The halls of Armand Vayne's estate were filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of polite conversation. But beneath the pleasantries, Darian felt something else. Something wrong. The air smelt too clean, the estate's perfumes and incense a poor mask for what lay beneath. It wasn't just the wealth, the luxury-it was the secrecy. Vayne had built his fortune too fast and climbed too high, and Darian had seen men like him before. Men who traded in more than gold. He followed Vayne through a dimly lit corridor, away from the grand ballroom and its revelry. The further they walked, the quieter it became, the candlelight barely reaching the edges of the hallway. The scent of damp stone thickened. Beneath the perfume and the wine, Darian smelled something else.
Salt.
Vayne stopped before a locked door. "Few are permitted to see what lies beyond," he said, his voice smooth but careful." But for you, lord Darian, I make an exception." Darian watched him in silence. The merchant was testing him, trying to gauge his interest. But Darian's hunger was already stirring-not for spectacle, Vayne wanted to show him, but for something else.
Something deeper.
The flickering candlelight caught Darian's eyes, and for the briefest moment, they gleamed dark crimson like the last trace of sunset before night swallowed the sky. He blinked, and they were normal again.
Vayne didn't notice.
The merchant unlocked the door, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward. The scent of salt thickened, mingling with something else now. Something unmistakable.
Blood.
Darian stepped forward, but not in the way a man follows another. He moved like a shadow slipping through the cracks, his body silent, his presence shifting-just enough for Vayne to feel uneasy without knowing why. They descended. The room below was lined with crates, and shelves stacked with rare goods-silks, spices, and artifacts. But Darian didn't care for those. His gaze swept the chamber, searching for the source of the scent.
His fingers twitched.
There.
Beyond the row of crates, behind another locked door, something was breathing. Faint but steady. Vayne turned to him with a practiced smile. "Impressive, isn't it? Trade has been....generous to me."Darian did not respond. He listened. Not with his ears but with something deeper.
A heartbeat. Slow. Weak.
someone was inside.
He took a step forward. Vayne moved to block his path- casually but deliberately. "Somethings," the merchant said," are not even for the most honored guests." Darian smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Vayne didn't realize his mistake until the air around him shifted. It wasn't something visible or tangible. But suddenly, the room felt colder, the walls seeming to press onward, the candle flames flickering though there was no wind. Darian wasn't standing there anymore. He was watching. Hunting.
His eyes darkened, pupils, stretching unnaturally wide, as if they could drink in every shadow every secret. The sounds around him sharpened-the flicker of flames, the drop of condensation against stone, the unsteady rhythm of Vayne's pulse.
A simple push. That's all it would take.
A whisper in the mind. A slip through reality.
Vayne's confidence wavered, his fingers tightening at his sides. He couldn't explain the sensation creeping over him, the way his throat felt suddenly dry, his instincts screaming at him to move to run. Darian did nothing.
Yet Vayne felt his presence coil around him, pressing against his mind like cold fingers trailing his thoughts. The, just as suddenly, it was gone.
Darian blinked, his expression returning to careful neutrality. The shadows in the room eased. The cold vanished. He took a step back. " Perhaps another time," he murmured. Vayne hesitated, then forced a chuckle, "Of course. Somethings must be ... earned." Darian smiled, turning away as if the moment had never happened. But he had already decided. Whatever Armand Vayne was hiding behind that door, Darian would uncover it. And when he did-
There would be no more games.