Dawn brought mist and the sound of church bells carrying across the valley. Darius dragged the succubus's corpse behind his horse, bound in coarse rope. The body had grown heavier in death, its true form revealed—mottled gray skin stretched over sharp bones, claws like rusted iron. The illusion of beauty was gone, leaving only the nightmare beneath.
The village of Millbrook stirred to life as he rode down the main road. Shutters creaked open, then slammed shut just as quickly when people glimpsed what followed his mount. Children were pulled inside. Dogs barked and whined, sensing something unnatural.
The village elder, Aldric Thorne, waited in the square. A stout man with silver-streaked beard and calculating eyes, he wore the fine wool and brass buckles that marked him as prosperous by local standards. Behind him stood two guards with halberds, though they kept their distance from the corpse.
"Well, Drake," Aldric said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Looks like the stories were true after all."
Darius dismounted and cut the rope. The succubus's body hit the cobblestones with a wet thud. "Three travelers. This is what took them."
Aldric circled the corpse, his expression mixing disgust with satisfaction. "Ugly bitch, ain't she? Without all that demon glamour." He hawked and spat on the twisted face. "Should've known no woman that beautiful would come to a shithole like this willingly."
The elder crouched for a closer look, careful not to touch. "I'll have the lads drag this thing to the High Church in Gravenhill. Let the priests burn it proper-like. Can't have demon taint seeping into our soil."
At the mention of the High Church, something flickered behind Darius's red eyes. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing.
"About our arrangement," Aldric continued, straightening. "Seventy gold, as agreed. Though some of the council thought that was steep for one dead demon."
"Your people are alive. The roads are safe." Darius's voice carried no emotion. "The price stands."
Aldric chuckled and produced a leather purse heavy with coin. "Aye, I suppose it does. You Drakes don't haggle much, do you?"
"No."
"Fair enough." The elder counted out seventy gold pieces into Darius's palm. "There's the Sleeping Giant tavern if you're looking for food and drink before you move on. Though I'd suggest you don't linger too long."
The warning was clear enough. Darius pocketed the gold and walked toward the tavern.
The Sleeping Giant squatted between a blacksmith's shop and a grain merchant, its timber walls dark with age and smoke. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ale, unwashed bodies, and roasted meat. Conversations died as Darius entered, replaced by hostile stares and muttered curses.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered ale and bread. The barkeep, a nervous man with thinning hair, served him quickly and backed away as if proximity might prove contagious.
"Bloody freak," someone muttered from a corner table. "Those red eyes ain't natural."
"Heard they eat babies," another voice added. "Drake blood's cursed, everyone knows it."
"Should've died out years ago, the lot of them."
Darius drank his ale in silence, accustomed to such talk. In every village, every town, the reception was the same. Fear mixed with disgust, gratitude poisoned by revulsion. They needed him, but they'd never accept him.
A young man with broad shoulders and a smith's callused hands approached the bar. He'd been drinking heavily, his face flushed and belligerent.
"My cousin was one of them travelers," he said loudly, swaying slightly. "Dead because you took too damn long to get here."
Darius didn't look up from his cup.
"I'm talking to you, demon-eyes!" The smith grabbed Darius's shoulder. "My cousin had a wife, little ones. They're begging in the streets now because you couldn't be bothered to—"
Darius moved faster than the eye could follow. His hand closed around the smith's wrist, twisting until bones ground together. The young man cried out and dropped to his knees.
"Your cousin died because he was stupid enough to follow a beautiful woman into dark woods," Darius said quietly. "Not because I was slow."
"Let him go!" Another man rose from the corner table, hand on his knife. "We don't need your kind here!"
"Aye!" The sentiment spread quickly. "Fucking abomination!"
"Get out before we run you out!"
Chairs scraped back. Hands moved to weapons. The barkeep retreated behind his counter, wringing his hands.
Darius released the smith, who scrambled backward clutching his wrist. "I've done what you paid for. Your quarrel is with the dead."
"Our quarrel's with freaks who think they're better than honest folk!" The knife-wielder took a step forward. "Time someone taught you proper respect!"
The blade cleared its sheath. Darius sighed and stood, his own knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. The tavern held its breath.
What followed was brief and brutal. The villager lunged clumsily, telegraphing his intent. Darius sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and drove his knee into the attacker's elbow. The joint snapped with a wet crack. The knife clattered to the floor as the man screamed.
Two more rushed him from behind. Darius spun, his blade opening one man's throat in a crimson arc. The other hesitated at the sight of his friend's blood, and that hesitation cost him his life. Darius's knife punched through his ribs, seeking the heart.
The tavern erupted in chaos. Some fled for the door, others grabbed whatever weapons they could find. But when they looked at the Drake standing over two corpses, his crimson eyes reflecting no emotion at all, their courage failed them.
"Anyone else?" Darius asked softly.
Silence answered him.
He cleaned his blade and sheathed it, then left coins on the bar for his ale. No one tried to stop him as he walked out.