Even when I slept, I didn't really sleep. My body rested, sure—but somewhere inside, the alertness remained, like a blade resting on its edge. Every sound in the dark pressed faintly against my senses. The creak of the inn walls, the distant shuffle of a stray cat, the sigh of wind over the shingles. My hand never strayed far from the dagger under my pillow.
If Chloe saw movement—if she blew her whistle, the one we carried for emergencies—I'd be on my feet before the echo died. Landon too, I guessed. The man slept with the confidence of a prince, but even he wasn't fool enough to be caught unready in a vampire-haunted village.
Except… the whistle never came.
No shrill sound cut the quiet. No warning. No clash.
Nothing.
When dawn finally teased the edges of the sky, painting pale gold through the window cracks, I opened my eyes and exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My first thought wasn't relief—it was irritation.
Where the hell are they?
These vampires were supposed to be terrorizing this place. We'd heard stories all week—of cattle drained dry, of people gone missing after sunset, of claw marks on doors. Yet since our arrival, nothing. No sightings. No screams. Just empty nights and silence thick enough to choke on.
Maybe they were hunting elsewhere. Maybe they'd fed well last time and were still gorged on it. Maybe they knew we were here.
That last thought bothered me more than I liked to admit.
The System within me hummed faintly as I sat up. The presence was quiet this morning, almost like it was watching. I'd grown used to its weight in my thoughts—an invisible awareness that never truly left. You didn't speak to the System, not really. You thought, and it answered, sometimes in words, sometimes in flashes of fire-script only your eyes could see. Some veterans said theirs had learned to take human form—appearing before them in flesh and voice when the mana connection deepened enough. I couldn't imagine it. Mine was still a whisper in the dark, curious and calm.
"Morning," Landon said from the other bed, his voice still heavy with sleep.
He looked too good for someone who'd just woken up. The light caught in his wheat-blonde hair, deepening it to the color of sunlit grain. Chloe would probably swoon if she saw him like this, which, unfortunately, she did—because she slipped through the window just then, quiet as a cat, boots barely making a sound on the floorboards.
Her hair was messy, her eyes rimmed with fatigue, but she still carried herself with that stubborn pride of hers.
"Nothing," she whispered. "Not a sound. Not a shadow. Nothing."
Landon frowned. "Strange."
"Strange?" I muttered, pulling my cloak around my shoulders. "It's starting to feel like a joke. We came here expecting blood and claws, and instead we get bedtime stories."
Chloe gave me a look. "Careful what you wish for."
She slumped down on the bed I'd borrowed for the night and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, I caught her sneaking a glance toward Landon, though she tried to make it look casual.
"You should rest," I said.
"Trying."
"Then stop glaring at me like I stole your bread."
Her lips twitched. "You were nodding when I came in. To yourself. What was that?"
I smiled. "Maybe I was talking to the System."
"Or to yourself?"
"Maybe both."
She rolled her eyes and pulled the blanket over her head.
Landon chuckled softly, the kind of sound that always seemed to make the air in the room lighter. "You two never change."
"Girls being girls," I said dryly.
He grinned. "Something like that."
The village looked deceptively peaceful by daylight.
People laughed in the streets, hung laundry across ropes, sold fruits and bread from wooden stalls. Children ran barefoot through the mud. The inn's courtyard smelled of freshly baked rolls and warm cider.
If you ignored the heavy locks on every door and the pale lines of salt scattered near the thresholds, you might almost forget the place was haunted by night.
Almost.
By midday, the square was alive again, and for a moment, even I began to wonder if the stories were exaggerated. Chloe chatted with an old woman about garlic charms; Landon helped a farmer lift sacks of grain like it was nothing. He had a talent for winning people over, the kind of easy smile that earned trust before words even started.
When dusk came, though, the shift was instant.
Shutters slammed. Stalls folded. Children were dragged indoors by anxious hands.
In less than ten minutes, the cheerful village turned ghostly.
We headed back to the inn. The woman who ran it met us at the door, wringing her hands. "Keep your shutters tight tonight," she warned. "They've been quiet too long. That's when they strike hardest."
I nodded. "Appreciate the warning."
She gave me a strange look—half hope, half fear—and shut the door behind us.
By the time night settled, the air felt heavier.
Landon fastened his sword-belt, checked the silver buckle, and tested the edge of his blade. "My turn tonight," he said.
