feeling the muscle pulse once in my grip before stilling. He froze—then toppled, his body hitting the ground with a final, hollow thud.

  A fitting end for a pathetic excuse of a vampire.

  Nysera shimmered into view beside me, perfectly unfazed, her green smoke dissipating around her like a playful wisp. “Corvy, did you know the fountain doesn’t show your reflection if you’re legally dead in at least two realms?” She beamed like it was useful trivia, and not some chaotic rambling, her hands clasped behind her back as she rocked on her heels.

  Shortly after, Drennar arrived. His face—shock, disbelief. Not the outcome he expected, I’m sure. His eyes darted from the bodies to me, lingering on the blood-streaked stones, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps—crossing his features before he masked it.

  This was becoming quite the game of cat and mouse. The trap had sprung, and the pieces were falling into place, revealing the rot I’d suspected all along.

  And I was sure of one thing—they underestimated the predatory power of a true vampire. They’d learn that soon enough.