Debates persist ceaselessly on whether the Burning Heavens eradicated several lesser sapient races. Nevertheless, the dearth of reliable historical records renders any definitive stance arduous to substantiate (more details in Pr. Goldworth’s treatise: “Dragon Dragoff, the vanishing lizard conspiracy”). It cannot be argued, however, that the conflict birthed three among the most repugnant breeds of beings ever to tread upon this Earth.

Foremost among these grotesque entities are the storm elves, sometimes labelled ‘chaos’ or ‘dark’ elves. Volatile, belligerent, and sadistic, they are born killers fashioned in mockery of the refined denizens of the Sacred Forest. Second are the werebeasts: deranged changelings that desecrate human perfection by amalgamating their forms with wild animals, with whom they also share their savagery and lack of morals.

Last, and assuredly most abhorrent, are the vampires! These undead monstrosities defile nature’s order by walking among the living, masquerading as more than mere fetid corpses. They subsist solely on the blood of the innocents, of pure maidens and newborn infants. Their sacrilegious essence bans them from hallowed grounds and Whesi’s divine radiance. Their cursed gaze gleams red like the lifeblood they consume and, with one look, can ensnare the mind. Even more nefarious, their bite spreads their disease and steals the soul of their victims!

Rue the day! O Gods! Rue the day any denizen of our most holy Radiant Empire shall associate in any way with these wicked, blasphemous, repulsive vermin!

—excerpt from the controversial pamphlet “On the Subject of Pesticide,” by Watana Sowl, published 573 AK.

–

Rest 29, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

Few took note of the solitary vagrant wandering through the cold, dark, slush-filled streets of Greyport after sunset. Those who did notice him quickly turned away, hurrying along, unnerved by his sickly complexion and unkempt appearance: his dishevelled black beard, edged in grey, that looked like an old animal had curled up on his face and died; his long, greasy hair stuck to his hollow cheeks; the purple rings that bruised the bottom of his weary eyes; his tattered cloak, tormented by the wind, which barely resembled a clerical robe anymore.

It was hardly a wonder why others treated him like a leper.

Their disdain, however, gave him free rein to observe them in return. His furtive glances captured people’s countenance and the layout of his surroundings, of the festival grounds taking shape, the half-erect stalls, and the crates piled in the molten snow. If anyone seemed about to accost him regardless, a flash of his pronghorn pendant was enough to justify his beggarly state and deter their curiosity. Imperial citizens were naturally disinclined to question the clergy—or anyone crazy enough to impersonate a servant of the Twelve.

His tired feet carried him through the cold mud to the city square. The gallows at its centre had been disassembled and replaced by a monolithic construct, five-man-tall, wrapped tightly in waterproof canvas. He gazed at it momentarily before reorienting himself and walking away. Soon, he reached a narrow back alley, weed-grown, full of cracked and dislocated cobblestones.

Streets like this abounded in tortuous old Greyport, but this area of town was especially deserted and dilapidated. The inhabitants clustered most readily around the harbour, the central church, or Main Street—less so in this quarter of industry. Here lodged the blacksmiths, the butchers, the tanners, and others, whose smelly or noisy craft made them unappealing neighbours. An old windmill towered over the district, abandoned and decayed, its broken sails creaking mournfully.

The man’s steps eventually stopped before a tiny, unremarkable house, little more than a shack stuck between two stocky workshops. After a furtive look around, he approached the door. Before he could knock, a panel slid open at face level, revealing two brown eyes and little else, just enough to hint at a tanned, rough-skinned older man—a sailor, maybe a trapper, or someone else used to the harshness of the outdoors.

“Who goes there?” asked a voice like gargled gravel.

“A weary truth seeker,” the man answered.

“What has brought you here?”

“Only the whispers on the breeze.”

The peephole slid shut, a key turned, and a bolt opened. No footsteps moved away, but the presence inside vanished. With a sigh, the man pushed forward into a dim, cool room. He quickly shut the door behind him, cutting off the glow of the streetlamps and the howls of the wind, and leaving only a faint, irregular metallic tapping to occupy the silence. To the side, a fireplace gave off barely any light or warmth. Across from the entrance, the room’s sole occupant sat in a plush armchair, swathed in shadows.

