The crackling of the fire danced with the beautiful light of the moon, as the villagers gathered around long tables made of raw wood.
The scent of roasted meat, warm bread, and spiced broth mingled with the crisp evening air.
Freya made her way to the central square, her steps relaxed, the smile still painted on her face.
She left Azrael behind, just for a moment.
He, instead, walked away in silence, toward a small stone fountain on a part of the village where no one was.
He knelt, letting the cold water run between his fingers.
Azrael's soul calmed down when he felt the cold feeling of water flowing trough his skin.
That feeling made him feel human.
He loved water.
His hands were still stained with the blood of battle.
He washed slowly, then splashed water onto his face, closing his eyes for a brief moment, enjoying every single instant.
It looked like he was washing everything bad from him.
But still, the bad sensations hadn't left him.
The scent of blood was still in the air.
The aura of vampires.
The danger wasn't over.
But for now… he had to blend in.
When he returned, the square was packed.
Men, children, mothers and elders were seated along the wooden tables, ready for the feast.
And also... Hunters.
They were dressed with armors, printed with a wolf mark on their chest, sign that they were part of the "Shiroi Okami".
The White Wolf.
A very strong clan of hunters.
There were a few of them.
The village chief, a short, broad man with eyes full of faith, stood up, raising a cup of wine.
"Let us pray!" he said solemnly. "Let us pray the gods protect our village, and keep the monsters of the night at bay! And let us give thanks to our saviors… to the Hunters!"
"Praise the Hunters!" everyone shouted in unison.
Azrael took a seat in a table that was "distant" from other people, his greatsword still strapped to his back—immobile, like a shadow.
He didn't want to interact with other humans.
He didn't join the prayer.
Didn't move his lips.
His gaze was fixed in the distance—detached.
Naturally, Freya sat beside him.
The smile still on her lips, her eyes curious.
"Not praying?" she whispered, leaning toward him.
Azrael didn't answer.
He crossed his arms.
"Praying is useless. The gods don't answer, and vampires don't wait."
Freya chuckled softly.
"Still the same stone-hearted man…" She sighed.
She rested her elbow on the table, placing her chin on the back of her hand as she studied him.
Freya and Azrael knew each other since a long time, but they didn't interact a lot outside from their missions together.
Both of them were part on the team of young talents when they were very young.
"You know… I think I'm really lucky, Azrael. After all these years, to find myself right here—sitting next to you..." She teased.
Azrael remained still, his eyes locked on the others, as if watching the entire village through a hunter's lens.
Freya watched him closely, then added, more provocatively:
"What do you say we relax a little after dinner? Just you and me. Maybe next to that fountain… alone." She whispered,
Azrael immediately understood that she observed him.
Silence.
Then, in a cold and measured voice, Azrael replied:
"A skilled hunter like you should stay alert every second. The night isn't over."
Freya raised her brows, still smiling.
"Your paranoia… is oddly charming." She said with a flirty tone.
She placed a hand gently on the table near her plate.
"But don't worry. The village is protected by a magic barrier. No vampire can cross it without us knowing."
Azrael lowered his gaze for a moment, then slowly looked up at her.
"No barrier could resist against a general of Maria, you know... and I have a strange feeling about the Gudras I fought... He didn't seem... too strong." Azrael said, with an almost worried tone of voice.
"Oh come on... Azrael. I saw everything. He didn't even have the time of react. And his magic aura was enormous... I saw it with my spirit eye... Come on... just relax now." Freya said, with a soft tone of voice.
Azrael, however, became more serious.
"The vampires who followed Gudras… they're not dead.
They're still out there.
And they probably know we're here." He said.
For the first time, Freya didn't answer right away.
Then, she nodded with a sigh.
"Then I'll stay awake tonight. But only because you asked." Freya said.
"But please, just relax a bit for now, okay?~" She added, with a smile.
She knew that if Azrael said something like this, it would've probably meant that the threat was real.
Azrael didn't reply. His eyes returned to the flames of the great fire in the center of the village.
The village chief raised his voice again:
"Now, hunters—eat! Drink! Tonight, thanks to you, we live! Praise the Hunters!"
