Alaric's POV
The smell of roasted coffee beans barely masked the stench of humanity.
Sweet, bitter, warm — and underneath it, alive.
Too alive.
I sat at the farthest corner of the café, in the seat most people avoided because the shadows were too heavy there. The kind that swallowed you whole if you stayed long enough. I liked it that way. The dark had always been my oldest friend — loyal, silent, and obedient.
My fingers traced the rim of the porcelain cup in front of me. The cup sat untouched, its contents dark and still."
What was a nine-hundred-year-old creature doing in a café filled with chattering mortals and their pretty lies?
Even I wasn't sure.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe boredom. Or maybe, as the whispers claimed, it was the thrill of the hunt that brought me here.
