The silence of the house was usually a comfort to Zora, but tonight it felt heavy. As soon as the bolt had clicked into place on the front door, the hunger she had been pushing down all day surged to the surface.
It wasn't the kind of hunger that a piece of bread or a bowl of stew could fix. It was a sharp, hollow ache that started in the center of her chest and radiated outward until her very bones felt cold.
Zora leaned against the door for a moment, her breath hitching. She could feel the physical shift happening inside her. Her heart seemed to thrum with a frantic rhythm.
She felt a familiar heat rise behind her eyes. If she had been standing in front of a mirror at that exact second, she would have seen the sapphire blue of her irises bleed away, replaced by a flickering, predatory crimson.
She swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was lined with dry sand. She was hungry starving, in fact. The excitement of the market and the long walk home had burned through her energy faster than she had expected.
She needed to feed, moving with a sudden, blurred speed that no human could match, Zora rushed toward the kitchen.
The wooden floorboards didn't even creak under her light footsteps. The kitchen was a modest room, filled with the lingering scents of dried herbs and old wood. To anyone else, it looked like a normal kitchen, but Zora knew its secrets.
She knelt on the floor near the pantry, her fingers searching for a specific knot in the wood. When she found it, she pressed down firmly.
A small section of the floorboards popped up, revealing a secret cabinet built deep into the foundation. This had been her father's greatest gift to her safety, a hiding place that even the most thorough searcher would miss.
Inside the floor cabinet sat a sturdy wooden box. Zora reached out and opened the lid. Instantly, a plume of thick, white mist swirled out, spilling over the edges and curling around her knees.
The air in the kitchen turned icy. This box was lined with magic ice, a rare and expensive substance her father used to trade for in the city. It never melted, staying perpetually cold to preserve what lay inside.
Zora's hands trembled slightly as she reached into the mist. She pulled out a small, heavy bag, sealed tight with a leather cord. Through the translucent skin of the bag, the dark, rich red of the liquid inside was visible.
She didn't bother with a glass. She didn't have the patience. Zora tore the seal open with her teeth and drank.
The first taste of the cold blood hit her tongue, and she felt her entire body relax. The hollow ache in her chest began to fill. The sharp, frantic edge of her thoughts smoothed out.
She drank the entire bag in long, greedy gulps, not stopping until the pouch was completely empty and flat.
She sat on the kitchen floor for a long minute, leaning her head back against the cabinets.
The glow in her eyes faded, the deep sapphire blue returning like a calm sea after a storm. She felt satiated, her strength returning to her limbs. She felt human again, or at least, she felt like the version of herself that could pretend to be human.
Carefully, Zora wiped a single stray drop of red from her lip. She put the empty bag aside to be cleaned and hidden later, closed the magic ice box, and fitted the floorboards back into place.
She made sure everything was in perfect order. In her world, a single mistake, a misplaced board or a red stain could mean the end of her life.
Exhausted by the emotional and physical drain of the day, Zora decided to freshen up. She headed to the small washroom, splashing cool water on her face and scrubbing away the dust of the market.
She took her time washing her hair, letting the water soak into the long, silver blonde strands until they felt heavy and clean.
Once she was finished, she wrapped herself in a soft robe and sat down at the small, delicate dressing table that had once belonged to her mother.
It was one of the few pieces of furniture she refused to move or change. She picked up a dry cloth and began to pat her hair, her eyes fixated on her reflection in the polished glass.
She studied herself with a detached kind of curiosity. She saw the silver blonde hair that seemed to catch what little light remained in the room.
She saw the sapphire blue eyes, wide and clear, framed by long lashes. She noticed the paleness of her skin, which looked like fine porcelain, and the natural rosy tint of her full lips.
Zora knew she was beautiful, but to her, that beauty was a reminder of her isolation. She looked nothing like the woman who had raised her, a kind faced mother with tan skin and dark curls.
She looked nothing like the tall, rugged father who had taught her how to track a deer. They were humans; warm, fragile, and full of a life she could only mimic. She was a vampire; cold, enduring, and born of a different world.
She had been told the story many times. Her father had been hunting deep in the woods, far beyond the safety of the village paths, when he heard a sound that didn't belong in the wild.
