The sun was nearly gone now, slipping behind the jagged tree line to the west. The moon peeked out shyly, pale and bloated, and stars blinked to life one by one like hesitant watchers in the sky. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of pine, smoke, and the metallic tang of frost.
Her cart, now nearly empty, rattled along the uneven path as she made her way toward the shop of Old Fincher. Around her, the village began to quiet. Shops drew in their awnings and bolted their doors. Lanterns flickered behind icy windows. Children, bundled in scarves and fur-trimmed coats, scurried past her, laughing as they made their way home.
Crimson glanced up at the sky, feeling oddly small under its vast, quiet dome.
Then.....CRACK-KLANG!
THUD.
The cart jolted violently, one wheel catching on something hard beneath the slush. The frame tipped and dumped sideways with a loud, final groan. Crimson stumbled forward, catching herself just short of falling into the icy road.
"Oh, perfect," she muttered.
A rock, jagged, half-buried in the frozen road. The wooden wheel hadn't just hit it. It had shattered. The cart now leaned helplessly on one side, a box of half-frozen apples having burst open and spilled its contents onto the snow.
Her stomach sank.
"Have you gone mad?! Are you blind?!"
The shout cracked through the quiet street like a whip.
Crimson's head snapped up.
Two figures stood just ahead of her, glaring down with disdain.
One was tall, brooding, almost statuesque, dressed in a heavy black cloak that trailed like smoke around his boots. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, though she caught a glint of pale skin and something sharp in the jawline. His presence was unnerving wrong in a way she couldn't name, as if the very air around him bent differently.
The second man was shorter, round-bellied, and draped in rich, velvet-trimmed clothing far too fine for anyone in Whitespire. A gleaming gold tooth flashed when he sneered, his plump cheeks red with outrage. His boots were stained now, soaked by the water leaking from a cracked box.
"Peasant trash," he snapped. "You should be muzzled."
Crimson froze.
Nobles? They didn't look like nobles from the village. Too refined. Too... clean. Even the merchant class didn't wear silk-lined cloaks or boots sewn with silver thread. Were they travelers? From the central town? From the South?
She stared a moment too long.
The gold-toothed man noticed.
"Do you dare...dare...look a Lord in the eyes?" he growled, his voice rising to an angry pitch. "Have you gone completely stupid, girl?"
Her night had just gotten worse.
Realizing her mistake, Crimson immediately dropped into a bow so low her knees hit the icy road. "Forgive me, m'lord! I...I meant no offense. The cart...it's broken, I didn't see you...please, forgive me."
But the man was already on a tirade, waving his arms dramatically as he ranted about his ruined boots and stained cloak.
"Look what you've done! Filthy little rat! You lowly humans always scurrying about like you matter. Do you know how much this cloak cost? You couldn't earn it in five years of peasant labor!"
Crimson kept her head down, trembling as she knelt in the slush, water seeping into her skirt. "I'm sorry, truly...I didn't mean to..."
"Sorry?" he spat. "You'll be sorry when your head's on a stake!"
The next sound she heard chilled her more than the wind ever could...the hiss of metal unsheathing.
She gasped and looked up.
The gold-toothed man had drawn a short sword, its tip glinting coldly in the moonlight. He raised it above her, fury etched deep in his ruddy face.
But the blade never fell.
A hand, gloved in black leather, had wrapped tightly around the steel.
Crimson blinked.
The tall, silent man hadn't moved until now. But he stood beside them suddenly, hand gripping the blade of the sword itself, completely unbothered by the razor edge against his hand. His face was still partially shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.
"That's quite enough," the tall man said, his voice low and disturbingly calm.
The shorter man stammered. "B-but, my Lord...she...she ruined our clothes! She should be taught a lesson!"
The tall man tilted his head slightly, voice laced with amusement. "If I taught every human who annoyed me a lesson, there wouldn't be any of her kind left."
He said 'humans' like the word tasted sour. Or like it didn't include him.
Crimson felt more than grateful, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted between the two men. The tall one, the quiet one, the *dangerous* one...had just spared her from what could've ended with blood spilled on snow.
He began to walk forward.
Each step he took was deliberate, soundless, even in the crunching snow. His heavy cloak whispered against the road like shadows brushing against stone. Crimson kept her head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. She stared at his fine leather shoes, almost too pristine for the road he walked on, dusted only faintly with frost.
Then he stretched his hand toward her.
