Lucian
The steady clip-clop of hooves echoed through the streets as Lucian, Viktor, and Miguel cut through the city, dust trailing behind their horses like a cloak.
Viktor nudged Lucian with a grin. "Alright, Zeta, spill it. Where are we aiming first? Or are we just winging it like usual?"
Lucian smirked, eyes forward. "The latest mess happened right in Bazaar. That's where we'll start hunting."
Miguel scoffed. "Ah, the Bazaar. Nothing says 'cozy vampire hangout' like a place packed with pickpockets and street urchins."
Viktor chuckled. "Yeah, vampires probably love the smell of sweat and spilled stew. Real romantic."
He shot them a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Less talking, more watching. If our vampire's bold enough to strike there, they've got an ego to match."
Miguel flexed his fingers. "Ego or stupidity. I'm betting on both. Maybe I'll be the one to put a stake in it before you do, Luke."
His smirk deepened. "Dream on, kid. Just try not to get yourself skewered."
Viktor laughed. "He's got a point Mike. Last time, you got yourself tangled in a tavern brawl and needed saving.
Miguel rolled his eyes, "Alright, alright."
The steady rhythm of the horsed slowed as the city of Bazaar crept into view, its sounds no longer distant.
Their horses hesitated, hooves clacking uncertainly on stone as the air thickened—spices, smoke, body heat, and something coppery underneath it all. Even the black stallion under Lucian flicked his tail in irritation, muscles tense as if he sensed what lurked ahead.
Lucian clicked his tongue. "Easy Nyx."
Around them, the city stirred. Traders yelled prices with enough force to rattle rooftops. A woman in a purple shawl argued over the cost of goat meat. Somewhere, a child shrieked with laughter or fear, it was hard to tell.
"We're close," Lucian muttered, reining his horse toward a shadowy side lane. "Here."
They turned off the main road and into a narrow alley squeezed between two crumbling buildings. A slanted wooden sign hung above : STABLE – RENTED BY THE HOUR. It looked like it hadn't seen a fresh nail since the last war.
A gangly stable boy scurried out from behind a post, hair stuck up like he'd been electrocuted. He paused at the sight of them—armored, armed, and clearly not the usual clientele.
Lucian dismounted first, dropping to the ground in one fluid motion. He handed off the reins of his towering black stallion and fixed the boy with a deadpan stare.
"No one touches the black one."
The boy blinked. "Uhm… okay?"
Lucian stepped closer, voice as sharp as broken glass. "No brushing. No feeding. No riding. Don't even breathe near him unless you want to lose a finger."
Viktor leaned over in mock whisper to Miguel. "Don't braid his tail, either. That's definitely a death sentence."
Lucian didn't break eye contact. "And keep the change," he added, tossing a few extra coins into the boy's hand like a threat disguised as a tip.
The kid nodded so quickly it looked like he might give himself whiplash. "Yes, sir!"
Viktor slid off his own horse with a grin. "He talks to that horse nicer than he talks to us."
Lucian replied without missing a beat. "Because the horse isn't an idiot."
Miguel chuckled, handing over his reins. "Still waiting for proof of that."
Lucian rolled his sleeves slightly and turned toward them, all commander now, eyes hardening as his voice dropped low.
"We split up. Mike, you're with Viktor. Head east through the market. Keep it quiet. We don't want to announce our presence unless someone's dying."
Miguel groaned. "Why do I always get stuck with the parrot?"
Viktor gasped, clutching his chest. "Parrot?"
Miguel didn't even look at him. "Loud, dramatic, repeats everything twice, and struts around like he owns the perch."
Viktor flared his coat theatrically. "I do own the perch."
Lucian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Focus. Whatever did this didn't bother hiding. That means they're either reckless… or they want to be found."
Carmilla
Carmilla pulled the brown cloak over her shoulders, the hood settling over the burgundy waves that spilled down her back like wine in candlelight. Beneath the drab outer layer, her outfit clung to her like a second skin. Brown leather pants molded to the curve of her hips and thighs, sleek and worn-in from travel. Her blouse, a deep russet silk, hugged her waist and dipped just enough at the collar to hint at danger rather than invite it. The fabric caught the light, beneath the cloak's rough modesty.
She sat on the edge of the creaky bed to tug on her knee-high boots, supple leather groaning as it slid over her calves. The boots were practical, like everything else wore in attempt to cover every inch of her skin from the scalding sun. Everything except the dagger tucked into the side of her boot.
She flexed her fingers, leather gloves peeking from under her cloak, and muttered, "Death by sunburn. Very dignified end for a centuries-old predator."
Behind her, Alya rattled inside the cupboard. "We're out of everything. Even the rice. How do we run out of rice?"
Carmilla stretched like a cat, arms overhead, the silk of her blouse slipping higher along her waist beneath the cloak. "I have coin. Enough to buy you a king's feast. Roasted lamb, honey wine, gold-dusted plums—"
Alya's head popped out from behind the cupboard door. "Carmilla, we live in a shack that leaks when someone sneezes too hard."
"Exactly why you deserve elegance where you can get it." She winked. "Let me pamper you, darling."
