In the sleepy village of Dewmire at the heart of the West, it was a misty spring morning, nightingales singing to herald the start of a new day.
In a modest property on the fringes of the village was a little run-down farm with a cottage, a ways from the other houses in the scenic village.
Dulce didn't need to sleep as a Vampire, but for pretense's sake, he laid down every night, most of his nights spent reading. He was up with the sunrise on a day just like any, pale, white hair cascading down his back. It was the start of another lonely day.
He had lived in Dewmire for a few years now, but kept everyone at a distance to protect his secret and keep the Queen's soldiers from his front doors. The villagers soon learned to do the same, and he no longer received embroidered, perfume handkerchiefs from the ladies in the village.
Dulce was safe, but the loneliness was a rather steep price to pay for it.
He got out of bed as the first rays of sunlight spilled into his bedroom, his patched cotton shirt hanging haphazardly off his thin frame. It was a cold morning, but he couldn't feel it, winter thawing a month ago to make way for spring.
He put on the old apron and picked up a noticeably newer scarf hung next to the apron. It did a far better job of keeping his hair out of the muck than anything else he had tried, so he stuck with it. With his boots on and a bag of feed on his arm, he was ready to begin his day.
Dulce's farm was pitiful, it contained only a handful of animals, the only company he had, day after day, week after week, month after month.
By mid-morning, he was returning to the cottage with his bounty of milk and eggs, which he needed to sell at the village square.
Dulce sluiced down in cold water, needing to wash his hair because milk and various other unsavories had gotten on it despite his best attempts to keep his hair safe. He put on one of his best dress shirts to go to the village square, as it wasn't a trip he made often. He only went when he had produce to sell, like today.
There was a spring in his step as he walked to the square, too impoverished to afford a horse. It didn't bother him at all on such a fine day, and that was because after selling off the basket of eggs and milk, he would finally be able to acquire the final piece for his summoning ritual.
"Mister Monteserrat, come to supply more eggs and milk?" A kindly lady behind the counter of a shop spoke up as soon as he stepped through the doors.
It was a well-known shop in Dewmire, one of the few there was, and the shopkeep, a nice, middle-aged lady, had been generous enough to receive supplies from him. Even though his supplies were meager and scarcely provided.
"I am," He stepped forward, offering the produce he had sourced from his farm.
"You always have the best supplies," She complimented, looking like she wanted to say more but stopped herself. "Here you go," She placed a handful of coins on the polished wooden counter, "Two silvers and fifty coppers."
Dulce's silver blue eyes widened at the stack of coins, "Two silvers and... but that's too much, my pay is only a silver coin and thirty coppers." He protested.
Elinor gathered the coins and pressed them into his palm, "Take it as gratitude for your continued patronage. And you do need the money," She added under her breath.
Dulce hesitated, his internal struggle clear to see in his striking eyes. "Thank you." He reluctantly agreed, taking the money and dazedly wandering out.
He made his way to the blacksmith's from Miss Elinor's shop, there was only one blacksmith in the entire village. A towering, brutish man who spoke quietly in contrast to his appearance.
"Blacksmith Woller?" Dulce called, making his way into the soot-covered smithy. He could hear the clanging of metals deeper in, the fire from the forge guiding him.
"Here to finally pick up your dagger?" The blacksmith went right to it without any bother for pleasantries.
Dulce nearly tripped in his eagerness, hurrying forward to offer a leather pouch heavy with coins. It had taken him months to gather the money for a silver dagger he needed.
Woller seemed to take the money pouch with reluctance, even though the strange-looking man had moved into the village for years now, he still had the air of a guest. The thirty silvers needed for payment was a decent sum, but not one that would take so long to gather, he had already been done with the dagger, weeks ago.
His hesitation only lasted a moment before he placed the pouch to the side and then went off to get the silver knife. It was in a worn, leather sheath but was delicately crafted.
Woller had never seen the symbols he had been asked to carve into the dagger before. Rumors were that Mister Montserrat came to the west from the far north, so it was likely the symbols meant something important to him.
Dulce giddily took the dagger and promptly lost his hold on it, the sheathed knife clattering to the ground. "My apologies," He mumbled, crouching to pick it up before the blacksmith could react. "And thank you."
Blacksmith Woller watched the strange man make his way out of the smithy with a thoughtful look in his smoke-reddened eyes. How strange, for a moment it felt like the clumsy, dazed man had moved rather fluidly.
Dulce didn't linger long, beating a hasty retreat back to his cottage. He only came down to the village square once a week, sometimes less. Yet, despite this, he found it harder and harder to keep his distance from the pleasant citizens of Dewmire.
Being a Vampire was such torment, especially now that the Queen of Alderth, one of the fastest-growing powers in the west, was spitefully and relentlessly hunting down Vampires. She had also gotten the surrounding countries involved, Vampires getting gathered up in droves and executed.
Dulce had run into so many close shaves in the past few years, Dewmire the longest place he had stayed in since the Queen's soldiers came knocking on his front door. His modest estate had been seized, and even as he fled, he had learned that his servants, who had been more like old friends, had been the ones to tip the soldiers off.
He sighed as he went into the spare bedroom, it had enough space for the ritual he needed to perform. It truly wasn't the first time something of this sort had happened, but Dulce was lonely and gullible, and humans were such interesting creatures.
If he wanted the bleak truth, even if the servants of his old estate hadn't sold him out, they would have eventually died of old age, he couldn't say which outcome would have stung more.
But he had renewed hope, hope that he could finally find a companion who would remain loyal by his side and not die of old age. He enthusiastically got on his knees on the wooden floor and busied himself with drawing the sigils. He took extreme care because if something went wrong, he would have to spend months gathering up the ingredients once more.
The red, scented candles had been prepared for a while now, so he carefully unwrapped them and placed them in the appropriate positions on the large, detailed sigil drawn on the ground. After hours of preparation, there was one last detail to be added.
Dulce lit the last candle, the warm light cast over his ethereal features, focus in his silver blue eyes. Then he took out the carefully polished silver dagger and held his hand over the burning candle in the center of the formation.
He had long memorized the words, but he carefully read them again, only going ahead when he was satisfied. Bright red blood dripped into the candle from his wrist, the silver dagger coming away bloody.
The burning flame on the candle didn't extinguish despite the pouring stream of blood, instead it flickered and turned red, then an ominous shade of purple. It turned back to red again just as it exploded in a flame of fire, throwing Dulce against the wall.