Frederick leaped effortlessly into the sunken field, his boots landing with a dull thud on the barren ground. Without hesitation, he strode toward the group of idle men, their demeanor exuding defiance.
Pausing a short distance from them, Frederick offered a slight bow, a gesture of respect that seemed almost out of place amidst the tension. His voice was calm but carried the weight of authority. "I am here on behalf of Earl Quentin Beaumont," he announced, his gaze steady. "You are ordered to comply. Any further resistance will only lead to unnecessary conflict."
The four men exchanged glances, then erupted into mocking laughter. One spat on Frederick's polished boots while another lobbed a rock, aiming for his face.
Frederick's hand shot up instinctively, catching the rock mid-air with ease. He let it drop to the ground, his expression unchanging. "As my final warning," he said evenly, brushing off their provocation, "I'II let this slide. But you will resume working."
His words were met with more derision. One of the veterans, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek—stepped forward, his voice dripping with contempt. "A mere dud dares to order me? A former general of the police department?!"
The word dud cut through Frederick like a blade. His jaw tightened imperceptibly as he let out a weary sigh. "I tried to speak civilly," he muttered, almost to himself.
Bending his knees slightly, Frederick's hand moved to his left hip. In one smooth motion, he unsheathed the blade gifted to him by Quentin—a finely crafted weapon that gleamed even in the dull light of the sunken field.
In the blink of an eye, Frederick was beside the former general. His sword hovered mere inches from the man's neck, its edge sharp enough to split the air itself. Frederick's voice dropped to a near-whisper, cold and deadly. "I don't care whether you were a former general—or even a former Duke," he said, his words like ice.
The veteran's bravado faltered, his smug expression giving way to unease.
Frederick's eyes burned with suppressed emotion as he leaned in slightly. "call me dud one more time," he continued, his tone unwavering, "and I'll cut your head clean."
The threat hung in the air, suffocating and undeniable. The other veterans, who moments ago had laughed so freely, now stood frozen, their defiance silenced by the aura of a man who clearly meant every word.
A veteran, breaking free from the grip of his trance, launched himself at Frederick, the nearest target of his ire.
Yet, fate had other designs. Frederick, having released the former general, executed a deft maneuver, propelling his body horizontally through the air. In that fleeting moment, his knee connected with a resounding impact against the veteran's chin, sending him soaring upward like a ragdoll.
As he landed gracefully on his feet, Frederick's instincts kicked in. He crouched low, sensing the presence of another veteran creeping up behind him, intent on a surprise embrace. His hand instinctively reached for his sword, but a memory of Quentin's counsel halted him.
In a swift change of strategy, he grasped the entire scabbard instead and leaped, delivering a precise strike to his assailant's chin. With a fluid motion, he spun once more, bringing the scabbard down upon the veteran's head, pinning him firmly to the ground.
Frederick halted his advance, his gaze fixed upon the former general—once brimming with arrogance, now reduced to a quivering wretch, desperately attempting to flee yet finding himself ensnared by the very ground beneath him, his feet flailing in a futile struggle.
With deliberate steps, Frederick approached the fallen figure, crouching low to meet his gaze. "Do not complicate your fate," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Each of us has a designated role, and yours is to serve as a slave."
At these words, the former general froze, his eyes wide with terror as he beheld the young man before him. The fear was palpable, for the two veterans whom Frederick had bested were also once esteemed generals of the Council.
Rising to his full height, Frederick brushed off the remnants of dust from his immaculate attire, a gesture of nonchalance amidst the chaos.
He offered a final, mocking bow to the former general before turning away, leaving behind the echoes of his dominance.
***
Elias and Victor readied themselves for departure, intent on first securing Elias' earnings before embarking on the search for new employment.
Elias' injured arm dangled awkwardly, secured by a makeshift sling fashioned from a scrap of cloth tied around his neck.
Victor, ever the steadfast companion, lent his support to Elias, who struggled to walk unaided. The sun, a distant orb, was already sinking behind the towering edifices that loomed over them, casting long shadows on the ground.
As they moved forward, Victor urged Elias to reconsider, suggesting they postpone their venture until tomorrow, mindful of his friend's frail condition.
Yet, no flicker of doubt crossed his mind regarding Elias, for his resolve was unwavering.
They made their way directly to a narrow passage between buildings, descending into the depths of the sewers.
Victor possessed a greater familiarity with the labyrinthine underbelly than with the sunlit streets above; thus, to expedite their journey, they opted to traverse the sewers.
