Morning came slowly, a pale gray light creeping over streets of Velmorra. In the human quarter, no one truly slept—only waited for sunrise like it was salvation.
Aria opened the front door and winced. The pavement was streaked with blood again. Still wet. Still warm. Another night. Another victim. Her jaw clenched.
Behind her, her aunt sighed from the kitchen. "Again? Gods help us." She dried her hands on a threadbare towel. "I'll clean it. Here—take this to the market and get more milk. We're out. We need it for breakfast."
Aria didn't speak. She walked over to the wooden table, grabbed the small pouch of coins, and began placing empty containers into the woven basket. She tied a scarf around her hair, tucking in the loose strands, and stepped out without another word.
The morning belonged to the humans. The vampires had gone into hiding for the day, sleeping in their palatial keeps or underground crypts, waiting for dusk to fall like a curtain.
Aria spat on the cobbled ground as she passed the neighbor's house. The old woman stood frozen on her porch, eyes sunken and face pale with fear. Aria raised a hand in greeting. The woman didn't wave back.
She probably heard the screams last night. Aria narrowed her eyes. Where was her daughter?
The path to the market twisted through broken streets and makeshift stalls. By the time Aria reached it, the crowd had already begun to gather—tight knots of people whispering, crying, muttering in half-panicked voices. She heard a child sobbing. Two women held each other, their hands shaking.
Another girl had vanished.
Again.
"My daughter… she never came back. She went to wash at the stream—just before dusk," one woman cried to a small crowd. "All they found was her dress—ripped to pieces—blood everywhere!"
No one spoke. No one asked questions. Because the answers were always the same.
Aria felt her stomach twist with hunger and rage. She forced herself forward, weaving past the huddled groups, until she found the milk trader near his usual stall. He had bags under his eyes and a sword strapped clumsily to his back.
"It's one coin more today," he said as he poured the milk. "Too dangerous to get it from the farms now. People are disappearing on the road."
Aria met his gaze. "I understand." She took one less container than usual.
He nodded grimly. "Fresh from the cow, at least," he offered, trying to lighten the mood.
She didn't smile.
The walk home was heavier. So was the basket.
Her aunt had already set the table by the time she returned—steaming tea and two crusts of bread. They ate in silence. There was nothing new to say.
Later that day, Aria and her aunt hauled crates of vegetables down to the south edge of the market. They sold what they could. Aria stood behind the table, watching the faces of their customers, hungry, hollowed out, wary of shadows even in daylight.
As the sun began to set, the whispers returned.
"The Offering's happening early this year…"
"They say the Vampire King himself will be there…"
"No girl chosen has ever returned…"
Aria pretended not to hear, but her hands tightened on the edge of the crate.
They packed up before nightfall.
No one stayed out after dark in Velmorra.
Not unless they wanted to disappear.
—-
It began with the sound of boots.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Marching down the street.
Aria froze, the wooden spoon slipping from her fingers as she listened. Then came the shrieks—sharp, panicked, too close.
The vampire enforcers had reached their sector.
Doors were kicked in. Windows shattered. Cries rang through the night like warnings too late to heed. Somewhere, a mother screamed. A child sobbed. A man begged.
Aria reached under her thin mattress and pulled out the hidden blade—a rusted kitchen knife she had stolen from the market weeks ago. She tucked it beneath the folds of her nightgown, her hands trembling.
Her aunt stood at the edge of the room, clutching her chest. Her uncle had backed into a corner, sweat beading on his forehead.
A loud bang startled them all.
Someone was pounding on their door.
"Aria!" a voice screamed. "Help me! Aria, please—They've killed my mother!"
Hansel.
Aria's heart stopped. She ran to the door, but her aunt caught her wrist, eyes wide and wet with terror. "No. You can't. Don't you dare open that door."
"But it's Hansel!" Aria gasped. "They're going to take her!"
Her aunt shook her head violently. "If you open that door, they'll take you too."
Hansel's screams outside grew shriller. The sound of a struggle. Then silence—brief, suffocating—and the unmistakable creak of a carriage door opening.
Aria tore away and darted to the window. Through the dirty glass, she saw two enforcers cloaked in black dragging Hansel down the street. She fought like a wild animal, her rosy cheeks smeared with tears and blood, her dress ripped at the sleeve. They threw her into a black carriage.
"No," Aria whispered. "No, no, no—"
Her aunt tried to grab her again. "Aria, stop! You'll be next—"
Aria stepped back and yanked the blade from her gown. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. "If you come closer, I'll use this. I swear it."
Her aunt's mouth dropped open. Her uncle stepped back.
She unbolted the door and ran.
The night air was cold and full of smoke. Her bare feet slapped against the stone as she chased the sound of the carriage. She turned down an alley, her lungs burning, the knife clenched tightly in her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
Then a hand grabbed her wrist.
Cold. Iron-tight.
A vampire stood behind her—tall, sharp-jawed, eyes glowing crimson. His grip was like steel as he twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the knife. She tried to fight, tried to scream, but another figure stepped forward from the shadows.
Another vampire. This one didn't strike.
He studied her.
Not just her face. Her posture. Her rage.
Her defiance.
And then, quietly, almost like he was reciting a prayer: "This one's different."
The first vampire sneered. "Should we kill her?"
"No," the second said. "She's perfect."
Aria's blood ran cold.
She wasn't being punished.
She was being chosen.
"For the Offering," he said.
And then everything went dark.