"Praise!" the people shouted again.
Cutlery clattered, wine flowed, laughter filled the air.
The White Wolf hunters were clearly enjoying their time.
Two of them were youngsters, probably around 18 years old.
Other two were adults, and more expert.
And another one was a woman.
A mage, to be specific, and a very powerful one.
She had a three star tattoo on her left shoulder.
That mark was an undeniable sign of a high grade.
They were having fun with everyone.
Laughing, drinking... normal things.
But Azrael… did not laugh.
And deep within his eyes, there was the omen of something yet to come.
The dinner had already begun.
Azrael kept staring at the plate in front of him with a blank expression.
Stew. Warm bread. Potatoes cooked in red wine.
The scent was inviting—almost… nostalgic.
But he didn't move.
Beside him, Freya—still disguised as "Aurea"—ate calmly, savoring each bite with elegance, as if she truly were just a simple village woman.
"Not hungry?" she asked, her voice almost innocent.
Azrael didn't respond right away. He eyed the food as if it were a trap.
"This village is peaceful," she added softly. "I've been here over a week. Honest people. Scared, but kind. No signs of corruption or… dark presence. I swear it." Freya said, trying to calm down Azrael.
She met his eyes.
"You can trust it. Just for tonight." She said, while gently rubbing his hand.
Azrael remained silent for another few seconds and didn't react at her touch, but it didn't feel uncomfortable.
Then, slowly, he reached for the spoon with a sigh.
One bite.
The taste was strange.
But good.
Almost… too good.
The second bite followed immediately.
His senses flared. With every swallow, he felt something stir in his stomach. It wasn't poison.
It wasn't magic.
It was… emotion.
He had forgotten this taste.
This warmth.
That quiet serenity around the table.
The laughter of the people.
Children running.
Plates emptying.
And then he realized something.
It had been too long.
Far too long since the last time he lived a moment like this.
Freya, watching him gently, noticed the way his face seemed to soften—just a little.
"Not bad, right?"
Azrael nodded faintly.
"No." He said.
The real dances began soon after. A tall fire crackled in the center of the square, while a simple folk melody flowed from the wooden harp of an old man seated by the flames.
Men and women started dancing, hand in hand, spinning and laughing.
Freya turned to Azrael, reaching out her hand.
"Come."
Azrael looked at her like she had asked him to walk on water.
"I don't dance."
"Exactly. Time you learned."
She took his hand. He didn't stop her.
In the middle of the dance, Azrael moved awkwardly. His boots were too heavy for the light steps of a countryside rhythm. But Freya guided him with grace—sometimes laughing, sometimes leaning close to whisper in his ear.
And for a moment—just a moment—Azrael smiled.
Or came very close to it.
He almost looked… human.
But deep down, something began to burn.
This was all too perfect.
The laughter. The food. The music. The dancing. The firelight.
Too many coincidences. Too much calm.
And Azrael was not born for calm.
The night carried on with singing, wine, and jests. Some villagers drifted to sleep near the fire, others vanished into their homes one by one.
Freya, a bit tipsy, kept giggling between sips of wine, leaning against Azrael's arm with growing boldness.
"You know… you're much more handsome when you're not brooding." She said.
"Shame you only say that when you drink." Azrael replied.
"Maybe you should drink more. Who knows… maybe that armor of yours might finally crack... Hehe~" She said, while clinging to him in order to don't fall.
Azrael didn't reply. He stared ahead, allowing her to rest against him like a lazy feather.
His greatsword, however, was still there—strapped to his back. Silent. Heavy. Vigilant.
By the end of the evening, the village chief approached, smiling warmly.
"Hero… Slayer. We haven't seen a night like this in years. As thanks, we offer you our finest cabin. There, you can rest in peace."
Azrael dipped his head slightly.
"I accept. Thank you."
Freya followed him shortly after, still humming to herself.
"Did you hear that? Finest cabin. I hope the bed's wide enough…"
Azrael didn't answer. But in the darkness… his eyes had changed.
The warrior was preparing.
Because something inside him whispered:
This was not the end.
It was the beginning.
The chief already knew that Azrael had fought something.
There was something deep down that.