Upon reaching the city's edge near the gate, they approached a clothing store favored by the nobility, slipping into one of the fitting rooms they often frequented.
Descending into the underground establishment, they were greeted by an unfamiliar assortment of individuals. This struck them as peculiar, for they were accustomed to visiting the arena during the night, a time when the true denizens of this place emerged. The daylight atmosphere felt alien, lacking the chaotic energy they had grown used to.
Victor, ever perceptive, guided Elias to the bar area, instructing him to rest while he approached the counter to retrieve their hard-earned winnings. As he stepped toward the cashier's desk, Victor noticed a different man seated behind the protective glass partition—a stranger, unfamiliar yet evidently part of the establishment.
"I would like to withdraw this," Victor stated with a composed demeanor, sliding a slip of paper through the narrow opening in the glass.
The cashier, a man of deliberate movements, scrutinized the note with an expression that revealed neither curiosity nor indifference. After what felt like an unnecessarily long moment, he reached into the till, its compartments filled with an eclectic assortment of banknotes and coins. At last, he handed Victor a crisp banknote.
Victor's expression froze, his gaze fixed on the paper as though it bore a revelation. Disbelief painted his face as he turned the note over in his hands, its value unmistakable.
This is too much! he thought, his mind reeling. With this, Elias won't have to worry about food for an entire year! Though the notion bordered on hyperbole, the truth of it was undeniable—a single pound could easily sustain Elias and his sister for months, if not a full year. It was a stroke of fortune beyond their expectations.
The sum, Victor realized, was the culmination of multiple sources: the bets placed by onlookers, the sizable wagers of nobles, and most notably, the private duel requested by Percival—a match that had elevated their earnings to this remarkable extent.
Returning to Elias, Victor presented the banknote, his tone betraying his excitement. Elias, however, remained composed, though a faint glimmer in his eyes hinted at his surprise.
"Exchange it for coins," Elias instructed in a calm, measured voice, his demeanor suggesting the matter required no further elaboration.
Victor obeyed without hesitation, returning to the cashier with the note. In exchange, he received a 20 soli coin, the equivalent of a pound, and returned promptly to place it in Elias's hand. Though the coin now rested in Elias's possession, its true worth lay in the security it would provide for him and his sister—a fortune earned through determination.
Elias carefully took fifteen coins and slipped them into his pocket before gently sliding the remaining five across the desk toward Victor.
"That's for staying with me," he said, nudging the first coin closer to his companion.
"This one is for supporting me," he added, pushing two more coins forward.
"And these," he said, sliding the final pair of coins, "are simply for you."
Throughout this display, Victor observed him with an expression that shifted from his usual lively demeanor to something sharper, almost affronted. His eyes narrowed, and the lively spark in his face dimmed, replaced by a look of subtle irritation.
"Are you insulting me?" Victor asked, his gaze fixed on the coins resting on the desk.
Elias, unperturbed, met Victor's gaze. "No, this is more akin to a salary, if you ask me," he replied evenly, his tone carrying the implication that he viewed Victor more as an assistant than a friend.
Victor's expression darkened further. "I don't need your money," he said after a brief pause. "And to be clear, I'm not working for you, nor do I expect a salary."
Elias opened his mouth to respond, "Then consider it a gift from m—" but his words were cut short by a light, deliberate punch to his side.
"That's for you and your sister," Victor said firmly, his voice softening as he continued, "Just treat me to a good restaurant next time." A playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he winked at Elias.
Without waiting for further argument, Victor swept the coins off the table and pressed them back into Elias's hands. Standing to his full height, he extended an arm to support Elias, his actions underscored by a silent, unspoken loyalty. Together, they made their way toward the exit of the underground establishment, leaving behind the subdued hum of the arena's daylight crowd.
Exiting the clothing shop, the dim remnants of sunlight barely illuminated the streets. The encroaching darkness painted the world in muted tones, and the chill of the evening was a sharp reminder of the lateness of the hour.
Elias's stomach growled audibly, the sound breaking the quiet. Even Victor, walking beside him, couldn't ignore the rumble of hunger.
"Let's get some food first," Victor said, glancing over his shoulder. "It's too late to search for a job now. We can handle that tomorrow morning."
Elias's appearance, however, told a different story. His face was pallid, his expression eerily akin to that of a man teetering on the edge of collapse. His half-lidded eyes seemed burdened by an unseen weight, and his legs trembled with every step. Without Victor's steadying arm, it was clear Elias would crumple to the ground and pass out, left at the mercy of the streets until a stranger happened upon him.
