They navigated the winding forest path like two wanderers caught between dusk and damnation, their silhouettes bathed in moonlight as they drifted kilometers away from the slumbering village behind them.
"I'm thirsty…" Rose whispered, her voice hoarse, lips dry and cracked. Her eyes shimmered faintly under the moon's pale gaze—an unnatural gleam betraying the hunger gnawing at her from within.
"Right, I forgot we have that problem…" Corven replied, chuckling dryly. The sound lacked warmth, more reflex than relief. "Just a bit more. We'll find prey eventually."
She moved closer to him, steps slower now, her arms folded across her stomach as if to soothe the ache building inside.
"What about before…?" she asked, her tone a blend of hesitation and hope. "Can't you share some of your blood with me?"
Corven shook his head, the motion brisk, but not unkind. "No. I don't have much left."
His fingers grazed the healing bite on his neck, a faint sting still lingering where her fangs had pierced his flesh.
'If the system's right, I've got nothing left in the tank. Not risking one drop more.'
His steps slowed slightly as the memory crept up his spine, but he kept walking.
The silence between them stretched—until salvation revealed itself like a mirage breaking through the darkness.
Smoke.
Rising steadily into the night air, curling above the treeline like a signal fire.
As they turned the bend, it became clear.
Tents.
A flickering bonfire.
And most importantly—humans.
A traveling camp, likely mercenaries or bandits judging by the crude armor and rusted weaponry scattered among them. There were at least ten visible, all of them armed. All of them reeking of confidence and death.
Deadly, but not invincible.
"Not one step more!" a voice barked, deep and commanding. A figure stepped forward from the camp's edge, boots crunching on gravel as he approached Corven and Rose without fear.
His presence was imposing. A thick mantle of wolf fur draped over his shoulders, a short, well-forged straight sword resting against his hip. Scarred, battle-worn, and cocky.
Corven raised an eyebrow, stopping just before the man reached them. "What is it?"
Rose, however, didn't even glance at the speaker.
Her breathing had changed.
Shallow. Ragged.
Her glowing eyes fixated on the group by the fire.
"Blood…" she whispered, her voice barely audible—but laced with hunger sharp enough to tear flesh.
She shifted, about to lunge forward—but Corven caught her by the wrist in a single, fluid motion.
"Let's learn what kind of people they are before we go full murder, okay?" he said with a smirk, voice casual—though his grip was anything but relaxed.
The man's gaze flicked between them, lingering on Rose.
"You're not from around here," the wolf-cloaked figure said, sneering. "Doesn't matter. You're trespassing. We're taking you prisoner."
Corven tilted his head. "What for?"
"Are you deaf, or just plain stupid?" the man snapped, taking a step closer. "We're taking you prisoner. That's it."
His eyes lingered on Rose for a moment too long, and his lips curled with twisted interest.
"And her?" he asked, voice thick with suggestion. "Seems like a pretty thing. How about a deal? Your life… for hers."
With that, he unsheathed his sword slowly, the blade gleaming in the firelight. "What do you say?"
Corven's expression didn't change.
Instead, he simply ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling through his nose as a slow, unsettling grin began to spread across his lips.
"Looks like we'll be having a feast tonight."
Then, without another word, he let go of Rose's wrist.
She didn't hesitate.
Her body blurred forward in a predatory surge, hair whipping like a shadow behind her. The man's bravado dissolved in an instant as crimson eyes locked onto his own—and fear bloomed in his chest.
"Back o—!"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Rose tackled him to the ground with bone-shattering force. Her fangs plunged into his neck, and the scream that followed was wet, muffled, and short-lived.
Back at the camp, the others rose to their feet, weapons drawn. Shouts filled the air as they scrambled to respond—some out of instinct, others out of panic.
There were nine left.
One of them already notched an arrow, the bowstring taut.
Corven's eyes lit up like twin coals as he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.
"Let me take care of them," he said with a dark laugh—and then sprinted toward the camp with inhuman speed.
The bowman let his arrow fly.
But Corven didn't stop.
"Finally," he growled, his voice a savage hiss, "some actual pieces of shit I can feed on without guilt!"