Alaric's POV
I found him easily.
Hunters always think they're invisible. They forget they stink of blood and old iron, of sweat and shame and dying things. They forget that creatures like me were made to track them.
He was staying in an abandoned warehouse at the edge of town, the kind of place that reeked of rust, rot, and bad memories. His scent was everywhere mingled with oil, gunpowder, and the distinct trace of vervain. He had laid traps. Silver coils under the windows, salt lines, runes scratched into the concrete. He was prepared.
But he hadn't prepared for me.
I stepped into the building without a sound. My boots didn't creak, my breath didn't stir. Shadows curled around me like loyal dogs. I found him at the center of the room, stripping his gun, cleaning it in silence. Focused. Dead calm.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said without looking up.
"And yet, here I am," I replied, my voice like broken velvet.
