Eva pressed her heels gently into Lucy's sides, guiding the mare beneath the tall wooden posts. The carved wards loomed overhead, grooves darkened with ash. No door, no lock—only the illusion of a boundary.
As she crossed beneath the symbols, the change was immediate. Heads turned in the square, and the rhythm of life faltered. A woman froze mid-step, bread still in her hands. A boy's laughter cut short as he darted behind his father. Two men at the fountain set down their buckets, watching with wary eyes.
For a heartbeat, the village held its breath.
"She came through the wards," someone whispered. "She broke them."
The air tightened, suspicion flashing across the faces around her. Eva straightened instinctively, heat rising to her cheeks as dozens of eyes fixed on her.
Then a man stepped forward from the edge of the square—a broad-shouldered farmer with soil dark under his nails. He studied her, gaze sweeping her face, her hands, her ears, the flush of living color in her skin.
"Not vampire," he said, firm and certain. His voice carried enough weight to shift the crowd. "Look at her—cheeks warm, eyes bright, rounded ears. She's one of us."
A murmur rippled through the square, tension breaking. Shoulders eased, but curiosity quickly replaced fear.
"If she's human," an older woman said, shading her eyes against the sun, "then what's she doing beside him?"
Eva followed the woman's glance back toward the forest, though Lucarion was already gone. A ripple of unease stirred in her chest at his absence.
"She came with a lord," another villager murmured, and now the eyes fixed on her were sharp again—not fearful, but searching.
"Who is she?"
"Why bring her here?"
"Is she one of us—or one of them?"
The voices pressed in, insistent, crowding.
Eva's hand tightened on Lucy's reins. She forced her chin up, though her pulse thundered in her throat. For the first time since her capture, she stood before her kin.
She swung down from Lucy's back, boots striking the packed earth of the square. The murmuring crowd shifted closer, cautious but curious, eyes darting between her flushed face and the horse she steadied with one hand.
"I'm not here to harm you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'm a visitor, from the human kingdoms beyond the border. Lord Lucarion permitted me to visit you. To see how you live."
The words rang strange even in her own mouth, like a treaty she had not signed. But they seemed to land. The farmer gave a small nod, and some villagers edged nearer, fear softened by interest.
Eva drew a breath. "If you'll allow me… I'd like to speak with you. To understand. Will you show me your village?"
A ripple of glances passed among them. Then a woman with gray threaded in her braids stepped forward, her expression neither hostile nor welcoming, only weighing. At last she said, "We've nothing to hide."
Relief loosened the knot in Eva's chest. She let Lucy's reins be taken by a boy grinning wide-eyed at the mare, then followed as the villagers guided her deeper into their world.
The square smelled of baking bread and wet earth. Gardens crowded with beans and herbs lined the houses, and above doorways hung charms—some shaped like crosses, some like crescent moons, others no more than feathers or beads strung on twine. Different faiths braided together, stitched into one.
"They're prayers," the gray-braided woman said, noting Eva's gaze. "Each of us brought our own. Some came from the north, some the east. We set them side by side. No priest, no law. Just what keeps the night soft."
Eva touched one—a wooden disc burned with spirals—her throat tightening. Not the church she knew, but a patchwork of her people's will to endure.
As they walked, she pressed with questions. "Your masters—how often do they come? How do they treat you?"
The woman's steps were steady on the cobbled path. Her tone was calm, measured. "There are rules. Laws that we and they follow."
A man set a bucket of water beside a doorstep. A child chased a goat, laughter bubbling—until the woman's gaze brushed over him. He stopped, dipped a quick bow, then scampered back to play.
"A master may not kill the human they feed from," the woman said. "They may not take blood by force—unless the bond is broken."
They passed a small garden where a teenage girl picked herbs. Beside her, a wicker basket sat open, holding two sealed glass jars. Wax seals were stamped with spirals, careful and precise. The girl glanced up, cheeks pink, and quickly bent her head again.
"Each household belongs to one family only," the woman said. "No master may poach another's. No switching, no stealing."
"Consent is expected. Refusal is honored," she went on. "But if your master leaves hungry, the shame falls on your house."
'Consent,' they called it. She'd seen vampires take whole battalions apart for less than a bowed head.
They passed a row of cottages, each doorway marked with charms—crosses of twigs, crescents pressed from clay, spirals burned into wood. A mother leaned from her threshold, watching her children tumble together just beyond the protective line. Her smile was faint, but proud.
"Every home keeps its measure," the gray-braided woman said. "Twice a month, when the sun is high, each family carries it to the clearing beyond the wards. Their masters wait there—always the same family, never another. It keeps order. It keeps the bond personal. Each house is theirs, as surely as the fields or the hearth."
At a fountain, an older woman filled jugs while a boy scrubbed the basin. A knot of youths lingered nearby. One bragged loudly of how much his family had given last month, puffing his chest as his friends jeered.
"Everyone above fifteen gives," the gray-braided woman said. "No excuses. Some even give more, if they can. It shows loyalty. Strength. A household that gives freely earns respect—and gifts. The ones who give less…" She shrugged, her voice dry. "They live with shame."
They passed a cottage where a man carefully packed jars into a basket, arranging them like offerings. His wife smoothed the cloth that would cover them, her movements precise, almost reverent. Eva's stomach twisted at the sight.
The woman's voice dropped as they walked on. "Some… make other arrangements. Closer ties. Meetings in the woods, outside the wards. That is their choice."
Eva's eyes narrowed. "What kind of arrangements?"
The woman only tilted her head toward the winding street, where the village stretched toward the trees. "You wish to know? Ask them yourself. Each household keeps its own bargains. No two are the same."
They walked toward the outer row of cottages and stopped at a low house with a sagging thatch roof, its doorway strung with a charm of feathers and bones that rattled softly in the breeze. A pair of hounds lifted their heads from the step but did not bark.
A young man emerged from the doorway at their approach, wiping his hands on a cloth. His hair was sun-bleached at the edges, his arms lean and strong from labor. He looked at Eva with frank curiosity, not fear, though his eyes lingered on her clothes, her straight back, the way she carried herself.
"This is Tomas," the gray-braided woman said. "His house serves the Sorelis."
Tomas dipped his head. "Welcome, stranger." His voice was warm, though careful.
Eva managed a small smile. "Thank you. May I ask you a few questions?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "If it pleases." He leaned on the doorframe; the dogs sank back at his feet.
"Your household—do you follow the same rules as the others?"
"Aye. Two jars each month, carried to the clearing. My father delivers them—always has."
"And are there other arrangements? Special ties with your masters?"
Tomas's mouth curved, not with shame but pride. "You've heard, then."
Eva nodded slightly, her stomach tightening.
He lifted his chin. "We run for them—my brothers and I. When the moon is bright, we go into the woods. The masters take the chase. It takes speed, lungs, no fear of the dark. We've done it since my grandfather's time." His teeth flashed in a grin. "They say our blood tastes sharper after the run."
Something in his tone—half worship, half defiance—made her skin prickle.
"You let them hunt you?"
His grin didn't falter. "Not let—choose. Others bring jars. We bring our flesh, our breath, our strength. And when they catch us…" He shrugged, as if the rest were obvious. "It binds us closer. They favor our house. We lack for nothing."
Eva swallowed. "And if you stumble? If you fail to escape?"
His eyes glinted, too bright. "Then you're caught sooner. That's all. Better to fall running than stand like cattle. That's our way."
The dogs stirred at his feet, restless at his tone. Eva couldn't hold his gaze. Pride rolled off him, fierce and misplaced, while in her stomach curled only cold: the game twisted into honor.