[Llyne's Side]
The night air bit into my skin as I slipped out of the witch's house, wrapped in silence and shadow. My treasure—what little I'd salvaged—hung heavy in my bag. I needed to hide it. Somewhere forgotten. Somewhere no sane soul would look.
The town lay sleeping under a blanket of darkness. Streets stretched out, empty and cold. Rooftops lined with silent crows, unmoving except when the wind stirred. Windows dark. Doors locked. Not a whisper. Not a single footstep. Just me and the chill.
Or so I thought.
A few blocks behind… footsteps echoed.
At first, I told myself it was nothing. Coincidence. But when I sped up—the steps quickened too. When I slowed—they slowed to match. The rhythm clung to mine, shadowing each move. Each echo on the cobblestones dug claws into my gut.
'Someone was tailing me.'
I scanned the road ahead. A narrow alley waited a few turns down. Memory tugged at me: perfect spot to vanish. I slipped into the shadows, breath low and light, every step a practiced whisper.
When I turned into the alley, the night swallowed me whole.
Seconds later, my pursuer rounded the corner. Unaware.
They paused.
'Too slow.'
"Darkness is your ally, child." Master's voice echoed in my head.
I moved like smoke. My first blow came swift, meant to knock them cold—but they twisted, reacting at the last second.
'Impressive.'
'But not enough.'
I pivoted, slammed a kick into their back. They crashed into the wall hard enough to rattle the bricks. Before they could recover, my boot pressed into their chest, pinning them.
"You're not going anywhere, stalker."
Still.
Too still.
"Hey... don't tell me you're—"
I eased my foot off, crouching down.
Breathing. Faint. Just unconscious.
"Tch. Only fainted."
With a grunt, I dug a rope from my bag and bound them. My knots were fast, tight, the product of more training than I'd ever admit. No chances taken tonight.
Moonlight cut across the alley, catching on crimson and black cloth. A sigil marked the back: a fang biting into a sun.
"A heretic? First a witch, now a heretic? What's with my luck?"
I slung the body over my shoulder. "Ugh. Another baggage to carry."
Climbing the nearest wall, I used ledges and cracks to pull myself to the rooftops. The cold wind cut deeper up here, but the height gave me eyes on the town below: a maze of sleeping homes, chimneys coughing weak smoke. The weight over my shoulder shifted with every landing, groaning faintly.
"Complain when you're awake," I muttered.
Soon, I found what I needed: an abandoned shed perched atop a crumbling tailor's shop. Door half off its hinge, roof patched with rusted metal.
'Perfect.'
I kicked the door open and stepped inside. Dust curled in the moonlight. Shelves sagged under rotting cloth. The smell of mildew pressed in thick.
Quiet. Hidden.
Just right.
I dropped the cultist onto a pile of sacks. Still out cold.
Squatting beside him, I checked the ropes, then settled back, exhaling. "Alright, stalker. Who are you?"
Silence.
The dagger spun lazily between my fingers, the metal catching the dim light.
Minutes stretched. Shadows lengthened.
Then he murmured. "...Sacrifice..."
I leaned closer. "What?"
Nothing.
"Really? Silent now?"
I grabbed his collar. The hood slipped, revealing a face like death: ashen skin, bloodshot eyes, lips stained dark. Vampire cult. No mistaking it.
"Oh crap... Vampire cult."
Suddenly, his mouth twisted into a grin. Blood on his teeth.
"I am Ashborn, Acolyte of Varkhail from the Crimson Choir. One day, the Vampire God shall arise and you mortals will be—"
I smacked him. Hard.
"Don't jinx people, you fool."
His head lolled, blood dripping from his nose. I reached to check the pulse.
Dead.
"You've got to be kidding me. I should really control my strength."
Guilt prickled, cold and fleeting. Survival first. Regret later. My hands moved without pause, stripping his corpse of anything useful.
Prayer beads of bone. Ritual daggers. Vials of dried blood. And then—a book. No title. Worn cover.
"Looks mysterious."
Wind hissed through the broken wall, stirring old dust. The chill bit deeper.