This person did not match the face at the door.

“You’re late,” she said in a monotone, velvety voice.

“Glad to see you too, Hawthorn.”

Looking the furthest thing from a rough trapper, she had a noblewoman’s soft skin, her body slender yet curvaceous, and jet-black hair up in a plain bun with long side bangs. Her outfit resembled a farmer’s wife’s mourning dress: black, unadorned, snugly fitted, with long sleeves and a high neck, leaving only her head and hands uncovered. Yet she was no mere peasant. The weak firelight rippled across her face, unveiling a bone-white complexion and inhuman flawlessness. Gleaming like rubies in the dark, two blood-red eyes stared back at the man without ever blinking.

“You were supposed to arrive before sundown,” the vampiress again commented flatly.

Not a hint of emotion moved her features. Her body lacked any of the unconscious twitches and involuntary motions of the living. Even casually seated, she reminded the man of an ambush predator ready to strike—like a slender snake, or a spider perhaps. And as if to substantiate the latter metaphor, the clicking needles in her hands continuously pulled string out of a pink wool bundle, slowly adding to the incongruous knitted mass in her lap.

The man rapidly decided some questions were better left unanswered. “Not my call,” he finally replied, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly over the backrest of a rickety chair. “I could hardly command the winds to push the ship faster. I might as well have shouted my presence, then.”

He glanced around. Humidity and mould crept up the wooden walls. Cracks ran through the timber. The chair, a worn table, and the woman’s seat made up almost all the furniture. The table also had a broken leg, haphazardly nailed back on. At the very least, the floor looked recently swept. “Nice place. Very homey.”

“Thank you? I found it as is.” The woman tilted her head, perplexed, his sarcasm sailing completely over her head. “This house is at the midpoint between the biggest tannery and smithy. The stench is bearable here.”

The man sniffed the air. He could smell nothing, but he guessed that was the point.

He dragged the chair closer to the hearth. “Thank you for the fire. I know you don’t need it.”

“I had a donor over an hour ago.”

“Locally sourced?”

“No one who will raise suspicion. I made sure of it.”

“I trust you did.” A log was added to the failing embers. She must not have drunk her fill, the man thought.

Vampires needed to feed on human blood to sustain their unlife, although contrary to popular belief, they did not prey exclusively on newborns and maidens. The sacrifice’s virginity certainly held no relevance. Instead, the potency of one’s life force was what vampires sought after. Life mages, especially, were seen by them as rare delicacies.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Consuming fresh blood rejuvenated the vampires’ bodies and rekindled their emotions. When satiated, they seemed to shed their undeath, almost resurrecting, and might pass for regular humans if they tried. A full meal also brought them to the pinnacle of their power, physically and magically. Yet, many preferred to linger on the peckish side of hunger, wallowing in the emotional numbness it offered.

The man could sympathise. He too had demons he would rather run away from.

The sounds of the knitting needles abruptly stopped.

“Why are you here, Gale?”

Gale looked up from the fire he was trying to revive. “Why? You almost sound unhappy to see my handsome face.” He stroked his chin with a crooked smile, only to be reminded of the shaggy beard growing there. His smile fell. “Right. I might need a shave.”

“And a bath.”

Somehow, her absolute lack of inflexion only made it worse.

Gale released a resigned sigh and stood from where he knelt by the hearth. “You people are going to be so sorry when I collapse from overwork.” He cautiously checked the chair’s solidity before settling into it. “You think I enjoy looking like I crawled out of a sewer?”

From within his dirty tunic, he produced a battered bamboo pipe and, from another pocket, a small satchel of herbs. He meticulously filled the bowl, tamping the mix down with practised fingers—disregarding the impatient red eyes boring into him. “I always wished I was born a Fire mage, you know?” he rambled. “It must be nice to never have to fear the cold.” With the pipe securely between his teeth, he retrieved a small engraved stone from the satchel, coaxed a flame out of it with his mana, and lit the herbs. “Plus, these little tools might be convenient, but gods, are they expensive.” He carefully stored the tiny artefact.

Soon, a fragrant smoke wafted around him, earthy and pungent.