Crimson flinched, startled, instinctively bracing herself for a strike. But nothing came. The hand simply hung there, still and open, offered to her.
Her brows furrowed. What in the gods' name was he doing?
No noble, no man, really, offered his hand to a peasant girl knee-deep in slush. This had to be a trick. Or maybe… he was mad.
But slowly, warily, she reached out and took it.
His fingers curled around hers, strong and ice-cold. In a single effortless motion, he pulled her up. Crimson rose to her feet and, for the first time, looked directly into the face beneath the black hat.
He was... beautiful in the most terrifying way.
His features were carved with sharp precision, high cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, a straight nose, and lips that looked more suited for cold smiles than warmth. Dark green eyes stared back at her, glinting like polished emeralds, but soulless. Not empty, exactly. More like… unbothered. Detached. Like he'd seen thousands of lives pass and none of them meant anything anymore.
Strands of golden-brown hair fell over his forehead from beneath the hat, catching the pale light of the moon.
The short man stood off to the side, mouth open in disbelief, muttering something under his breath.
Still holding her hand, the tall stranger's gaze dropped... to her hair.
"Red," he murmured.
His voice was soft, velvet-smooth, but there was something predatory in it. He spoke the word not like an observation… but like a preference.
Then his eyes met hers again, colder now. A smile...barely there, pulled at the corner of his lips.
"I like red."
Crimson's blood chilled. Her heart was racing now, every alarm in her body ringing. This man, whatever he was, wasn't just 'odd'. He was dangerous. Wrong. Like something beautiful hiding broken glass behind a smile.
She glanced around.
No one.
The road was empty. The shops closed. The square abandoned. Just her. Just him.
She tried to pull her hand free.
But his grip tightened.
Crimson winced. Pain flared in her already-bruised finger, and she looked down as he stared, unmoving, into her.
"M-M'lord…" she stammered, her voice small against the night.
His gaze dropped to her hand, finally noticing the purpling, crooked finger. There was no real concern in his face just... interest. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a handkerchief, dark grey, embroidered with fine silver thread at the edge and wrapped it around her hand.
"Forgive me," he said.
But his voice didn't sound apologetic. It sounded amused. As though he were saying the words for show… or for her reaction.
Crimson's eyes widened as he released her.
And then, with one last fleeting look, he turned and walked off, his boots silent on the snow, his black cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of a bird taking flight.
The shorter man scrambled after him, huffing and muttering, casting one last glare her way before vanishing into the dim streets behind his companion.
Crimson stood there, shivering. Her hand still throbbed, but wrapped around it was the fine grey cloth, soft and warm, and it smelled faintly of something ...sweet and earthy...cedarwood and spiced wine, like smoke curling in a southern hearth.
She held the handkerchief to her nose without realizing it, then quickly stuffed it into her pocket.
---
Crimson trudged home through the snow-choked path, her arms wrapped tightly around the sack of wilted vegetables, the meager remnants of the day's labour. The sharp wind bit through her threadbare cloak, whistling in her ears like curses from the gods. Her shoulders ached, her hands still stung from the cold, and her crooked finger throbbed in a way that made her teeth grit.
Fincher had not been pleased. Not in the slightest. His shouting still rang in her ears.
"Foolish girl," he'd snarled, spittle catching in his beard. "A full wheel broken, half the stock ruined, and what? You return with naught but bruised carrots and excuses?"
She hadn't even received a single nickel for her trouble.
As the crooked outline of her cottage came into view, a dry laugh escaped her lips. Perhaps she 'ought' to have asked that stranger... 'that lord'...to pay for the damage. He had, after all, been part of the mishap. But the thought of demanding coin from a man who looked like sin given form? Who could have killed her with a flick of his wrist?
She must be mad to even consider it.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, tightening her grip on the sack. The cottage sat slouched like an old drunkard, its roof patched with straw and tar, its windows fogged and cracked. Yet it was home.
Next to it, a far finer structure stood proudly, timber framed, with a tall fence of split logs neatly sharpened at the top. The house of the village head. A proper place unlike the other cottages around, with a stone hearth and glazed windows and a garden of herbs that spilled beyond the fence, curling into the wild.
She glanced at the creeping vines of balm and feverfew and mint, shrubs she'd taken from more than once. Ever since she'd heard the old herbalist mutter that such things might help a mind gone cloudy, she'd been stealing leaves by moonlight. A sprig here. A stem there. Nothing they'd miss.
"You're back later than usual."