He had followed it to find a baby girl, abandoned in a nest of soft moss. She had been wrapped in fine silks, looking like a lost princess, with nothing to her name but an intricate necklace and a pair of small, elegant earrings.
Zora reached up, her fingers grazing the small stud in her ear. She felt the cool metal. These earrings were her lifeline, they were the only reason she could walk through the market at high noon or sit on the porch in the summer heat without turning to ash.
They were a powerful gift of protection, left by people who had decided they couldn't keep her, but didn't want her to die.
A bitter-sweet feeling rose in her throat. She felt abandoned, wondering what kind of parents would leave their child in the dirt of a forest.
Yet, she felt loved, knowing they had armed her with the tools to survive in a world that would hate her. If they hadn't left the earrings, she would have been discovered years ago. She would have been pierced by a silver stake or dragged to the village square to be burnt alive under the sun.
She let out a long, shaky sigh, her breath fogging the mirror slightly. Eanvyne was not a kind place for those who were different. In this world, humans lived in a constant state of fear and hatred toward the "supernaturals."
To most people, vampires, werewolves, and witches were monsters that lived in the dark, waiting to steal children or curse the crops.
The kingdom's sorcerers were the worst of all. Every week or two, Zora would hear a new rumor. Someone in a neighboring town had been exposed. Someone had been caught by the glowing magic of a sorcerer's pendant.
The endings were always the same; a quick trial, a loud crowd, and a cold execution.
She lived in a world of shadows, blending in just enough to stay alive.
But sometimes, in the deep of the night, she thought about the stories her father had heard during his long travels. He had spoken of a place, some called it a hidden kingdom, others called it a different realm entirely, where things were different.
A place where supernaturals didn't have to hide in secret cabinets or lie about their birthday gifts. A place where they lived freely, just like humans did here.
Zora closed her eyes, trying to imagine it. What would it feel like to be normal? To walk down a street and not worry about the color of her eyes? It felt like a fairy tale, a dream meant for someone else.
Her thoughts turned darker, as they often did when she was alone. She thought about her foster parents. They were the only people who had ever truly known her.
They had seen her fangs and her hunger, and they had loved her anyway. They were innocent, kind humans, and they had been slaughtered by her own kind.
A group of rogue vampires had passed through the area while Zora was away at the market years ago. She had returned to a home filled with blood and havoc.
The very creatures she shared a nature with were the ones who had destroyed the only family she had ever known.
'Am I like them?' she wondered. 'Will I eventually wake up one day and find that the monster inside has taken over? Will I hurt the people in this village who have been so kind to me?'
The fear gripped her heart but she shook her head violently, her damp silver blonde hair whipping around her face. She refused to believe it. She wouldn't let herself be a monster.
She remembered a night, years ago, when she had sat at her father's feet by the fireplace. She had been terrified of the strange cravings and hunger in her belly.
Her father had placed his large, calloused hand on her head and looked her right in the eyes.
"Listen to me, Zora," he had said, his voice deep and steady. "No matter how the flesh speaks, the heart remains the most important part of you.
Thoughts and intentions are born from the heart, not from the blood. You know who you are. You know what you are capable of because you can look inside your own heart.
And you, my dear, have the purest heart I've ever known. You might be an alien to this world, but you're our alien. That's all that matters."
The memory acted like a balm to her soul. She took a deep breath, the phantom warmth of his hand still lingering in her mind. She wasn't them. She was Zora Winthrop, the daughter of a hunter and a shopkeeper.
She stood up from the dressing table, feeling a bit more centered. She couldn't afford to spend the whole night being gloomy. She had work to do.
She moved across the room to a small wooden desk in the corner. She picked up a slender notebook and a pot of dark ink. With careful, practiced movements, she began to settle the accounts for the day.
She noted down the cost of the supplies she had bought in town, the coins she had earned from what she sold earlier in the week, and the taxes she would owe to the local lord.
Managing the small shop her parents had left behind was her responsibility now. It was her cover, but it was also her connection to them.
Every fabric she sold and every account she balanced was a way of keeping their memory alive. It was a simple life, a quiet life, but it was hers.
"One day at a time," she whispered to the empty room.
She dipped her pen into the ink and began to write, the scratching of the nib against the paper the only sound in the house.