Victor's words were incomprehensible to Elias, his voice reduced to a muffled murmur, as though it echoed from some distant place. His vision blurred, the edges of reality fading into a haze, and his thoughts coalesced into a singular, primal urge.
Blood.
The realization struck Elias with a chilling certainty. Since tasting Percival's blood in the underground arena, no mortal sustenance had been able to satisfy the gnawing hunger within him. The memory of that encounter had awakened a truth he could no longer deny—a truth that pulsed through his very being.
He was no longer merely human. He was a creature bound by a darker nature, a vampire driven to feed on the lifeblood of the living.
Just as Elias's legs gave way, he collapsed against Victor, his body suddenly limp and unresponsive. Victor staggered under the unexpected weight, nearly dropping his companion, but managed to brace himself against a nearby wall.
He carefully eased Elias down, leaning his unconscious form against the cold surface. Yet, as he adjusted his grip, Victor couldn't help but notice how unnaturally heavy Elias felt.
Or am I just this exhausted? he wondered, his own body trembling with fatigue. Perhaps it wasn't Elias who had grown heavier, but his own strength that was faltering after the long day.
Victor slumped beside him, resting his back against the wall while Elias's body leaned awkwardly into the corner formed by two intersecting walls. The cool air and the silence of the deserted street felt oddly calming. As Victor tilted his head back, his gaze caught sight of the sky. Red clouds stretched across the horizon, their fiery hues a vivid prelude to the night.
He sighed, exhaustion sinking into his bones. His eyelids grew heavy, and before he could fully grasp the decision, he allowed himself to drift off, reasoning that a brief rest wouldn't hurt. After all, the streets were empty, and they needed the strength to make their way back later.
---
When Elias stirred, he found himself lying on the ground, the soft glow of moonlight illuminating his face. He blinked, disoriented, his eyes wide and alert, a sharp contrast to his earlier state of near-collapse.
Am I dreaming? he wondered. The events leading up to this moment were a hazy memory. He vaguely recalled staggering, Victor catching him, and then... nothing.
His body felt different—invigorated, free of the aches that had plagued him. The gnawing hunger that had consumed him earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, unfamiliar satiety. The sensation was so alien, so complete, that it brought an involuntary smile to his face as he continued to gaze at the moonlit sky.
If this is a dream, he mused, I don't want to wake up. Better to stay here, full and content, than return to a reality where every human I meet is a temptation waiting to be devoured.
For the first time in days, Elias felt at peace, his mind adrift in a world that seemed far kinder than the one he had left behind.
A sudden wave of curiosity washed over Elias, dispelling the remnants of sleep from his mind. He pushed himself to his feet, only to find himself surrounded by a dense field of trees, their shadows stretching long under the pale glow of the moon. The crisp night sky above stirred a memory within him-a distant echo of Earth, where he would leave for work in the predawn hours and return late at night, the sun having long set.
"Nice meeting you again," he murmured softly, the words carrying a strange blend of nostalgia and melancholy.
He began to walk, his steps hesitant yet purposeful, until his foot struck something soft and warm. The sensation halted him abruptly. He looked down, puzzled. At first, it felt like cloth, perhaps a discarded bag, but its weight and texture suggested otherwise.
A bag? he thought, crouching to examine the object more closely. But as the faint moonlight illuminated the scene, the truth revealed itself-a man's leg, clad in fine clothing.
Elias froze, his breath hitching as his gaze trailed upward, taking in the figure lying sprawled on the ground. The man's attire bespoke wealth and status, a stark contrast to the unsettling reality of his lifeless state.
"What the hell?!" Elias shouted, his voice breaking the silence of the forest. His hands instinctively flew to his mouth, stifling a gag that never came. His body betrayed no reaction beyond the raw shock coursing through his veins.
He stumbled back, kicking at the ground to put as much distance as possible between himself and the corpse. His mind raced, struggling to piece together an explanation. Why had he woken beside this man? What could have possibly led to this?
The only coherent thought that emerged was fear-fear of being discovered, of being mistaken for assault—possibly also a theft. If anyone found him here, the scene would leave little room for doubt.
Driven by panic, Elias crawled back to the body, his trembling hands moving over the man's form in a frantic search for answers. His fingers brushed the man's chest, where the moonlight revealed a dark, wet stain. He froze as the truth became undeniable.
His hands came away slick with blood. The man's chest and neck were soaked in it, the source unmistakable. Two deep tiny holes in the neck glistened under the moonlight, the crimson trail stark against the pale skin.
Elias's mind reeled, a single question pounding in his head, What have I done?