It was well past midnight when the group arrived at the fog-wrapped edge of Noctas Hollow. The moon, full and unnaturally still, hung above like an unblinking eye.
The village ahead was ancient—houses carved into crooked cliffsides, candles burning behind blood-tinted windows, the scent of copper thick in the air.
"This place smells like a butcher's basement," the rogue murmured.
"You're not wrong," Tarokai replied, his voice flat. He had not yet turned back into his feline form, but his eyes glowed faintly beneath his blindfold. Even in blindness, he saw too much.
Alexandra pulled her coat tighter. "Vampires. This is a village of vampires."
Calvus, still nursing his scratched face, tried to sound brave. "Well, surely they're not all bloodthirsty monsters."
A low hiss echoed from a rooftop. Something pale with too many fingers skittered across the slates.
"Shut up, Fuck-Face," Alexandra said.
They descended into the village, guided by an elder named Sorenth, who bore no reflection but smiled too easily. He welcomed them with old-world grace, offering crimson wine and hollowed bread.
"You're safe under the Treaty of Ash," Sorenth promised. "No blood spilled unless by permission."
Tarokai raised a brow. "And if blood is asked for?"
Sorenth's smile widened. "Then we feast like gods."
The group rested in a guest house carved into a stone wall. That night, Tarokai sat beside the window, drawing his cards in silence.
He pulled one.
The Lovers.
And it wept blood.
He said nothing, but the shadows outside whispered his name.
Tomorrow, something in Noctas Hollow would break the Treaty of Ash.
And it would begin with a kiss of fangs.