Gale drew a slow, contemplative drag of his pipe. “Ahhh. This is nice…” The stimulants were rapidly bringing sensations back to his chilled extremities and sharpening his drowsy mind. “People always call elves pretentious snobs, but they sure know their drugs. Nothing like a puff of sylvan emberleaf to keep you going after three or four days without sleep. Hahaha…” His chuckle then sounded a little unhinged. He took another long drag, blew out a perfect smoke ring, and watched it slowly dissipate, floating toward the ceiling.

“The higher-ups are getting impatient about your lack of progress, Hawthorn.”

Unblinking red eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “I’m working as fast as I can. Master knows this.”

“I’m sure you are.” Gale dipped ash from his pipe into the fireplace. “But events transpired in the capital that will… precipitate things. So, Typhoon sent me to assist.”

A wholly inhuman hiss seeped from Hawthorn’s mouth. “I don’t need help.”

“Results suggest otherwise.”

The hiss intensified. The vampiress’s lips peeled back, revealing the tip of viper-like fangs unfolding behind her human teeth. Gale decided to forestall any assault on his jugular.

“The prince is making a move.”

Hawthorn’s mouth abruptly shut. Her entire body went deadly still. Gale found it particularly unnerving, though he hid it well. “Is he coming here?” she asked.

“In all likelihood. The Emperor revealed his hand. Now, the prince’s minions are abuzz like a kicked wasp nest. It’s made tracking his activities bothersome, but we’re reasonably confident he’s planning to flee the capital within the next six to eighteen months. That gives us an opportunity to act. But we need things ready on this end before the targets arrive.” Once the prince settled in Greyport, the security would tighten by several orders of magnitude, rendering any covert activity bothersome to execute.

“Typhoon wants to avoid creating a ruckus,” Gale added pointedly, staring at the stiff vampiress. “We hurry, but we don’t rush. Understood, Hawthorn? I don’t want to have to deal with a member of the imperial family dead in the middle of the harbour.”

The undead woman hissed still but settled down gradually and reclined in her seat. “I won’t mess up. Not this time.”

“See that you don’t,” Gale warned evenly, earning himself a sharp look, which he ignored. He nibbled on the end of his pipe pensively. “Listen. I’m not here to play commander. Frankly, I don’t even want to be here. I’m not undead, woman. I need my sleep, of which I clearly haven’t had enough lately, and I actually feel this damn weather. I swear, I’m catching a cold as we speak.” He coughed dramatically. “Just being in this gloomy town is giving me eczema. See?” He scratched his arm and showed it off.

“That’s probably just poor hygiene.”

“You try being stuck in a tiny ship with sweaty sailors for a week.”

“But I don’t sweat?” The vampiress tilted her head.

“That’s not the point, woman!” Gale threw his hand up. “Ahhh… I get it. I’ll pay a visit to the bathhouse first thing tomorrow morning. Why couldn’t I have been born a Water mage? Life would be so much simpler. I hope the House of Uat is at least well maintained. Seriously, this town is falling to pieces. This is supposed to be a provincial capital? What is the Imperial Inspectorate doing? The Emperor needs to hurry up and finish beheading all those corrupt officials. Less hassle for me. Did you hear they had to appoint more executioners after the last purge? That’s what I should have done. Executioner. It’s a cushy job these days. But no. Here I am instead, freezing my ass off when I could be…”

The vampiress let him rant for a while, having resumed her knitting.

“…and then I ran into a girl earlier. I literally bumped into her. Sure, I’m exhausted because Typhoon is a heartless slave driver who does not believe in downtime, but her presence completely slipped by me. Like… an eel! That kind of natural stealth at that age? Young people these days sure are scary.” He let out an umpteenth sigh. “I should retire. I’m getting too old for this.”

“Thirty is still young for a human,” Hawthorn commented, seeming to take pity on him. However, her focus was still mainly on weaving her needles through every pink loop she conjured.

“Exactly!” Gale pointed at her. “I should retire before I’m too old. And I’m twenty-nine. Twenty-nine! Not thirty. And I already have grey hair! Next, they’ll fall off. I don’t want to be bald before thirty!” He continued to rant briefly before running out of even the energy to be upset. “By the way, that girl I ran into had red eyes. Could she be–”

The needles stopped.