Alya rolled her eyes but smirked anyway as she began gathering her bundles. Sheets of cloth, hand-stitched sashes, the velvet she'd bartered for two nights ago. She folded each piece with care, though her hands moved on autopilot.
"You really think walking around in broad daylight is smart?" Alya asked, voice lower now. "Guards've doubled since your little bloodsucking shenanigans."
Carmilla tossed a scarf over her shoulder. "I need to get used to it. I've spent too long lurking."
"You're impossible." Alya muttered.
"Infuriating. Mysterious. Gorgeous ," Carmilla corrected with a laugh, "Yes I know"
They stepped outside. Carmilla hesitated just a fraction as the light brushed her face through the hood's shadow. Her breath hitched. Even layered, she felt the heat like tiny needles across her skin. She tilted her head down, but she moved forward, lips tightening into something between resolve and defiance.
They walked in sync through the winding alleys of the slums, Carmilla trailing just half a step behind like a bodyguard in disguise. The scent of baking bread tangled with the odors of sewage and sweat.
Their favorite spot came into view—a faded stall with chipped paint, a crooked canopy, and steam rising from battered pots. A man behind the counter grunted a greeting with half a smile.
"Two rice balls," Alya said. "One bowl of soup."
"Make it two," Carmilla added smoothly. "I'm feeling reckless."
They ate standing near the stall, elbows brushing, steam rising between them. Carmilla lifted the bowl delicately, sipping like it was wine. Alya, on the other hand, burned her tongue immediately and hissed.
"You shouldn't escort me today," she muttered between bites. "Too risky. You're...well...you."
Carmilla raised an eyebrow. "Still wanted for seduction and alleged murder?"
"Mostly the murder."
Carmilla shrugged, eyes on the street. "If I vanish every time someone's scared of me, I'll never leave the house."
Alya frowned, but said nothing else.
They reached Alya's stall just as the sun reached its peak. She began laying out fabrics with practiced grace, arranging colors like a streetborn artist. Carmilla leaned lazily against the wall, biting into a peach she hadn't paid for, juice slipping down her fingers.
That's when Emily appeared.
"Ohhh Alya," she sang, waddling over from her neighbouring stall in her too-tight shawl. "Have you heard?"
Carmilla, mid-bite, didn't even look up. "Heard what?"
Emily beamed like a rat with gossip. "From my uncle's mother's niece's—"
"Emily," Alya cut in, "what did you hear."
Emily leaned in, conspiratorial. "There's been more vampire attacks. Word is, the king's sent the Zeta officially. They're investigating. Real serious now."
Carmilla's fingers froze around the peach. For a beat, her mouth went dry. Her tongue felt thick, heavy. She swallowed the nausea and forced a smile.
"Well, that's adorable," she said lightly. "The king sending his favorite dog to do tricks. Must be shaking in his golden boots."
Emily laughed like she'd understood the joke, then wandered off to her own stall.
Alya was staring at her.
"I didn't know you went hunting again," she said.
Carmilla took another huge bite, ignoring the tremble at the corner of Alya's mouth. "That's because I didn't. This must be another vampire. One living right under everyone's nose."
Alya stared down at her hands, pressing out wrinkles in a cotton scarf that didn't need fixing. She didn't say anything. But her fingers were trembling.
Carmilla didn't offer comfort. She only kept chewing as her eyes shifted to a particularly familiar guard.
Miguel
The Bazaar pulsed around them like a living thing. The heat clung to everything, thick with the scent of spices, sweat, and something else.
Blood.
Not fresh, not obvious. But it was there. Thin, metallic, sweet. Miguel kept his pace steady beside Viktor, eyes scanning every face.
"Tell me you smell that," he muttered.
Viktor tilted his head, nose twitching subtly. "Yeah. Barely. Like someone nicked a vein and then washed their hands."
"Or didn't."
They passed a spice stall, pyramids of saffron and cumin. Miguel's gaze caught on a woman reaching for a bundle of rosemary. Her sleeve slipped.
A faint slash marked the underside of her wrist. Pale, too neat to be accidental.
Miguel slowed.
Viktor noticed. "What?"
"Wrist. Look."
The woman tucked the herbs into her satchel and moved on, dazed and slow-eyed, like she hadn't slept in days.
They kept walking, weaving through the crowd.
Another.
A man this time, mid-thirties, adjusting a leather strap on his shoulder. A similar mark, fading but deliberate.
Then a boy, maybe fifteen, lingering by a sweetbread cart. Cut just visible beneath the fray of his sleeve. His eyes were glassy. Hollow.
Miguel's voice was low and sharp. "This isn't random."
Viktor stopped beside a fruit stand, watching a mother haggle over pomegranates. She had one too. Same place. Same shape. "Shit," he breathed. "That's a pattern."
Miguel nodded grimly. "Feeder."
Viktor's humor dropped out of his voice like a stone. "Feeding in public and no one notices. This isn't just bold. It's organized."
Miguel's fingers flexed at his sides, aching to do something. "We need to tell Lucian."
Viktor's gaze swept the crowd, sharp now. "We'll need proof."
Miguel's jaw tightened. "Then let's find someone still bleeding."