Rain poured for two straight nights, soaking boots and cloaks until everything smelled like moldy bread and disappointment.
Basil the mule, ever the champion of bad timing, refused to walk when it rained and only moved if bribed with dried beets.
But the worst part?
The night ambushes.
The vampires were like smoke—silent, swift, and untraceable until they were already clawing at your face.
Every night, screams broke the silence. Sometimes it was just a sentry being dragged off into the darkness, sometimes it was a whole cart overturned and burned.
Selis hardly slept. She stayed curled in the corner of the wagon with a stake in one hand and a bottle of holy water clutched like a child's stuffed toy in the other.
One night, she woke up to a pale face grinning inches from her own, only for it to vanish into ash a second later as another hunter drove a spear through its back.
"Sweet dreams," the hunter said, wiping his blade.