“No.”

“Are you su–”

“We do not turn children!” The vampire's seat loudly tumbled back and crashed into the wall as she suddenly jumped to her feet, her fangs fully out and her red eyes shining with fury.

“Alright, alright!” Gale waved the irate vampiress down. He silently berated himself for forgetting who he was talking to. “I’m not accusing you of anything. If you say the girl’s unrelated, that’s that. I trust your judgement. You’re the vampire expert here. It’s just a fluke of birth, then. Poor kid… Well, she looked like she could handle herself.”

Gradually, Hawthorn’s face returned to its usual listless expression. She picked up the overturned armchair one-handed and casually flipped it upright. But Gale only allowed himself to relax when she had sat back down and returned to her knitting. He took a drag of his pipe to settle his nerves. Gods. This is bad for my health. Vampires were almost too dangerous for their worth. I’m definitely talking to Typhoon about that early retirement. With a subtle twist of his fingers behind his back, he unravelled the deadly spell he had been about to cast. He would rather avoid slicing anyone to ribbons if he could help it.

Otherwise, there would be paperwork.

Still, there was something about that girl… The air mage could not put his finger on what bothered him, but he resolved to investigate on the side. Bronze skin… But it couldn’t be… He shook his head. Better not make hasty conclusions. He needed to gather information first. His network in the Split Isles was not as extensive as he would prefer, but he had a few contacts he could visit. A certain information broker came to mind. Surely, he would not have forgotten his old pal Gale, would he?

The clicking of Hawthorn’s needles distracted him from his musings.

Despite his better judgement, Gale could no longer resist his curiosity. “I need to ask. Why are you doing… that?” Puzzled, blood-red eyes looked up at him, and he nodded toward the pink needlework.

“Oh… Master said I should find a hobby. Something about eternity being boring. I don’t quite get it. She does not look bored, and I have not had time to be.”

“And so you chose… knitting?”

“Yes?” She tilted her head. “Is that weird?”

A familiar headache settled between Gale’s brows. “No, of course not,” he lied smoothly. “It’s a very nice-looking, err, glove.”

“It’s a sweater.”

Gale’s eye twitched. “…Is it now?”

Hawthorn lifted the formless pink mass. “I heard these are common in the south. The dye is made from a flower called glory-of-the-snow, which blooms high in the Shmavahal mountains when the first spring warmth comes. Southerners use the blue petals to dye young boys’ clothes and the pink ones for girls. It’s a curious custom.”

“……You sound well-informed.”

“It’s my hobby?”

“So you said.” Gale nodded awkwardly, already regretting succumbing to his curiosity. “Is the size not a bit, err, small?”

A thin, sad smile lifted the woman’s lips as she looked down at her work.

“No. It’s perfect.”

“……”

And that’s my cue to leave. Gale stood up. “I’ll get out of your air. We both have a lot to do.”

“You can stay. There is a spare bed.” Hawthorn pointed at a paper-thin mattress, leaking straw over a mouldy wood plank. “I have no need for it.”

Gale offered a strained smile. “Thank you, but it would be unbecoming of me to intrude on a lady’s privacy any longer than necessary.” He hastily threw his coat on.

“But I’m not a noble?”

“Hahaha. No, I mean… Even so. It would be inappropriate.” He edged towards the door.

“You smell stressed,” the vampiress said quietly and turned to the side, producing a small bag. “Do you want a honey candy?”

“…No, but thank you.” Gale’s hand was on the door handle. “Let’s reconvene in two days. After the first night of the festival?”

“Very well.” She nodded, putting the bag of sweets away. “May your blood flow with life.”

“……Good evening to you, too,” Gale said with another strained smile. May it stay in my veins, more like. But the vampiress had already returned to her knitwork, dismissing him from her mind. The tired man hurriedly left the dilapidated house, telling himself he was not running away. He was merely eager to finish his work for the day and go to bed. Gods, this is way too much anxiety for one man. But this could be my last job. After a big operation like this, surely Typhoon will let me retire.

…Surely?

* * * * *