I nodded. "Don't wake me unless it's blood."
Chloe, of course, wasn't having it.
"I'll join him," she announced, already pulling on her cloak.
I blinked. "You kept watch last night. Rest."
"I'm fine."
"That's not the point. We have a schedule for a reason."
"I just want to help."
I crossed my arms. "You mean you just want to stare at him under moonlight."
Her eyes flashed. "Excuse me?"
Landon raised his hands. "Ladies, please. I can handle the watch alone."
"Not happening," Chloe said firmly.
I stared at her. "Unbelievable."
Before I could argue further, she was already halfway out the window, boots quiet on the sill. Landon followed with that infuriating ease of his, landing silently in the grass below.
I muttered something unkind under my breath and lay back. Tried to sleep. Failed.
The room was too quiet. Too cold. My thoughts wouldn't settle.
In the end, I sighed, stood, and did exactly what I'd mocked Chloe for doing.
The air outside was crisp, scented faintly with pine and chimney smoke. The village slept soundless behind shuttered windows.
I crept along the side of the building, past the barrels and the rain-stained wall, until I spotted them near the square. Chloe's laughter drifted softly through the air—not loud, but sharp enough to make me stop.
She saw me a moment later and smirked. "Look who couldn't sleep."
"Lucky guess," I said. "You chasing me off?"
"Yes," she said flatly.
"No," Landon added, smiling faintly. "Stay, if you want."
I tilted my head. "You sure? I'd hate to interrupt your romantic watch."
Chloe shot me a glare. "We're working."
"Of course you are."
For a moment, tension hung between us like a drawn bowstring. Then Landon, ever the diplomat, cut through it with a quiet laugh. "If we're all staying up, we might as well be useful. Spread out. Keep within sightlines. We'll rotate positions every quarter hour."
"Fine," Chloe muttered.
I nodded.
We made peace—temporary, brittle peace—and took our posts.
The night deepened.
We moved in silence, drifting between shadowed corners and alley bends, eyes scanning for motion. The moon was half-veiled, painting the village in silver-gray. Somewhere a shutter creaked. Somewhere else, a dog whimpered, then went quiet.
Hours passed. Nothing.
Until movement caught my eye near the well.
A man stumbled out from a house down the lane, swaying on his feet, muttering to himself. Even from a distance, I could smell the ale on him.
He carried a bucket, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, eyes bleary.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I whispered.
Chloe and Landon appeared from opposite ends of the lane, both crouched low, watching. None of us moved.
The drunk man staggered toward the well, mumbling nonsense about thirst and bad wine. He leaned over the stones, dropped his bucket, and laughed at his own echo.
Then the air shifted.
Cold swept through the square, sharp as frost on steel.
My skin prickled. Landon's hand moved to his sword. Chloe's breath hitched.
Three figures stood at the edge of the square—just there, suddenly there—where a heartbeat ago, there had been only fog.
Two men. One woman.
Even in the dim light, I could see what they were.
Their skin had that strange, bloodless pallor—not the gray of illness, but the white of something that had long since forgotten warmth. Their eyes gleamed faintly red, like embers half-buried in ash. The woman in the center wore a tattered gown, her hair dark and flowing, lips the color of old wine. The men flanking her were lean, gaunt, and silent, their movements too smooth, too measured.
The drunkard turned, squinting at them. "Evening," he slurred.
The woman smiled—a slow, dreadful smile that bared just a hint of teeth.
"Evening," she echoed, her voice like silk drawn over glass.
He blinked, uncertain. "Didn't… didn't see you folks earlier."
"Of course not," one of the men said, stepping closer. His words carried an accent I couldn't place, something lilting and ancient. "We prefer to walk unseen."
The woman's eyes glittered. "You look tired, good man. Thirsty, perhaps?"
He nodded drowsily. "Could say that."
The vampires laughed softly—an almost-human sound that chilled more than any scream could.
From where we crouched, I could see their mouths twitching, the hunger sharpening behind their eyes. Their fingers flexed, nails lengthening into curved, blackened talons. The woman's lips parted, revealing fangs that slid from her gums like ivory daggers catching the moonlight.
"This one," she murmured, voice rich with hunger, "will make a fine first meal."
The drunk stumbled back a step, confusion clouding his face.
He never even saw their smiles turn to hunger.
And in the stillness before the strike—before blood and scream and death—I felt my heartbeat quicken.
The hunt had finally begun.