The mist clung to the cobblestones of Romania's oldest market district, wrapping around ancient buildings like ghostly fingers. Marianne pulled her hood lower, letting the shadows mask her face as she navigated the familiar streets she'd once walked as a noble's daughter. The air carried the metallic tang of blood magic, mixed with the earthy scent of autumn leaves and wood smoke from the forges.
Market stalls lined the narrow streets, their vendors a mix of humans and vampires, all of them keeping their voices low, eyes darting toward the royal district's towering spires. Marianne's boots made no sound as she walked—a habit learned from eighteen years of survival. Her hand never strayed far from the concealed blood daggers at her hip, though she hadn't needed to draw them. Not yet.
The smithing shop appeared through the mist, a modest establishment wedged between grander stores. Warm light spilled from its windows, and the gentle ring of hammer on metal carried a strange comfort. Above the door hung a simple sign: "Stefan & Elena's Forgeworks." The bell chimed softly as she entered.
Elena looked up from her workbench, her young face smudged with soot. Despite being human in a vampire-dominated realm, she carried herself with quiet dignity. Her brother Stefan emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on his apron. Both siblings' eyes brightened with recognition.
"Lady M," Elena whispered, using the pseudonym they'd agreed upon. "We've finished it."
Stefan retrieved a wooden box from beneath the counter, his movements careful, reverent. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a dagger that seemed to drink in the shop's light. The blade, forged from the rare mineral Marianne had brought them, held a darkness deeper than night. Runes etched along its length pulsed faintly—blood magic containment sigils, crafted by Elena's steady hand.
"The mineral responded beautifully to the forging," Stefan explained, pride evident in his voice. "It's perfectly balanced, and the blood channels—"
"Stefan," Elena chided gently, ever mindful of speaking too freely.
Marianne lifted the dagger, feeling its perfect weight. This was no ordinary weapon—it was crafted specifically to channel royal blood magic, to pierce the defenses of those who shared her bloodline. A sister-blade to match her mother's crimes.
She set a small bag on the counter, the clink of silver and gold coins clear in the quiet shop. Elena's eyes widened. "My lady, this is far too much—"
"Good kids," Marianne said softly, reaching out to pat Elena's head. A ghost of a smile crossed her face, gone as quickly as it appeared. These children, barely older than her Thalia had been, fighting their own quiet battle against prejudice and poverty. They reminded her of everything she'd lost—and everything still worth protecting.
Outside, voices rose in heated discussion. Through the shop's frosted windows, shadows gathered as people clustered in small groups, their words carrying through the thin glass.
"—Council of Ministers meeting in secret again—"
"—civil war's coming, mark my words—"
"—revolutionaries gaining support in the outer districts—"
The conversations died as suddenly as a snuffed candle. Heavy bootfalls echoed on cobblestones, and the crowd parted like a dark sea. Royal knights marched through in perfect formation, their armor gleaming with blood-red runes, each step radiating authority and threat. Their captain's voice cut through the silence.
"By order of Her Majesty the Queen: Any information regarding members of the revolutionary army must be reported immediately. Harboring traitors is punishable by death."
Marianne watched through the gaps in the shop's front display. Her hand tightened around the new dagger's hilt as a knight paused, turning his helmeted head toward the smithy. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze.
Elena's hand found Stefan's. Neither breathed.
The knight moved on.
Marianne waited until the patrol passed before speaking. "Keep your heads down," she murmured. "Things will get worse before they get better."
"The revolution," Stefan started, but Elena squeezed his hand in warning.
"We trust in the night's mercy," she said instead—the coded response of revolutionary sympathizers.
Marianne nodded once, tucking the dagger into her cloak. As she stepped back into the mist-shrouded street, she felt the weight of solitude settle around her shoulders like an old friend. She'd learned to embrace it, this lonely path of vengeance. Her mother had taken everything from her—her husband, her daughters, her place in this kingdom. But solitude had taught her patience. Taught her strength.
And soon, it would teach her victory.
The mist swallowed her form as she disappeared into the shadows of the ancient city, leaving only footprints that faded far too quickly in the gathering dark.