Crimson's breath caught as she turned her head sharply. A figure stood by the side of the fence, just past the shrubs. A young man, about her age, maybe a year older, with windswept brown curls and a warm smile. He was dressed plainly, but his cloak was of good wool, stitched with care. She knew him well enough.
The village head's only son.
She didn't speak, not immediately. She simply stared, her features tight with caution. Did he know? Could he read the fear off her face.
"I'm Cedric," he said, smiling again and gesturing vaguely. "You likely know that. But I don't think we've properly met."
Of course she knew him. Everyone in Whitespire knew Cedric. Most eligible bachelor in the village, if you listened to the weavers' gossip. Strong, decent, clever with his hands and never cruel.
"Crimson," she replied softly, her throat dry.
He tilted his head. There it was, the pause. That inevitable twitch of curiosity. The moment her name turned their tongues strange. Crimson. Blood. She'd lost count of how many times the villagers had sneered saying she was named after the 'vampire meal' and might end up being one. She hadn't exactly asked her grandmother why she was named 'Crimson', she guessed it was a nod to her fiery hair.
She braced for the jest. The same one she'd heard all her life.
He didn't joke, though. He only nodded thoughtfully. "A striking name. Suits you."
Crimson gave a small, noncommittal shrug and glanced skyward. The stars were faint above the misty clouds, the moon pale and full, and the cold deeper than ever. "Best we both get inside. The warning bell was not rung for naught."
He scratched his neck, a little sheepish. "Aye. Good nig—"
The door of the cottage shut with a soft thud before he could finish.
Inside, the cold was not quite so sharp, though it lingered in the stone floor and the damp air. Crimson stood still a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. Only the pale light of the moon leaked through the cracked windowpane.
She moved through the cramped space with familiarity, bumping her hip against a stool and knocking over a pot before she found the candle and matchbox on the shelf. She struck the match 'ksshhh!' and the flame hissed to life. A fragile glow bathed the room.
She made her way toward the single bedroom. The bed, if it could be called that, was nothing more than a frame of wood with sagging ropes and a bundle of worn straw. The sheet was threadbare, yellowed, and torn.
It was empty.
Crimson frowned.
Not again.
Last week, she had come home to find her grandmother outside in the snow, barefoot and giggling to herself, tossing flour at the moon and calling it a demon.
"Grandma?" she called softly, setting the vegetables down.
She crossed the room and went to the hearth, kneeling to arrange the firewood. Her fingers shook as she lit another match. The fire began to crackle, shadows dancing across the cottage walls.
She let the heat bathe her palms. Her finger was swollen and purple, but the pain was dulled by the warmth. She pulled out the grey handkerchief and stared at it.
It was folded neatly, its silver embroidery glinting in the firelight. That sweet, spiced scent still clung to it... cedarwood and mulled wine... rich and comforting, and terribly out of place in her hovel. She smiled, just barely, and tucked it close to her.
"Grandma?" she called again.
Then she noticed it.
The shadows behind her were moving—stretching.
She barely had time to turn. Then—*a sudden pull*.
Something tightened around her neck.
She gasped, fingers clawing at the coarse fabric binding her throat. She thrashed backward, knocking over the firewood, her knees scraping the rough floor as she fought.
The cloth cut into her windpipe. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't even scream.
Her hands reached behind her and felt the familiar shape of thin arms. The grip was deathly strong for someone so frail.
'Grandma.'
"G-Grandma...!" she croaked, choking on the word.
The old woman snarled behind her. "You're not her! You're a witch! My Crimson's dead. She's... she's dead... Dead!"
Tears stung Crimson's eyes as her lungs screamed for air. Her fingers grasped desperately at anything, until they found a cane resting by the hearth. She flung it backward, striking her attacker.
The grip loosened.
Crimson stumbled forward, coughing violently as she pulled the fabric off her throat. She turned to face her grandmother, heart pounding.
The old woman sat crumpled on the floor now, rocking back and forth, her eyes wide and vacant. She muttered to herself, a low, fearful chant on repeat:
"They're coming… the fanged ones, they're coming... eyes like fire… can't trust the sky, can't trust the stars."
Crimson clutched her throat, tears blurring her vision.
She dropped beside her grandmother, shoulders shaking. "I hoped… I hoped tonight you'd know me," she whispered.
The old woman didn't respond. Her gaze stared into a world Crimson could no longer reach.
The only reply was the muttering of that same line over and over, like a warning from a dying oracle:
"They're coming…They're... They're...here."