"Great. Need fire or I'll freeze."
I rummaged around. No tinder. At first, I considered the rotting cloth—but it felt too pitiful. Instead, I tore a page from the cultist's book and fed it to the flames. Weird symbols danced across the paper as it burned.
One page shimmered as I tore it, the ink writhing like living worms. Into the fire it went. And as it curled black, a thin, distant scream reached my ears.
I froze. Heart thudding.
'Just the wind... right?'
Didn't matter.
More pages. More fuel.
"Ahh~ That's better."
I warmed my hands by the flickering flame. Glanced at the corpse. "See? Told you I'd use your stuff well."
But something tugged at me — a whisper at the edge of thought. I flipped to the last pages before they fed the flames. Symbols danced like veins — binding, calling. It hit me like ice.
'A summoning book.'
My heart stumbled. The same kind that painter used for that demon.
Wide‑eyed, I threw the rest to the fire.
"Adios."
I sank back, knees pulled close. The fire popped, hot and angry.
"That was close. If that book had gotten to the painter again…"
The wind fell quiet. Too quiet.
Then it struck me. "What if that wasn't the only one?"
The flames crackled lower. I sat there, dread blooming slow in my gut.
Sleep was an enemy tonight. I lay curled on the dusty floor, eyes locked on the rotting beams above. Mind refused to shut up.
'Somewhere out there, Ronald's probably fumbling around, crying into the dirt like the soft fool he is.'
"That poor crybaby," I muttered, guilt nipping like a stray dog at my ribs. "How's he supposed to survive out there? He's probably bawling his eyes out and wetting himself by now."
I exhaled sharp, jaw tight.
"If Isaac finds out about this… he's going to rip me apart, piece by piece."
I closed my eyes, biting down on the groan building in my chest.
"So it's either death in here, or death when I get out. Great. Just great."
A wide yawn clawed its way out anyway.
"I better find Ronald tomorrow… and drag him back home safely."
I stretched out, joints popping loud in the silence.
"I'm so full of energy," I mumbled, half a laugh curling my lips even as sleep clawed me under.
The little shed filled with soft, unbothered snores.
But peace and I were strangers. Outside, beyond the broken door, shadows bloomed — shifting, low and patient. Thieves. Rats fat on the scent of easy coin.
They'd watched. Waited. The moment I drifted — they pounced.
One scout, wiry and sharp‑eyed, scaled the shed's side like a lizard. His breath fogged in the cold as he pressed an eye to a peephole he'd carved between splintered boards.
Seconds passed.
He slipped back down, boots landing silent in the dirt.
"She's asleep," he rasped, grin wide and hungry. "Dead to the world."
"Is that so?" their leader murmured, voice a blade hidden in velvet. "Looks like our window just opened."
"Once we grab her treasure, we'll be filthy rich!" a younger voice hissed, excitement quivering in his teeth.
"Shhh!" The leader's hand whipped out, a knife of a gesture. "You want her to wake up? Hold it in."
With a flick of his wrist, they moved — shadows slithering into place, wrapping the shed like wolves circling a lamb.
Inside, I snored on — blissfully, stupidly unaware.
One thief knelt by the door, pulling thin picks from a hidden pocket. His hands worked with careful, reverent ease — each twist, each tug a silent hymn to practiced crime.
"Hurry it up," another hissed, eyes flicking at the shadows behind them.
"These things take patience," the lockpicker muttered, brow furrowed.
"Our patience is wearing thin — so get moving!"
A grunt cut through the cold — a brute twice their size stepped forward, sleeves stretched tight over muscle. Without so much as a glance, he shoved the lockpicker aside and wrapped a fist around the old padlock.
Metal cracked. Snapped like dry bone.
The group froze. Even the lockpicker stared, half insulted, half awed.
"You could've just—"
"No time," the leader barked, waving them forward. "We're done whispering. Move!"
The lock dropped to the dirt. The door creaked. One by one, the thieves slipped inside — shadows melting into the stale dark.
Above them, my soft snores carried on.
For now.